Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Page 10

  “Maybe he stopped the drug on his own.”

  “That’s not possible,” Hublein said.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s injectable. A slow-release depo-type preparation. He comes in once a week.”

  “Maybe his dose needs adjusting.”

  “Let’s see.” Hublein opened one of the charts on his desk. “We check blood levels on all our patients every three or four weeks.” He leafed through the pages, stopping when he found what he was looking for. “Brian was last tested two weeks ago. It was fine then.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Regardless, I’ll get him in for an evaluation and recheck his level.” Hublein stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I want to thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  Charlie stood. “I thought you should know.”

  “Brian really is a decent fellow.” Hublein glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting to get to. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  He escorted Charlie to the door.

  “Do you know if Brian is in trouble?” Hublein asked. “Was he arrested?”

  “No. The police felt it was self-defense.”

  Hublein’s relief was obvious. “That’s good. Brian doesn’t need any further legal problems. Is the mugger okay?”

  “Actually, he’s doing very well. Probably be transferred to the jail ward in a week or so.”

  “They arrested him, then?”

  “Seems he’d robbed several other people. I guess he picked the wrong guy this time.”

  Hublein opened the door for him. “Again, thanks for your help.” He closed the door behind Charlie.

  “All done?” Catherine asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The phone buzzed, and she picked it up. “Yes, Dr. Hublein.” She frowned slightly. “I think Dr. Wexlar is over in research. I’ll find him.” She pressed one of the phone’s intercom buttons. “Excuse me. Just a sec,” she said to Charlie, and then into the phone said, “Dr. Wexlar, Dr. Hublein needs to see you in his office right away.” She hung up and looked at Charlie. “I see you made him happy. What on earth did you tell him?”

  “About a problem I had with Brian Kurtz.”

  “I see.” Apprehension crept into her voice.

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I see him once a week when he comes here for treatment.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What do you think of him?” “I can’t talk about our patients.”

  “I’m his doctor, too. You can talk to me. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s spooky.”

  “Spooky? Now that’s a medical term.”

  “It’s the best word I can think of. I don’t know what it is, but when he’s here I feel … uneasy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just spooky.”

  They both laughed.

  “I agree,” Charlie said.

  “What happened?” she asked. “With Brian?”

  Charlie told her the story. “The beating was total overkill.”

  “That’s what I mean by spooky. Like a time bomb.”

  “Dr. Hublein says he is doing better since he started that new drug.”

  “He was … but … lately he seems worse. More tense.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m probably wrong,” Catherine said. “I only see him briefly when he comes in, and I’m no expert.”

  “You may be more of an expert than you think.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You see crazies all day, don’t you?”

  “We don’t call our patients crazy,” she said, and then smiled. “Even if some of them are.”

  “Then there you go. You have practical knowledge. And experience.”

  She laughed. “My first diagnosis.”

  CHAPTER 24

  TUESDAY 10:24 A.M.

  “GODDAMN IT, MELVIN.” HUBLEIN LEANED ON HIS DESK AND LOOKED at Wexlar. “I knew this would get out of hand.”

  Wexlar waved his protests aside. “Bob, it’s not out of hand.”

  “The hell it isn’t. That goddamn Kurtz kid nearly beat someone to death. Don’t you think that’s a problem?”

  “Not really.”

  “You wouldn’t. This is your goddamn protocol. I was against it from the beginning. It’s like all the other bullshit projects they’ve given us.”

  “Relax, Bob.”

  Hublein watched as Melvin Wexlar, his friend of thirty years, paced the floor. At only five-four, Wexlar was thin and wiry, with a stiff posture, as if someone had shoved a steel rod up his spine. Streaks of gray dulled his thinning red hair, as well as his thick mustache, which covered his mouth so that only his lower lip could be seen. As usual, his gold, wire-rimmed glasses dangled from his neck on a black cord. Always a fashionable dresser, today he wore an Armani brown three-piece suit, light blue shirt, and yellow tie, fixed with a diamond stickpin.

