“But what?”
“Even if he followed this formula, it wouldn’t account for some of the things we’re seeing; the violence, the absolute disconnect from reality. But it could be dangerous. Compounds are missing from this formula that could cause illness, but nothing like what we’ve been seeing.”
“What if I told you he sold the recipe to a meth cooker?”
“Are you serious?”
“According to McKee, that’s exactly what he did.”
“That could be very dangerous. I’m sure as detectives, I don’t have to tell you that people that produce meth don’t particularly adhere to strict guidelines and formulas. If D710 has been mass-produced by someone dabbling in meth and they started from these notes,” he said, indicating Steele’s phone, “that could be where the trouble is coming from. This could…my God, this could be very bad indeed.”
“It’s not D710 on the street,” Flynt said matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re calling it Ducky.”
“Yeah, what is with the ducks?” Steele asked. “I have no idea if it’s pertinent to the case or not, but I don’t get it.”
“Well, there are some psychedelics that cause those that take it to experience similar things. Sort of like a shared experience. It’s one of the reasons DMT is so popular—well, that and Joe Rogan’s podcast. Almost everyone that experiences the DMT breakthrough comes back to talk about having encounters with a lovely indigo woman, reflections of themselves, strange jesters, and machine elves.”
“That sounds awesome,” Flynt said.
“Machine elves?” Steele said. “Are you serious?”
“I am, actually. It’s quite fascinating. Anyway, with D710, about seventy-five percent of the people that go deep come out of it and report having spoken with humanoid ducks. Sometimes it’s just large ducks. I suppose it could come from some sort of unintentional subliminal message from my early Awakening meetings. But the more logical explanation comes from the way certain pathways in the brain handles the drug. That is, if you take a drug called Ducky and hear about these other duck-encounters, your intoxicated brain could force you to see it. It’s something I haven’t really researched, but it makes sense.”
“And based on what we’re seeing,” Steele said, “someone has made a cheaper alternative to Ducky that is creating some of this same stuff but also making people violent and borderline insane. Would you agree with that assumption?”
“I would. And I wish it weren’t true.”
Steele also wished it weren’t true. Because now that they had more answers, it was fairly evident that they were no longer looking for a murderer. Instead, this case was taking them directly into the heart of the local drug scene.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flynt was always aware of the stares of the other detectives whenever he was at work in their midst. Some of them watched him for the entertainment value, waiting to see what strange behavior he might exhibit next. Others, though, watched him in an attempt to understand him. Detectives Donaldson and Sanchez, in particular, seemed to be in this group. Ever since he’d started working with Steele, some of the detectives seemed to want to understand Flynt’s methods rather than assuming he was just a screw-up.
He knew people looked at him out of the corner of their eyes while he worked. He’d known this ever since he worked with Bill and, truth be told, he was fine with it. Knowing all of those eyes were on him made him want to be perfect in whatever he did.
Currently, though, there was no room for perfection. He and Steele were huddled around Steele’s desk. Flynt was looking through paper files while Steele clicked around through the police database for any known meth cookers convicted and cataloged over the past ten years. When that number proved much larger than Steele figured, they knocked it down to the last five years. And still, there was a lot to look through.
Flynt was aware of the country’s growing meth problem over the last several years. There was a briefing on it about six years ago, where Captain Weidman compared it to the cocaine epidemic that ran rampant in the 1980s. Flynt, having never done any drug other than one occasion where he’d accidentally downed an entire Long Island Iced Tea, did not understand the allure of it. Still, he knew that meth, in particular, could be dangerous. In the briefing from many years ago, they were told that when someone gets hooked on the stuff, it’s all they can think about.
It made Flynt feel sorry for them. And he knew for the years and years of experience that people didn’t often choose to live a life of crime; sometimes it was just the allure and addiction of meth that led them to that place. It was something he kept in mind as he looked through the police records. He narrowed the parameters of his search to a group of some thirty known distributors.
He placed four files to the side. Some of the details in their reports made them potential suspects. The links were minor, but something was better than nothing.
“Flynt, look at this,” Steele said.
He turned his monitor towards Flynt. Flynt looked at the file, reading over the information about a man named Chester Reeding. Most of the details were the same as the offenders Flynt was reading over. But there were two noticeable differences. First, Chester Reeding worked as a janitor at Puta Gorda Community College. Second, he served eight months in prison recently for intent to sell. He was released three months ago.
“What do you think?” Steele asked.
“Easy access to kids.” Flynt thought the guy was a very likely suspect. But he also knew that part of Steele’s hidden generosities was that he would occasionally throw him a bone. Bill did it every now and then, too, but Steele was more subtle about it.
“I think he’s a better fit than any of the other guys I found,” Flynt said.
“So, let’s go find him.” Steele got to his feet as he sent the file to the printer.
Flynt stood up, feeling a little stirring of excitement. When Steele showed signs of excitement, it was usually contagious. It was just another one of the small ways that working with Steele was helping Flynt come out of his shell. It was okay to show excitement, determination, and more importantly, confidence.
