The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “Horse and elephant. I kid you not. And it’s easy to get and easy to make. It all starts in China, and here it gets a little technical: labs there manufacture the main ingredient used in the production of fentanyl, as well as analogues—drugs that have chemical structures differing only slightly from the pharmaceutical-grade version. One of the best-known fentanyl analogues is alpha-methylfentanyl, known on the streets as China White. It’s available to anyone over the internet, and signing up for an account only takes minutes. You can even buy quarter-ton pill presses from them. The sites guarantee delivery and ask customers only for a shipping address and credit card number. Before it’s shipped, the drug is hidden in a decoy package. Like detergent or auto parts boxes, or something like that.”

  “How hard is it to mix it up and turn it into a street product once you’ve got the main ingredients?” I asked.

  “I’d say it requires about a ninth-grade education, if even that, a protective mask, and a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves. These drugs are not only dangerous for users, but they’re also dangerous for those who make it, and the cops and drug dogs who come upon it. If you touch some forms of it you can absorb it through your skin. That can be deadly. If cops conduct a raid on a dealer of fentanyl, they are instructed to wear protective gear—at a minimum, latex gloves, at a maximum, a hazmat suit with a respirator.

  “But to make it into a street drug, it’s easy. All it takes is an elementary knowledge of chemistry, and a pill press. If you have somebody to teach you, then all you need is a brain a little bigger than a walnut. And it can be produced as a pill, or in powder form where it can be smoked, snorted or injected. Fentanyl is often made to resemble painkillers like oxycodone and hydrocodone, because those drugs fetch a higher price on the street, even though they’re less potent. This has resulted in the epidemic of overdoses.”

  “Wow, no wonder this stuff is suddenly everywhere.”

  “These home-grown processing mills seem to be gaining on the old methods of getting the product into the country, as best I can tell, which was the Mexican Cartels smuggling them in over the border.”

  Another thing Bagwell told me.

  “The biggest deal about opioids is that they’re being consumed by a wider market than your typical drug user. It attracts people dependent on prescription pain-killers, along with the severely addicted illicit-drug users, and recreational users. Overdose victims range from teenagers to seniors, college professors to housewives. Just about anybody, regardless of race, creed or color.”

  None of this made me an expert on the subject, I thought, but along with what Bagwell had told me, I now had a much better idea of what I was dealing with.

  She placed the papers on my desk. “One last thing. I found a report from a recent meeting of Upstate law enforcement officers that said the opioids in Pickens and Oconee Counties are different in make-up from the drugs in Greenville and Spartanburg Counties. They’re from two different sources, or so the authorities think.”

  “So, two different trafficking rings?” I said. Bagwell hadn’t mentioned that.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Thanks, Vickie, great job.”

  She still sat there, making no move to leave. The look on her face suggested she had something else she wanted to say.

  “Is there more?” I asked.

  “It’s about my job.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re quitting.”

  That seemed to catch her by surprise. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Because you’re good, and sooner or later a small-town newspaper won’t be challenging enough for you. I’m just hoping it’s later. Right now, the Clarion couldn’t do without you.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I want to do more. From what you’ve had me researching I’d have to be really stupid not to know you’re following up on Kelly’s opioid editorial that she did a couple of weeks ago. I can help.”

  I was right. Very little got past this girl. “You’re already helping. This research is invaluable.”

  “That’s backroom stuff, and I can still do that. But I want to be on the streets, helping you run down the story.”

  “What exactly do you think you could do out there on the streets?”

  She said, “I know people who are into these kinds of drugs. People my age. I can find out how they get them. Maybe even go in undercover. Whatever.”

  “You’ve been watching too much TV,” I said, smiling at her. But I appreciated her spunk and tenacity. She was going to make a good investigative reporter.

  “I can go places and do things you can’t. People know you. Nobody knows me.”

  I wanted to tell Vickie that what she was suggesting was exactly what Kelly was doing—and look what it got her.

