by Jon Land
“Hard to tell, Darl, him being a teenager and all. You know how teenagers are.”
“Sure I do,” Picket said, even though it was clear he didn’t.
But that gave Cort Wesley an idea. “My son’s the reason I’m here, Darl.”
Pickett’s wan expression looked to be genuinely concerned. “How’s that, Boone?”
“Cort Wesley’s started running with Cliven Fisker’s son. Goes by the name of Armand.”
The old man’s hands began to shake atop the table, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Cliven and Armand are both names with six letters. Fisker has six letters, too. Did you know eight percent of people have the same number of letters in their first name as their last?”
“No, Darl, I didn’t.”
Pickett looked up, his eyes suddenly bright and sharp. “I’m worried about your boy, Boone.”
“So am I. That’s why I’m here: to find out everything I can about Cliven Fisker, steer my boy away from his family if there’s cause.”
“Oh, there’s cause all right, plenty of cause. Something like eight to the nth power, even though nobody really knows what the nth power means.”
“Why’s that, Darl?”
The brightness in Pickett’s ancient eyes, one with a cataract that looked like a piece of snot stuck on his pupil, faded, his gaze narrowing. “Why what, Boone?”
“Why’s Cliven Fisker trouble?”
The old man looked around, as if trying to remember where he was. “What’s your boy’s name again?”
“Cort Wesley.”
“Who’s that?”
“My son.”
“Sure.” Picket nodded, grinning. “The one you’re always bragging on.”
“I’m worried about him, Darl.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I need to ask you. Tell me about Cliven Fisker.”
“Who?”
“Cliven Fisker, the inmate who founded the Aryan Brotherhood from inside here.”
“Why you asking about him?”
“Because I’m worried about my son.”
“What was his name again?”
“Cort Wesley.”
Pickett’s expression tightened again. He reached across the table and captured Cort Wesley’s forearm in a wizened, bony grip that felt more like claws than fingers.
“You tell that boy to steer clear of anyone with the last name Fisker. You tell him to steer clear of anyone with six letters in their last name, just to make sure he listens.”
“Is Fisker dangerous, Darl?”
The old man jerked his hand from Cort Wesley’s forearm and rocked himself backward in the plastic chair. “Oh, I don’t know. Is a rabid dog dangerous? Is a wounded moose dangerous? Is a woman during that time of the month dangerous? Is Cliven Fisker dangerous? The answer is yes, to all of the above. You know he ordered the death of a Negro boy because he looked at him wrong?”
“No, I didn’t,” Cort Wesley said honestly.
“Uh-huh, it’s the truth. Kid just made eye contact with him because he didn’t know Negroes aren’t allowed to do that. It’s as sure a death sentence as killing the president. Did you know I met Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“You did?”
“Saw him anyway. I was in a cell when they brought him into Dallas police headquarters. They walked him right past me. I didn’t even know Kennedy had been killed. And I don’t know what I was doing in that jail at the time, either. Do you?”
The dull lighting made it hard for Cort Wesley to get a read on Darl Pickett’s constantly shifting expression, so he’d know how to react to his lucid moments when they came. Trying to get information out of the man reminded him of mining for gold: you probably won’t find much, but the only way to find anything at all is to keep chiseling away at the wall before you.
“Tell me about Cliven Fisker, Darl.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Besides that.”
“It’s why he’s dangerous, what makes him dangerous.”
“What’s that? Tell me.”
“You won’t believe me, Boone. Nobody ever does.”
“Why don’t you try me, Darl?”
70
HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS
Pickett’s face blanked, his eyes seeming to lock on a wall clock he’d just noticed. “Is it really one o’clock?”
“No, Darl, it’s almost five. That clock must’ve stopped.”
“Time stops for no man, Boone. You should pass that along. Time stops for no man.” The old man’s eyes refused to leave the clock. “Maybe you can wind it up like a watch, make it start working again.”
“We can try.”
Pickett’s uncertain eyes sought Cort Wesley’s out. “What day is today?”
“Saturday.”
“They all seem the same to me lately, Boone. Only way to tell them apart is by what they’re serving in the cafeteria. We have taco Tuesday now.”
“That sounds good.”
“On Fridays we get fish sticks and on Saturdays we get chicken that looks like fish sticks. Did I have them for lunch today?”
“I guess.”
“You weren’t there?”
Cort Wesley swallowed hard. “I got out, Darl, remember?”
“When that happen?”
“A while back.”
The old man looked down, his lips quivering. “I don’t remember. I have trouble remembering things sometimes. Like the name of that boy of yours you’re always bragging on.”
“Cort Wesley.”
“Who’s that?”
“My boy.”
“I knew that. I never forget a name.”
For Cort Wesley, sitting here talking to Darl Picket felt like being stuck in a riptide. Only choice you had was to go with it, since fighting the riptide would only get you drowned, which gave him an idea.
“Did you have lunch with Cliven Fisker today, Darl?”
“Nope, not today. Did once, though. Him and me swigging moonshine one of the guards smuggled in the ingredients for. That’s when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
The old man’s face blanked again. “Who?”