Of course, Flynt was slow to come around to all of those things. But as he followed Steele out of the station with their print-out on Chester Reeding in hand, he felt that someday soon, things could be different.
* * *
Joe Pesci’s voice guided them into a rough part of town, so rough that even the narrative voice of the gangster sounded a bit wary. Steele had been here before, though many years ago. Bad streets didn’t bother him, nor the bad people that lived there. He was usually more concerned about his own senses being heightened to the point of perhaps reacting a little too harshly.
Being Sunday afternoon, there were numerous people out loitering on the streets. As they got out of the car, Steele heard multiple streams of loud music in the distance. Nearby, two people were in a shouting match. Steele ignored it all, keeping his eyes peeled as they made their way to the front stoop of Chester Reeding’s apartment building. He noted the way a few of the people they passed eyed Flynt. Someone murmured something about being “magically delicious.” If Flynt noticed, he gave no reaction.
The apartment building wasn’t big on security measures, the detectives were able to simply open the front door and walk into the lobby. It was a small space that smelled like stinky feet and some sort of overly-toxic disinfectant. There was an elevator straight ahead, but a sign was taped over the double-doors stating it was out of order.
“I lived in a place like this the first year I lived off-campus in college,” Flynt noted.
“I feel sorry for you.”
“Eh, it wasn’t so bad. I learned a great deal about how to humanely catch rats and release them back into the wild.”
The detectives took the flight of stairs to their left, up to the third floor. The hallway leading to apartment 320—Reeding’s address—was in slightly better shape than the lobby. Rather than
smelling like feet and poison gas, it smelled like Mop & Glo and marijuana.
When they came to apartment 320, the blaring noises of heavy metal music could be heard inside. Steele knocked rather hard on the door so he would be heard. Flynt was bobbing his head approvingly to the music.
“You enjoy this garbage?” Steele asked.
“I do. This is a decent album. The band is called Gojira. They’re a—”
“You know Flynt, I really don’t care.”
Flynt shrugged as Steele knocked again. This time, he essentially pounded on the door and they got an answer right away.
The man that opened the door looked scrawny at first glance, but a second look showed that his shoulders and arms were jail time solid. He wore a white tank top that showed his sleeve of multiple tattoos, he wore baggy shorts, held in place by a tattered belt. His hair was a buzz-cut and two rings were dangling out of piercings in his bottom lip.
“Who are you?” the man asked, nearly screaming at them.
Steele showed his badge. “We’re detectives Steele and—”
The man, presumably Chester Reeding, slammed the door on their face. Even over the blaring music inside, Steele could hear running footsteps.
“He seem guilty to you?” Flynt asked, staring blankly at the door.
“Certainly does,” Steele said.
With that, he drew his sidearm, reared back, and delivered a brutal kick just below the door handle. The frame cracked, something inside the mechanics of the door lock popped, and the door swung open. Steele wasted no time, running inside as his dumbfounded partner stared on behind him.
* * *
Flynt always suspected Steele was hiding a lot of strength in his tall frame. But he never actually saw that strength until now. The kick Steele planted in the door was expertly placed and just about as strong as any of the kicks Flynt saw in the Kung Fu movies he repeatedly watched.
It happened so fast and impressed him so much, it took him a while to fall in line. He watched Steele rush through the door, the doorframe partially busted and the door swung back in on itself. The door blocked Steele from sight. Flynt followed Steele, about five seconds behind him.
He thought about pulling his weapon but found it hard to do. It was forever since he last took it out and the memories of that event still haunted him.
For now, it was just enough for him to run…which was something else he hadn’t done in quite some time.
Inside Flynt found himself in a meth lab. It smelled of chemicals and things slightly burnt. Something on the stove was bubbling but he focused his attention ahead of him. The kitchen joined with a living area and a small hallway beyond that. Steele was already in the hallway, chasing Reeding.
The music was like thunder now, and as Flynt dashed by the sound system in the living room, he reached out and slapped it off. He entered the hallway just in time to see Steele throwing his shoulder hard into a door. He hit it with such force that the door went caving inwards. Flynt could hear the hinges snapping and clattering against the wall. Steele fell with the door but bounced back up right away, shaking it off.
In front of him, there was an open window. Steele took two large strides toward it just as Flynt reached the bedroom door, Steele looked out the window and cursed. Beyond him, Flynt heard a metallic clang and heavy footfalls, Reeding was on the fire escape.
Steele yelled. “I’m going after him. You head back down and go around the right side of the building. See if you can cut him off in the alley.”
Flynt nodded, following the orders was the easy part. Taking on the weight of such a responsibility made his legs lock up.
Steele was crawling through the opened window. He turned back to Flynt, narrowed up his face, and barked at Flynt. “Go, Flynt! Now!”
The command broke through Flynt’s momentary lapse. Flynt blinked rapidly and then did as Steele asked. He ran back down the hall, towards the kitchen and the smell of boiling chemicals. It smelled like spray paint. Inexplicably, in a move only Flynt understood, he turned the burner off as he left Reeding’s apartment.