  I said, “Okay, you’re right. I am going to do a follow-up on Kelly’s editorial. But it’s still in the incubation stage. I’m looking for a story angle. Maybe you can help later.”

  “I told you I wasn’t stupid,” Vickie said. “So don’t treat me like I am. I know you think that Kelly’s assault had something to do with her interest in the opioid scene. You’re trying to find out who did it. That’s your story angle.”

  This girl seemed to be a step ahead of me. There was no use lying to her. “You’re right again, and I’m not out to solve the world’s drug problems. My motive is far less noble—in fact, it’s downright selfish. I want to find Kelly’s attacker and see that he gets what’s coming to him.”

  “And so do I, so let me help.”

  This was more than just ambition, I realized. I saw it in Vickie's eyes. And understood it. She felt the same rage inside that I felt about what someone did to Kelly. Vickie had an emotional fire burning in her that transcended newspaper awards and personal recognition. She was a born warrior for justice, the righting of wrongs not just a tactic, but the very thing that drove her. Inside her lived a journalistic idealist. Grandfather would have loved this girl.

  “You want to end up like Kelly?” I asked her. “Or worse? College kids didn’t do this to her. The people trafficking these drugs are ruthless animals.”

  “Then find something for me to do. I’ll be careful. Just let me be useful.”

  I sat and thought about it for a minute. “Okay, I’m going to tell you a few things, which I probably shouldn’t, and you need to give me your word to keep it our secret. If you do, I’ll promise to find a way to involve you more. I don’t know how or when, but it will happen at some point. Is it a deal?”

  “I guess it will have to be,” she said.

  “I’ve got a couple of suspects in my sights, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for anyone else to be out there asking questions right now. It could ruin everything, and even get someone hurt, including you. I promise I’ll tell you more when I can. Just be patient.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “There is something you can do that would really help me.” I turned to my computer and inserted a thumb drive, copied what I’d written of the Kelly story, ejected the drive and held it out to her. “This is the Kelly story I was writing. Make it better. Rewrite the whole damn thing if you want. I’m too close to it.”

  She stared at the thumb drive like it was molten metal and it would burn through her fingers.

  I said, “This is your chance to own the whole front page. Do you want it or not?”

  She practically grabbed it out of my hand.

  “I won’t let you down,” she said, smiling from ear to ear as she left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Later, I found Eloise, sat her down and told her about my meeting with April Cheney, who she was, and what kind of story Kelly was working on. I told her the truth about the nighttime motorcycle rider, and about Alvin Brown coming down to watch my back as I followed through with Kelly’s investigation—with my interest focused less on exposing opioid distribution in Pickens County than finding her attacker. Although I was sure that one would lead to the other.

&nbs
p; I needed to keep her up to date on what I was doing, because the biker’s visit showed I’d put her and Mackenzie at risk, and Eloise needed to be on alert. My sister had handled a lot of adversity in her young life and was a tougher woman than her gentle nature suggested. She quickly recognized the danger, and that’s what I wanted.

  Eloise had met Alvin only a couple of times. She’d heard me talk about him enough to know we had developed a special friendship. She’d once remarked that the way I spoke about him, the two of us were like soldiers who’d been in combat together, with a deeper relationship than just casual buddies. She was right. Alvin and I had bonded well. In a way, we had been in a war together, and we’d learned that we could trust each other. She was glad he was coming, and so was I.

  I said, “I told him he could stay at Still Hollow with us, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course, it is. Underneath the scary veneer, Alvin has a big heart. I love him.”

  He did have a big heart. And a good soul. But he could be as violent as anyone I’d ever met if he decided there was the need for it. I’d tried to keep those tendencies subdued last year, but this time I didn’t know if I would. My rage was still at level red, and if we found Kelly’s attacker, I might turn Alvin loose on him and be right there beside him.