“Cliven Fisker. You were saying that he told you something.”
“Told me what?”
“That’s what you were about to tell me.”
Pickett nodded in understanding, lowering his voice when he resumed. “His secret, you mean.”
“Yes, Darl, I do.”
“If he told it to me sober, I’d be a dead man. But he was drunk, so I guess he needed to tell somebody, and likely forgot he did afterward.”
“What did he tell you?”
“It was about his dad. He thought it was funny. Like he was making a joke. I told you he was drunk.”
Cort Wesley just nodded, not wanting to disturb the old man’s thinking.
Pickett lowered his voice to a whisper. “You got to kill him, Boone. You’re the only man in here with the guts to get it done.”
Cort Wesley felt a clog forming in his throat. “Why would I do that? I don’t even know him, Darl.”
“He’s got to die. Because of his secret.”
“What’s Fisker’s secret, Darl? What is it he told you when he was drunk?”
Pickett leaned forward across the table, checking the room to make sure no one else was in earshot. “How’d you like to hear the damnedest thing you ever did hear, Boone?”
* * *
“Now that was a waste of time, if ever there was one,” said Leroy Epps, once Cort Wesley had driven through the prison gates.
“I take it, based on this secret Darl Pickett claims he’s been keeping for forty years, you think he’s full of shit, champ.”
“That would be giving shit a bad name. Man makes me glad I died when I did, bubba. I’d rather lose my life than my marbles any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“You can’t lose your life; you’re already dead.”
“Figure of speech. And even though I’m dead, I sure
as hell make more sense than that lamebrain.”
“Bit harsh, don’t you think, champ?”
Leroy’s lips puckered. “Oh, I don’t know, Boone, did I tell you I know who really shot Kennedy?”
“Give it a rest.”
“Be glad to, bubba, soon as you stop off and get me a root beer.”
Cort Wesley’s cell phone rang over the truck’s Bluetooth, PAZ lighting up in the caller ID.
“You need to get to the Village School, outlaw,” Paz said, when he answered. “There’s been some trouble.”
71
LA VERNIA, TEXAS
“What do you know about organ donations, Ranger?” Doc Whatley asked Caitlin, seated in a chair he’d set down for her so they could watch the annual Bluebonnet Fest Parade.
“I know there’s a black market for them.”
“Spoken like a true lawman.”
On Whatley’s instructions, Caitlin had met him just outside San Antonio in La Vernia where the annual Bluebonnet Fest was underway. She’d never known him to take a day off from work, seemingly always in the office when she called, even on weekends. But here he was on a Saturday, seated in one of two lawn chairs he’d set up in a shaded, grassy knoll where, in a few minutes, the annual Bluebonnet Fest Parade would pass right by them.
Gazing about at the considerable crowd that had gathered, Caitlin figured Whatley must’ve been here for some time to snag such a cherished, shady spot for himself. The whole thing seemed totally out of character for him, especially given that he was the only person about to take in the festivities who looked to have come on their own.
“Good question, Ranger,” he said suddenly.
“I didn’t ask one, Doc.”
“Your eyes did. I come here every year. My boy always loved this festival, never missed one until he was murdered. I’ve come back every year since, with my wife at first, until she took sick.”
That sickness, Caitlin knew, was alcoholism compounded by serious depression that had never waned after their son had been killed. She felt suddenly uncomfortable in the lawn chair Whatley had placed out for her, having never heard him share anything from his personal life this way. She thought this might be the first time he’d had company for the event, since his wife’s decline and ultimate death, instantly glad he’d chosen this place to meet for no other reason than that.
Caitlin had always viewed Whatley as a man bled of emotion, his tragic past having hammered him into submission. Their relationship had been purely professional, to the point that she’d never once had occasion or call to gauge Whatley’s emotions. Today, though, his expression was a portrait of sad reflection, looking as if he wanted to smile, but had forgotten how.
Down the street a ways, Caitlin could see the floats, marching bands, civic and veteran’s groups lining up for the parade’s start behind the town’s mayor who, as always, would serve as grandmaster. After parking a good half mile away, Caitlin had passed a kids’ carnival and vendor booths packed with handmade arts and crafts. The festival also featured a petting zoo, pony rides, and a Wild West show a few people must’ve thought she was a part of, based on their stares, not to mention an endless array of food and drink booths. Caitlin noticed a beer garden had been set up this year but, in the true spirit of a family-oriented event, not a lot of attendees were sampling the wares.
“I’m talking about the more medical applications of organ transplantation, Ranger,” Whatley resumed, just as the loud pounding of a bass drum signaled the start of the parade a few blocks down.
“I’m a lawman, Doc,” Caitlin told him, “not a medical man.”
“I want you to think like one. Let’s try this a different way: what’s the biggest problem with organ donations?”
“That there aren’t enough organs around.”
“What about those patients lucky enough to get the transplants?”
“Well, I’ve read about tissue rejection. Guess it’s rather common.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because it’s not part of the recipient’s standard equipment. More like an aftermarket replacement part.”