Flynt pumped his legs hard as he raced back down the hallway. His knees were already sore and his lungs seemed incredibly confused by what was happening to them. Flynt knew he was out of shape but tried to push that out of his head. This was not the time for excuses. Besides, he was going pretty fast and that alone was something to be proud of.
When he came to the stairway, he slowed down but not quite fast enough. He pitched forward and fell down the first three steps, only saving himself from a potentially devastating injury by managing to grab onto the handrail bolted into the wall. With his heart in his throat and his lungs burning, Flynt raced down the stairs as fast as he could, ignoring the jiggle of his ample belly.
When he came to the lobby, he was panting and sweating. On his way through the front doors, he nearly collided with a middle-aged woman. As he dodged her, she called him a nasty yet creative name.
Back out in the fresh air, he took a moment to get his bearings. He was taking large labored breaths as his body did its best to adapt to the exercise. Taking one final large breath, he bolted to the right, heading to the alleyway. He took the corner and collided with a trashcan. Both Flynt and the trashcan went to the ground. There was no time to be embarrassed or ashamed. He picked himself back up, hissing at the stinging of his freshly scraped palms.
As he ran, he saw the fire escape. It snaked its way along the side of the building like some ancient symbol, merging with the modern steel design. He spotted Reeding, he was nearly at ground level. Steele was further back, he jumped down to the next platform.
With Flynt dashing forward, Reeding leaped from the platform bypassing the last section of ladder. It was easily a fifteen-foot drop, but the small-framed man took it rather easily. He rolled when he hit the ground and took off running without looking back. As Flynt continued to run, he saw Steele come to the edge of the last platform. He was trying to psych himself up for the jump but hesitated. Instead, he started down the old rusted fire escape ladder.
Flynt didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have attempted the jump, either. But it was clear to see that this decision was going to give Reeding enough time to escape.
Flynt knew he still had a chance. He did his best to find another gear, willing his legs to push harder. They seemed to obey, but his lungs were slow to catch up. As he pumped harder, coming to the fire escape and then passing by it, he suddenly found it incredibly hard to breathe. His world was also starting to swirl.
He knew there was no way he was going to catch up to Reeding. And behind him, Steele was only now at the bottom of the ladder.
With his arms trembling, Flynt did the only thing he could think of. He drew his weapon at the same time he yelled, “Stop! This is the police!”
Reeding did not stop. He didn’t even bother looking back.
Flynt dropped to a knee, aimed at a nearby trashcan, and fired.
That did the trick. Ahead of them, Chester Reeding stopped. And, having been in this situation several times before, he put his hands above his head.
Flynt tried to get back to his feet but found it impossible. The echo of the shot rang in his head and the recoil still tingled in his hands. He found himself thinking of a darkened bedroom many years ago. Bill was behind him somewhere as Flynt pulled the trigger at a moving shape and…
Steele went dashing by him. Flynt barely saw his partner reach Reeding. Steele pushed Reeding against a nearby building and handcuffed him rather roughly.
Seeing that the perp was captured, Flynt allowed himself to collapse into a sitting position. He put the gun in his hands slowly on the ground. He looked at it and felt a wave of regret pass through him. He did his best to focus on his breathing as he stared at his sidearm, his breath began to return to normal.
Steele came back over to him, pushing Reeding along. When he saw the state Flynt was in, he shoved Reeding next to the fire escape and hunkered down next to his partner.
“Fl
ynt. You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You hurt?”
“No. Just…shooting. I can’t…there was a kid back there, you know? Bill was behind me and the room was dark and something moved. I shot. Anyone would have, right?”
“Hey,” Steele said, placing a reassuring hand on Flynt’s shoulder. “You did good just now. I froze up there on the fire escape and you finished the job. You did what you had to do and we got him. You understand that?”
Flynt nodded. “Yeah. Just…can I have a second?”
“Sure. Whatever you need.”
Steele stepped away, turning his attention back to Reeding. Flynt looked at them as he took in one deep breath after another. His legs were trembling but his lungs no longer burned. The world stopped swaying, but he still found it hard to look at his gun.
After a few moments, he picked it up and holstered it. It felt like he was handling a live grenade.
“You good to go?” Steele asked.
Flynt said nothing. He only nodded as he made his way back towards the car.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chester Reeding was doing his very best to appear as if he wasn’t at all bothered by sitting in an interrogation room. Steele had seen his kind try this exact same act many times before. Sometimes they lasted most of the interrogation but then crumpled during a second or third. Others gave up the act after about five minutes, once they understood the full weight of their crimes explained to them.
Steele thought Reeding would be the latter. His bottom lip was poked out and he was puffing out his scrawny chest. He sat on the far side of the small steel table. His right wrist was handcuffed to a U-shaped bar on the side.
“I won’t lie,” Steele said as he took the free chair across from Reeding. “I really don’t like having a door slammed in my face. But do you know what I hate even more than that?”
Dead Duck (Flynt & Steele Mysteries Book 2) Page 11