  I’d no sooner told her about Alvin when my phone rang. It was him. He should be on the ground at the Greenville Spartanburg Airport about six. He was renting a car and could meet me at the hospital if I wanted. He wanted to see Kelly before we did anything else. So, that was the plan. I was seeing Doctor Stefans at five. I could make it to Kelly’s room in plenty of time to be there when Alvin arrived.

  I turned back to Eloise. “Dinner with Alvin at Still Hollow, eight o’clock or so? If it’s too much trouble, I can stop and bring something.”

  “John David Bragg, you know I wouldn’t have him for dinner at our house with take-out food. Of course, I’ll make dinner. What’s gotten into you? You’ve lived in Atlanta too long.”

  “My bad, Eloise, I must have lost my mind for a minute,” I said, and laughed.

  I left to see Stefans in Clemson.

  #

  I found Dr. Stefans’ office in a stand-alone single-story brick building near the Clemson University campus. The waiting room was empty, as was a glass-enclosed receptionist area. An attractive young dark-haired woman must have heard me come in because she came out from somewhere in the back and asked me if I was Mr. Bragg, and took me back to Doctor Stefans’ office. She wasn’t dressed in nurse attire, but she obviously worked there.

  The doctor wasn’t in his office, but the young lady said he would be right in, and she left. I took a moment to study Dr. Stefan’s framed medical bona fides on the wall. He had graduated medical school and done his internship up north. So he was an implant, it looked like, which was why I hadn’t noticed a southern accent when we talked on the phone.

  Doctor Stefans rushed in, “Mr. Bragg, I presume.” He gave me a firm handshake, and motioned for me to take a seat across from him at his desk. He was a big man, with a broad face, dark hair, and bushy black eyebrows. “So, you want me to repeat what Ms. Mayfield and I talked about?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling out the small notebook and pen I sometimes carried, mostly to try to look professional.

  “As I told you, I’m not sure I can remember everything, but I will try. Ms. Mayfield asked about a patient named May Burgess. I think that was the main reason she wanted to talk to me. The police interviewed me when Mrs. Burgess so sadly died, and without breaking patient confidentiality, I told Ms. Mayfield the same thing I told them. I was treating her for a back injury from an automobile accident, but, at the time of her death, she had stopped seeing me. Her last visit here was six months prior. I had my girl look it up.”

  “Were you aware of her opioid addiction?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Not of addiction per se, but perhaps of an inclination toward it. I was treating her for a problem that required pain medication, and she seemed to be taking it more often than prescribed. When I would not refill the prescription for her again, she quit coming to see me. While I was concerned about her, as I am of all my patients, I had no way of knowing what she did after that.”

  “Do you think that she was getting prescriptions from some other doctor?”

  “Not from a reputable one,” he said. “The police told me that Mrs. Burgess overdosed on a fentanyl-heroin mixture. No doctor I know gave her that.”

  “I hear about pill mills, where unethical doctors write huge numbers of prescriptions to addicts or even drug dealers. I have to believe that they exist here too. What can you tell me about that?”

  “That may be so, but thank goodness the authorities have been cracking down on those for a long time. I rarely hear about pill mills anymore. Now opioids have taken the same route as other illegal drugs. They are manufactured in foreign countries and smuggled into America by criminals, to be sold on the street corners like all the other addictive poisons.”

  “So, you had no idea that May Burgess had become addicted, or where she was getting the opioids that killed her?”

  “I did not.” He paused, sighing deeply. “Unfortunately, I can give patients appropriate expectations regarding the time-frame with which opioids will be prescribed. And I can try to educate them that opioid discontinuation may be necessary, even before the resolution of their pain, and get them on non-opioid meds like ibuprofen or acetaminophen. But ultimately—and sadly—it is their decision and out of my hands. Mrs. Burgess found opioids somewhere else, and it killed her.”

  “In your relationship with your patients,” I said, “or with other physicians, have you heard of any places in this area where these drugs might be illegally obtained? Say, a local bar?”