  “Relax?” Hublein dropped into his chair. “When are we going to dump those clowns? Stick to the NIH stuff like I suggested?”

  “Because those clowns, as you call them, pay very well.”

  That was true. Spellman Pharmaceuticals offered three times what any other company did. The NIH, the National Institutes of Health, was a joke by comparison. Of course, Spellman hadn’t come up with a drug worth a damn in years. At least none in the neuropsychiatric field. A couple of diabetic drugs and a new cephalosporin antibiotic, but the three psychiatric drugs they had sent Hublein’s way were crap. Still, the pay had been very good. But this drug?

  “I just have a bad feeling about this one.” Hublein leaned back in his chair. “This drug has a bad pedigree.”

  “That was the old formulation. It’s been tweaked. This one works. You’ve seen it work.”

  “Based on what Kurtz did? Sure seems to work well.” He couldn’t hide his sarcasm. Didn’t really want to.

  “We have twenty-five people in the study. Only Kurtz has exhibited this kind of behavior.”

  “I guess you’re forgetting about Martin Hankins and Robert Swenson. What they did.”

  “Hankins had only been on the drug a month. He was violent by nature. The drug had nothing to do with it.”

  “You don’t know that.” Hublein swiveled his chair first one way and then the other. He couldn’t decide whether to pace or sit.

  “Weren’t all his blood levels normal? Even low?”

  That was true, too. That’s why they never went to the police. Never told them that Hankins was on the drug. Should have. Too late now.

  “And Swenson was simply crazy,” Wexlar continued. “Maybe we made a mistake there. Maybe he should never have been in the study.” Wexlar scratched his ear.

  “What if the police trace Swenson or this Kurtz business back here?”

  “They won’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Nobody even knows where Swenson is. After that incident with his girlfriend, he took off. Cops have been looking for him for a couple of months. He’s way out of state by now.”

  “But he’s not well. He could do it again. Get caught. Lead them right back here.”

  “So what? He and Kurtz both have violent histories. One more incident isn’t going to make much difference. That’s why they were chosen for the study. Why all of them were chosen.”

  Hublein walked to his concealed bar and opened the cabinet door. He poured an inch of Scotch into a glass and downed it in one gulp. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the bar. Maybe Melvin was right. Maybe Spellman’s new drug was a winner. It was designed for only the most aggressive sufferers of PTSD. Those with violent histories for whom none of the standard treatments seemed to help.

  He had to admit that the drug had worked wonders for most of the people in the study. Except for Hankins, Swenson, and now Kurtz, the others had been model citizens. Something they had not been for many years. />
  Still, this drug had a checkered past. RU-1193, as it was called, was a derivative of RU-1186, a compound that had a very unsavory track record. But the new formulation, the RU-1193, had proven to be well tolerated and highly effective. Previous studies had shown that its only real side effect, an exacerbation of anger and aggressive behavior, only occurred if the blood concentrations rose to very high levels. Hankins, Swenson, Kurtz, and all the others had been closely monitored and their blood levels were all on the low side of the target ranges. Maybe he was overreacting.

  Hublein poured another dose of Scotch. “Want some?”

  “No.”

  “You’re probably right,” Hublein said. “The entire study cohort is a group of angry young men. It would be expected that the drug wouldn’t work for some of them.”

  “Exactly.” Wexlar continued to pace. “Besides, why would anyone blame us for their actions? Experimental drug or not. Just the opposite. We’re their doctors, trying to help them.”

  “Some help we are.” Hublein sank heavily into his chair and spread his hands on the desktop. “I just don’t like the fact that three of our patients have had violent episodes.”

  “They were violent long before we got them. This was predictable. Expected. With or without our treatment, these guys were bound to have incidents. They did before, they will after. That’s what the study is about. To see if this drug lessens the likelihood.”

  Hublein nodded.

