Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series Page 9

  At the top of the page: Albert Kushner. Below this, a detailed description of the route to his house. Attachments revealed a site plan of the neighborhood, Kushner’s property, and the house’s floor plan. Everything he needed.

  CHAPTER 22

  TUESDAY 8:11 A.M.

  I SWUNG BY THE TASK FORCE ROOM, HANDED OFF THE DVD CLAIRE had given me to Scotty, and snagged T-Tommy. We grabbed a Starbucks off University Drive at Madison Square Mall before heading out to Redstone for our nine o’clock meeting with Dr. Wendell Volek.

  The US Army’s Redstone Arsenal had been established in 1941 and since then had been as much a part of Huntsville’s history as the fertile soil that produced more cotton than anywhere in the United States. During World War II, a vast number of munitions rolled off the base’s assembly lines. After the war, it became the headquarters of the US Army Missile Command, and in the 1950s, Werner von Braun and his German missile team moved in. NASA leased 30 percent of the base and set up shop as the Marshall Space Flight Center in 1960, and Huntsville quickly became the heart and soul of the space program. Under von Braun and his staff at the MSFC, the rocket engines that hurled satellites into orbit and lifted men above the earth and to the moon were designed, built, and tested in Redstone’s 38,000 acres of rolling terrain.

  We parked at the Visitors’ Center near Gate 9, went inside, settled into the molded plastic chairs, and waited for our escort. I nursed my triple Americano, hoping to clear the cobwebs that seemed to have a stranglehold on my brain. Not much sleep last night. That’s the way it always was when I got into a case.

  Last night after Claire left Sammy’s—at least she showed some common sense—I stayed and sat in with Colin, and we played until after midnight. It was nearly one by the time I wound my way up the Bankhead Parkway and crawled into bed. This was followed by an hour or so of flapjacking and pillow wrestling. No position felt comfortable, and sleep only came in brief spurts. The scene at Mike’s, the crime scene photos, the autopsy room, Billy, Luther, T-Tommy, and Petersen’s apartment at the Russel Erskine all marched through my head. Even Jill made a couple of appearances.

  The dream, Jill’s dream, a relic from the past, was always the same. It was the only time I could recall her face. Never when I actually wanted to. Jill, trapped in a deep, impossibly dark well. Just out of reach. I stretched and strained, occasionally brushing her fingertips, but was never able to grip her hand. Never able to pull her to safety. Instead she slowly sank deeper into the abyss until even her whimpers faded. The dream had once been a nightly visitor, but over the years it gradually faded. It had been a good four years since its last visit. And now it was back.

  I rarely dreamed, or if I did, I rarely remembered them. A good thing, since the ones I could remember always seemed to come out ugly. I couldn’t remember a time when they were pleasant. Maybe years ago when I was naïve, unexposed to the real world. Before I had consulted on so many senseless murders. Before I knew so much about the dark side of the human animal. Before Jill disappeared.

  Our escort turned out to be a no-nonsense US Army MP. His name tag read P. Whitworth. I learned that the P stood for Paul. Shoulder stripes indicated his rank of sergeant. He was stiffly professional, creased, spit-shined, and punctuated everything he said with a crisp “sir.” We climbed into the backseat of the white military van. Sergeant Whitworth drove through two guarded checkpoints, snapping a salute to the guard at each. Finally, he pulled to the curb in front of the MSFC headquarters.

  The tall, rectangular, gray concrete, steel, and glass building loomed above me as I climbed from the van. Two rocket engines, balanced on their cone-shaped exhaust nozzles, sat on a grassy strip across the drive from the building. To my right a large red and white sign with black lettering indicated that this was Building 4200 of the George C. Marshall Space Flight Center. Just in case I didn’t know. During the heyday of the space program, von Braun had occupied the ninth floor and penthouse.

  Even though I had been here before, I never failed to sense the history of this place. Always gave me chills.

  We thanked the good sergeant, receiving a stiff nod in return, climbed the front stairs, and pushed through the glass double doors.