  “No, I have not. A place like that may exist, but I am not aware of it.”

  “Did Ms. Mayfield ask you that question?” I asked.

  “No, I do not think she did. Or at least I cannot remember it.”

  I thought back to Kelly’s phone records and Mrs. Mozingo’s sign-out log. Kelly didn’t start talking to April Cheney until after she visited Doctor Stefans. And April was where Kelly, like me, found out about the drug connection to the Tiger’s Tail. So, Kelly wouldn’t have reason to ask doctor Stefans about the Tiger’s Tail, or any other bars at that point.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him, and he didn’t remember anything else he and Kelly talked about—most of which I already knew or suspected. The visit was a waste of time. It only corroborated that Kelly was indeed working on a story about opioids, and went to Doctor Stefans to learn what she could about May Burgess and her path to addiction. The meeting didn’t get me any farther down the investigation trail.

  I glanced at my watch. Alvin’s plane was probably close to landing about now, and if I wanted to be at the hospital when he arrived, I needed to get going. I thanked the doctor for his taking the time to talk to me and headed to Greenville.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was standing outside Kelly’s room watching for Alvin when he came striding down the hospital corridor toward me like he owned the place, nurses and doctors alike casting sidelong glances at him. Alvin got noticed wherever he went. He was built like someone in an exercise equipment ad, only bigger, with fierce eyes that warned you to get the hell out of his way. He wore a sharply trimmed beard which gave him a satanic look. Women who favored the bad-boy type found him very handsome.

  We did a man-hug in the hallway, and I took him into Kelly’s room. He stood looking at her for the longest time, not speaking. Then he finally turned to me. “She never moves?”

  “Not yet. They move her around to avoid bedsores, but that’s about it.”

  “She gonna’ be okay, J.D.?”

  “Her doctor has high hopes.”

  “You got high hopes, J.D.?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I’ve got, Alvin. It’s either hope or absolute terror at the alternative.”

  We s
tood and watched her a little longer.

  “Motherfuckers who did this need to git got,” Alvin said, his eyes fierce.

  “We’ve got to find out who they are, first.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “Let’s go find a better place to talk.”

  He followed me down the hall to the small hospital chapel. It wasn’t the most appropriate room to discuss doing harm to our fellow man, but it was the best place I could think of to talk without being overheard.

  I filled him in on everything.

  “I’m convinced Kelly’s snooping was why she was attacked. Somebody wanted her to stop, and one, or all these guys were behind it. Now it seems I’m on their radar.”

  “What do the Po-Po think?” Alvin asked.

  “The Sheriff’s Department first thought it was the Dixie Demon biker Hound-dog, who hit on her at the Tiger’s Tail bar. But he’s got an alibi. I’ve given my theory, and they say they’re looking into it. But I’ve seen no evidence of that yet. Oh, and I was a suspect too for a while.”

  “What?” Alvin asked.

  I told him about it.

  “Been telling you all along, cops ain’t always your friends. When you gonna’ listen?”

  “Sheriff Bagwell is a good guy. I don’t think he ever believed it. He was just doing things by the book. I guess the husband or boyfriend is always the first suspect.”

  “That’s ‘cause most cops are lazy,” Alvin said, “They go the easy way ever time.”

  Alvin absolutely refused to admit that most cops were smart and good at their jobs.

  “Maybe I should go in undercover at this Tiger’s Tail bar for a few days?” Alvin said.

  “My thinking exactly.” I said.

  “You trust this April Cheney?”

  “Yes, up to a point. She’s genuinely angry about her sister’s death and wants to nail those responsible for selling the poison that killed her. But now that Kelly’s been hurt, she’s afraid for herself. Guess I don’t blame her. But if one of these guys threatened her, I think she’d tell them everything she knows. She said something about getting out of town, so she may not be here much longer. It’s probably best she doesn’t know about you, or that we know each other.”