Whatley nodded, the way her high school chemistry teacher had when she got a question right. “With a replacement part, the fit is normally pretty smooth. Not always the case, though, with organs because the body sees a transplanted one as a foreign body, like an enemy invader. The immune system swings into action, playing the role of a defending army.”
“So doctors prescribe anti-rejection drugs to weaken the immune system enough so it won’t recognize the transplanted organ as foreign.”
“But there’s a problem with that, isn’t there?”
“Side effects,” Caitlin nodded. “Like with all drugs.”
“But these are far more catastrophic, even deadly. And that’s only if anti-rejection drugs work, which they don’t always do. When they do work, which is most of the time these days, the patient lives the rest of his life with what can be a severely compromised immune system. Often, something else kills him, or her, as a direct consequence of that. You can see where I’m going with this.”
Caitlin was starting to. “The two bodies we pulled out of that apartment complex were both organ transplant recipients.”
“But neither one of them showed any signs of standard anti-rejection medications in their bloodstreams.”
“Maybe that helps explain what killed them, Doc,” Caitlin said, recalling Jones’s mention of a drug found in the victims’ systems the tox screen couldn’t identify.
“Quite the opposite, Ranger, quite the opposite.”
72
LA VERNIA, TEXAS
Doc Whatley had to raise his voice over the sounds of the approaching parade when he continued. “For decades, patients receiving organ transplants have spent the rest of their lives taking a host of medications aimed at preventing rejection. Generally, that means a combination of drugs that each have their own side effects, which then also need to be treated. Primarily we’re talking about the liver and kidneys here, but pancreas transplants are being performed now as well, along with lung, cornea, hearts, and heart valves. The premise of limb transplant has shown great promise as well, and we can assume even more, millions more, patients will face all the complications that come with anti-rejection drugs like Prednisone, Mycophenolate, Tacrolimus, and Cyclosporine before much longer.”
“That’s quite a mouthful, Doc,” Caitlin said, as the mayor and drum majorette leading the Bluebonnet Fest Parade passed by the spot where Whatley had set their lawn chairs. “Can you tell me why it’s important to this particular case?”
“Because the bodies of the transplant recipients from that apartment complex contained no trace whatsoever of the drugs I just mentioned. And they weren’t alone.”
* * *
Whatley waited for the parade’s lead marching band, playing “Seventy-Six Trombones,” to give way to the first in a line of floats, before resuming.
“So far, Ranger, the law enforcement query I put out over the wire has yielded reports of sixteen other transplant recipients dying in conditions identical to the ones as ours.”
“Did you say sixteen?”
Whatley nodded. “I did, from coast-to-coast, and that number is certain to rise, in large part because natural causes would’ve been suspected in virtually all such deaths. And, in all cases, that cause was catastrophic organ failure.”
“Define catastrophic organ failure, Doc.”
“Everything in these victims stopped working at pretty much the same time: lungs, kidneys, liver, pancreas, intestines, hearts in some cases—they all shut down and for good reason.”
“What would that be?”
“Based on their degraded conditions, I’d say exposure to a foreign organism. And since those conditions were so pervasive, we can only assume that, whatever this foreign organism is, it attacks healthy organs in a way like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
“Are we back to a murder investigation?” Caitlin asked.
“Maybe something even bigger?”
Whatley frowned, trying to watch the parade passing by and converse with Caitlin at the same time. “My boy wanted to be a doctor.”
“I’m sorry I never got the chance to know him, Doc.”
“He was doing great in high school science classes.” Whatley’s gaze had turned distant, as if he was gazing past the parade instead of at the various floats, marching bands, dancers, and civic-minded locals waving up a storm. “Loved coming to work with me on those days we could swing it.” His gaze sharpened as he turned back toward Caitlin, interest lost in the festival for the time being. “You remember the two victims from that apartment complex?”
“One had a new liver, the other a new kidney.”
“In a perfect world, Ranger, transplant patients wouldn’t need to take any anti-rejection drugs at all. The new organs would be treated at the genetic level to make them conform to the body’s DNA.”
“Treated with what exactly, Doc?”
Whatley smiled slightly at her question, their thoughts jibing. His next words were accompanied by the next marching band to pass them, kind of background music to their conversation now.
“Let’s back up a bit first. Your immune system knows you’re you thanks to something called major histocompatibility complexes, or MHCs. Something else called human leukocyte antigens, HLAs, encode MHC proteins so a cell can identify itself. So in a perfect world, you’d be able to get these HLAs to encode the donor’s MHC proteins, thereby making the body recognize the organ as the recipient’s own.”
“But this isn’t a perfect world, is it, Doc?”
“Far from it.”
“And it certainly wasn’t a perfect world for the two victims we found inside that apartment complex and the other sixteen you’ve found so far. You want to venture a guess as to exactly what happened to them?”
“I’ve already confirmed that they, and the two we found in San Antonio, were part of a clinical trial. I think they agreed to a new treatment methodology that was supposed to somehow trick their human leukocyte antigens into encoding their major histocompatibility complexes so their immune systems would recognize the cells as native to the body’s architecture.”