  A young NASA security officer named Tim Russett greeted us. Unlike Sergeant Whitworth, he actually smiled. We rode an elevator to the fifth floor, where he deposited us in a conference room, saying Dr. Volek would be in shortly. It was 8:45.

  T-Tommy immediately sniffed out a corner table stocked with fresh coffee and muffins. He had one of each; I opted for coffee, no muffin.

  “Well, well, fancy meeting you here.”

  I turned as Wendell Volek came into the room. Hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. He hadn’t aged a minute. Still tall, clean-cut, and showing only slight graying of his full head of brown hair. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He was one of those guys who oozed smarts. He was also the father of the VISAR system.

  VISAR stands for Video Image Stabilization and Registration. The computer-assisted video enhancement program was first developed during the investigation of the 1996 Atlanta Olympic bombing, when a twelve-second video clip was brought to Volek by the FBI. The film, shot by a news crew, was dark and showed only a silhouette of an abandoned backpack leaning against a bench. Volek went to work, eventually cleaning and brightening the video so that the bomb inside and the wires snaking from the flap were easily identified. After that success, VISAR proved useful in many other famous cases: the Mike Bell murder, the abductions of Elizabeth Smart and Katie Poirier, and the Columbia shuttle accident, to name a few.

  I introduced him and T-Tommy and then asked, “How are things?”

  “Busy. With the solar investigation stuff we’ve been doing and with the Orion Project heating up, not much time for fun.”

  The Orion spacecraft, also called the Crew Exploration Vehicle, or CEV, along with the Ares rocket, was part of the Constellation Program, NASA’s most ambitious project in years. It looked more like the old Apollo capsule than the planelike shuttle it would replace. Smaller, lighter, and more functional, the plan was that it would not only work in earth’s orbit, but also in lunar and Mars missions of the future. The plans were to mate it with the Ares I rocket for a return to the moon by 2017, this time to set up permanent colonies. I keep up with this stuff. Have since I was a kid. Something about rockets always excited me.

  In my youth, I had built a hundred of them in the backyard. Mostly powered by crushed match heads or gunpowder pilfered from Dad’s shotgun shells. Some worked, some fizzled, and a couple blew up like the old Vanguard rocket. One nearly took out Jill and me. Dad wasn’t happy. Mom less so. They nearly shut down our fledgling space program.

  Volek poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “So, what have you gotten into this time?”

  I settled in a chair across from him, told him about the series of murders, and then slid the tape toward him. “This is a copy of the original tape. It’s from the security rig at the Russel Erskine, where the first murder took place.”

  He looked at me. “In the hotel?”

  I shrugged. “Guy’s got balls if nothing else. It shows a figure walking through the lobby and returning about thirty minutes later. Around the time of the murder. Doesn’t look or walk like any of the residents, who are all over sixty.”

  Volek took the tape and moved to a stack of video equipment at one end of the room. He fed it into a VCR, and the images appeared on the large screen at the end of the conference table. I had left it cued up at the right spot, so after a few seconds of the quiet lobby, a man entered the scene from the lower left and climbed the marble staircase. On-screen only a few seconds, the view was mostly from behind. He appeared big, wore a Windbreaker and a cap. He walked like an athlete with long, purposeful strides, and he took the stairs two at a time. Definitely not a resident.

  Volek ran it back and forth a couple of times. “Not a very good image. Can’t see his face well.” He ran it back again and this time watch
ed it in slow motion. He stopped it. “Right here is a quick glimpse of a partial profile.”

  “Can you do anything with it?”

  “Sure. Won’t be easy and might not help much, but let me see what I can dig out.” He stopped the video. “When do you need this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I figured.”

  CHAPTER 23

  TUESDAY 9:47 A.M.

  DR. CHARLIE BECK PARKED OUTSIDE MEMORIAL MEDICAL CENTER’S ER, walked up Madison Street, and then turned west on Saint Clair Avenue toward the North Alabama Neuropsychiatric Research Institute. As he approached, a sense of apprehension rose in his gut. He wasn’t sure why, but his years of treating the injured, ill, and worried had taught him not to ignore gut feelings. They were usually accurate barometers.