  “It isn’t designed to cure,” Wexlar continued. “Only to improve. That’s exactly what it’s done. These three aside.”

  Hublein sighed. “What do we do now?”

  Wexlar sat on the sofa. “Let’s have Pearce keep an eye on Kurtz for a while. If he gets into any more trouble, we’ll pull him out of the study. Just to be overly cautious.”

  Hublein grabbed the phone. “Catherine. Find Harold Pearce and have him come to my office immediately.”

  Hublein had mixed feelings about Harold Pearce. He was a loner, said little, and never smiled. Half the time Hublein didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Which was mostly fine. Better that the man kept to himself. He came from Spellman as part of the three studies they were doing for them. Particularly the PTSD study, which could potentially be worth billions. The contract with Spellman required an on-site security officer to protect the project. Sniff out any competitive espionage. With so much money at stake, and with at least one other company developing drugs in the PTSD arena, this seemed reasonable, and Hublein agreed to the security arrangement. He just didn’t care for Pearce personally.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Harold Pearce stood in the doorway. Hublein hadn’t heard him open the door. He was just suddenly there. He was not a big man, maybe five-ten, one-seventy, but he seemed fit. He had short-cropped, light brown hair, a square jaw, and today wore his typical khaki trousers, black pullover shirt, and black leather jacket.

  “We have a problem,” Hublein said.

  “Not really a problem,” Wexlar inserted. “A situation.”

  “Situation, problem, whatever. What is it?” Pearce said, stepping into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “One of the subjects of the PTSD project might be out of control,” Hublein said.

  “What happened?” Pearce’s steely gray eyes shifted back and forth between the two men.

  Hublein returned his stare. “Brian Kurtz beat the hell out of some vagrant. The police were called. I want to pull him from the project. Dr. Wexlar feels otherwise.”

  “He was attacked,” Wexlar said. “He merely defended himself.”

  Hublein stood and leaned on his desk. “Regardless, I don’t like the attention he’s attracted. The police and that ER doctor.”

  “What do you want from me?” Pearce asked.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Hublein said. “But don’t let him know.”

  A smirk crept across Pearce’s face. “Right.” He shook his head. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  Pearce left as unconcerned as he had been when he arrived.

  CHAPTER 25

  TUESDAY 10:51 A.M.

  HAROLD PEARCE WAS NOT A HAPPY MAN. NOT THAT HE WAS EVER cheerful, but this assignment had soured his stomach. After he left Hublein’s office, he removed a bottle of Mylanta from his jacket pocket and took a swallow. How long had it been since his gut had bothered him this way? Five years? Maybe six. The last time he got stuck, idling in an office at the Pentagon. He had spent ten months wiping the noses of a bunch of West Point colonels. Nabobs. Biding their time until their pensions kicked in.

  He rode the elevator to the basement, took another swig of the antacid, and walked down the windowless hallway toward his office.

  What the hell was he doing here? Eight years in army intel, two in the Gulf, a decade with CIA Special Ops, and here he sat in No-Fucking-Where, Alabama, babysitting a couple of eggheads and a basket full of nutcases. He should still be in Special Ops where he belonged. Where his skills could be most effective. How many terminations had he done for them? There were a dozen he knew for sure. They had died before his eyes, some in his hands, exhaling their last breath in his face. Explosives, sniper rifles, blades, he had used them all. How many extractions had he done? The two pilots near Baghdad and the three spooks imprisoned in Iran that he could remember off the top of his head. Yet, here he sat. Maybe he shouldn’t have punched out General McKesson. Fuck him. He was an arrogant son of a bitch, anyway.

  Of course, he had accepted this job. What choice did he really have? McKesson blew up his military career. Special Ops, too. Dragged him through the mill at the Pentagon and then tossed him on the street. So, it was either this gig or doing the security guard thing. Somehow he couldn’t see himself sitting in a warehouse all night, eating doughnuts, slugging coffee, and sleeping in front of a TV. Retirement wasn’t an option. The twenty grand he had in the bank wasn’t exactly a golden fucking parachute.