  Yesterday, after Brian Kurtz left the ER, Charlie had called Dr. Hublein’s office, but found that Hublein was tied up all day. His administrative assistant, Catherine Frommer, a pleasant, efficient woman, suggested making an appointment. He did. Maybe it was the tension he sensed in her voice when he brought up Brian’s name as the reason he needed to see Hublein that had him spooked. Maybe it was the institute’s imposing five floors of gray marble and severely tinted black windows that now towered over him. Maybe he was simply being a ninny.

  He rode the elevator to the fifth floor, where he exited into a world of opulence: a foyer with a gray marble floor and recessed lights that painted rose-colored walls and highlighted several works of modern art; a centrally placed pedestal table, which supported a watermelon-sized, expensive-looking oriental urn; two overstuffed chairs, flanking a table topped with a bulbous brass lamp and an arrangement of fresh flowers; and two very attractive, well-dressed young women, one blond, the other brunette, manning an expansive black marble reception desk.

  They smiled in unison as Charlie approached. The brunette said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Dr. Beck. Here to see Dr. Hublein.”

  “Yes, Dr. Beck. I’ll notify Dr. Hublein’s assistant that you’re here. Would you care to take a seat?” She picked up the phone.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee or a soft drink?” the blonde asked.

  “No, thanks.” Charlie sat in one of the chairs, sinking so deeply into the cushions he wondered if he would be able to get out. The perfume of the flowers settled around him.

  The brunette hung up the phone and smiled at him. “Dr. Hublein’s assistant, Catherine, will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Charlie picked up a copy of Architectural Digest and thumbed through it but, finding nothing of interest, returned it to the table. He couldn’t help wondering what his father, or better, his grandfather, both small-town physicians back in Iowa, would think of this place. He suspected they would be incensed by such opulence, which had nothing to do with treating “sick folks,” and would consider it an insult to the profession. Charlie agreed.

  “Dr. Beck?” Charlie looked up. “I’m Catherine Frommer. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

  Charlie grasped the arms of the chair, and with great difficulty extracted himself from its depths. “Hello, Ms. Frommer.” She was maybe midforties, trim, and well dressed in a gray pantsuit and white blouse. Her brown eyes came alive when she smiled.

  “Please, call me Catherine. Let’s go to my office. Dr. Hublein is expecting you, but he’s on a conference call right now.”

  Charlie followed her down an art-infested hallway and through large oak double doors. Brass lettering indicated that Dr. Robert Hublein was medical director and Dr. Melvin Wexlar president of the North Alabama Neuropsychiatric Research Institute.

  “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

  “No. I’ve seen this building many times but never been inside. It’s quite impressive.”

  “The doctors believe in doing everything top-drawer.” Catherine offered him a seat and took her place behind her desk. “Looks like Dr. Hublein’s still on the phone. He should only be a minute.” Her mouth adopted a pleasant tilt when she smiled. “I understand you run the ER at Memorial.”

  “Guilty.”

  “I bet that keeps you busy?”

  “Intermittently and sporadically. Do you ever visit the hospital?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Do I look sick?”

  Charlie laughed with her. “Not even a little bit. I just thought you might have a reason to go there from time to time … for Dr. Hublein.”

  She shook her head. “Never been there.”

  “I haven’t seen Dr. Hublein there, either. Does he treat hospital patients?”

  “No. His practice … Dr. Wexlar’s, too … is strictly outpatient. And their research, of course.”

  “They do a lot of that?”

  “Lord, yes. I think we have twenty-six studies going now, and three more will start in the next month or two.”

  “Bet that keeps you busy?”

  “Intermittently and sporadically.” She flashed a crooked smile again. “They get offered studies all the time. Turn down more than they accept. Not enough time to do them all and do them right.” She glanced at the phone. “Dr. Hublein’s off now. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She stood and walked through another carved oak door to Charlie’s right.

  When she returned, she ushered him into a cavernous office with dark wood paneling and bookshelves filled with thick textbooks and encased journals. Two floor-to-ceiling windows, hidden behind heavy maroon drapes, occupied the far wall. A massive desk stacked with papers and lit by a brass lamp claimed a central position. Recessed ceiling lights cast more shadows than light and added to the gothic feel of the room.

  Dr. Hublein skirted the desk with his hand extended. “Dr. Beck, welcome.”

  “Thank you for seeing me. Please, call me Charlie.”

  “Friends and colleagues call me Bob. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating a ladder-back chair opposite his desk.

  The thinly cushioned chair was considerably less comfortable than the waiting room chairs. Apparently waiting was encouraged, meetings were not.

  Hublein sat in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. He was as big as the room, easily six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds. He wore an expensive blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a patterned red tie. A gold Rolex hugged his left wrist, and his right hand sported a pinkie ring with a large square diamond.

  “I’m running late as usual, so let’s get right to it. Catherine tells me you wanted to see me about Brian Kurtz.”

  “That’s right. I treated him in the ER yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was mugged.”

  “Mugged? Was he hurt?”

  “Not seriously. Just a forearm laceration.”

  “Thank goodness.” He appeared relieved. “So, how can I help you?”

  “The problem is not with his injury, but what he did to the mugger.” Hublein’s eyes darted around the room as if he were searching for what to say. Apparently he could think of nothing, and his gaze returned to Charlie.

  “Broken ribs, punctured lung, fractured ulna, concussion. I see fight victims all the time, but this beating was over the top.”

  “That’s unfortunately a problem with Brian. He came to us because of his violent behavior and problems with impulse control. I’ve been treating him for PTSD.”

  Charlie knew the Brian he had seen yesterday was a troubled young man. Hublein just confirmed his feeling. “We get PTSD patients in the ER, too. Mostly stress, headaches, sleeping problems, that sort of thing. A couple who were downright nasty. But Brian was … something else.”

  “He’s had a rough life,” Hublein continued. “Started with a difficult childhood. Alcoholic and less-than-enthusiastic parents. Not really abusive, but apparently never warmed to the idea of parenthood. He lived with his maternal grandmother for a while. Until she died from a fall down some stairs. Broke her neck. Brian found her body. It was a very traumatic event for him.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

&nbs
p; “After that he returned to his parents’ house, unwanted, but he had no other options.”

  “He said you treat him for chronic headaches.”

  “That and his behavioral problems. Brian was a gifted athlete in high school. Expected to get a scholarship to play college football.”

  “But he was injured.”

  Hublein nodded. “Depressed skull fracture. Cerebral contusion.

  In a coma for several days. Required surgery.”

  “So football was out.”

  “Absolutely.” Hublein squared a stack of papers on his desk. “He somehow managed to get in the army, though. As a computer tech and communications officer.”

  “I understand he went to Iraq.”

  Hublein nodded. “No combat. Not directly. He did witness a few IED attacks. Saw a few friends get killed.”

  “And caught a bullet to the leg.”

  He sighed. “I wish that was all he picked up over there.” He realigned the stack of papers. “After returning home, he had adjustment problems. His headaches worsened. He became increasingly difficult, fighting and the like, more violent and withdrawn. After his second arrest for assault, he was sent to me as part of a plan to keep him from doing jail time. We treat a number of individuals referred by the courts. Brian came to us over a year ago. I diagnosed his PTSD and have been treating him since. Believe it or not, he’s made excellent progress.”

  “You think yesterday could be an isolated event?”

  “I surely hope so.”

  “He said he was taking some new drug.”

  “He’s in one of our studies. We do a great deal of research for various pharmaceutical companies, the NIH, others.”

  “What’s the drug he’s on?”

  Again, Hublein’s eyes darted around the room. “It’s a new benzodiazepine derivative. It appears to be very successful in PTSD. Brian’s been on it about eight months now. It has dramatically reduced his headaches, and until this episode, his aggression seemed to be controlled.”