  So, when Smithson dropped this proposition on him, he took it. Smithson better not fuck with him, and the bag of coin he’d been promised better be at the end of this.

  He entered his office, pulling the door closed behind him. Spartan would be the proper description for the space. A simple desk, a plain black swivel chair, a phone, a well-worn gooseneck lamp, a heavy metal safe, and a computer. Beige walls. No windows, no pictures.

  Pearce sat in the chair and swiveled toward the safe that squatted in the corner behind his desk. He spun in the combination, yanked open the heavy door, and removed his black surveillance bag. He checked its contents, tossed in an extra bottle of Mylanta, and pulled out the cell phone Smithson had given him.

  Smithson answered on the second ring. They spoke for less than five minutes. He then booted up the computer and opened the e-mail Smithson had just sent. Encrypted and routed through multiple secure computers, there was no chance of the message being compromised. As he read, he almost smiled.

  CHAPTER 26

  TUESDAY 11:05 A.M.

  WHEN T-TOMMY AND I ENTERED THE TASK FORCE ROOM, I IMMEDIately noticed the third cork panel now contained crime scene photos from Mike’s place. I looked away, refusing to relive it.

  Scotty Simpson sat at one of the tables, papers spread before him. He looked up. “Have you guys seen Luther?”

  “No.”

  “He’s looking for you, and he didn’t look happy.”

  “What’d we do?” T-Tommy asked.

  Scotty shrugged. “He didn’t say, and I knew better than to ask.”

  I picked up today’s Huntsville Times from the corner of the table. The front page displayed a photo from yesterday’s press conference, and the caption beneath read: “Forensic Expert Dub Walker Joins Sheriff Luther Randall, Deputy Scotty Simpson, and Homicide Investigator Tommy Tortelli in Search for Brutal Killer.”

  I handed the paper to T-Tommy. He gave it a glance and then a soft grunt. His way of saying he wasn’t impressed. T-Tommy had a knack for keeping your feet on the ground and
your head out of … well. “Anything new?” I asked.

  Scotty shuffled through the papers on the table and handed me a page. “You already know the firearms and the autopsy results. Tox screen shows Mike had a BAC of point-oh-four.”

  “Scotch,” I said. “Mike liked Scotch.”

  “All the blood tested so far belonged to Mike. Sidau found a few hairs at the scene. In the sink and on the towel. They don’t belong to Mike and are likely the killer’s.”

  “Any follicles?”

  “Yeah. Sidau said he could make a DNA match if we find a suspect.”

  “I assume he’ll do a profile and plug it into CODIS.”

  “In the works.”

  “That’s more than we had yesterday.” I glanced at T-Tommy. “Want to go see what Luther has to say?”

  “Guess we have to.”

  Alice, Luther’s administrative assistant, gave us a look as she pushed open the door to Luther’s office and held it for us to enter. The look that said we were high schoolers, she was the teacher, and we were entering the principal’s office. I fixed a smile on my face, but it evaporated when I saw Luther’s scowl. He didn’t ask us to sit. He stood behind his desk, arms locked across his chest. This was exactly like the principal’s office.

  “Well, well. I got a call this morning from Billy Holcomb. Said a couple of guys leaned on him. Said one of them threatened him. Said they forced their way into his apartment. Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Took a look at the crime scene. This Billy character gave us the tough guy routine.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. He invited us in.”

  “Don’t fuck with me.” He caught T-Tommy’s grin and glared at him. “You think this is funny, Tortelli?”

  T-Tommy shook his head. “He did invite us in.”

  Luther let out a small snort. “Just like that? Please, come on in and look around?”

  “More or less,” I said.

  Luther sat down. “Tell me.”

  “T-Tommy simply explained his options, and Billy said he’d love to show us his place.”