Death Check

by Warren Murphy

  Remo joined Brewster in his hysteria, in order to bring Brewster back with him to coherency.

  “Ratchett,” Remo gasped.

  “Ratchett,” Brewster gasped. “Dead.”

  “Ratchett is dead,” Remo moaned.

  “Ratchett murdered. Blood.”

  “Ratchett has been murdered. There’s lots of blood.”

  And Brewster nodded and said: “I went to his place just now. His special place. He was dead. Blood and water. He was dead. You.”

  “Me.”

  “Yes. Do something.”

  “Good. I’ll do something.”

  “Walls. Fences. Machine guns. Help us.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Help you. Machine guns. Fences. Walls.”

  “Yes. Get the killers. Get them. Kill them. Destroy them. Bomb them.”

  “Yes.”

  “But don’t let the police know.”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Good,” said Nils Brewster. His eyes wide, he rose to his feet. “We’ll go now.”

  He was still unsteady as they crossed the small bridge over the brook and Remo gently guided him by applying light pressure to an elbow.

  “Is that his house?” Remo asked, looking at the large white egg with windows.

  Brewster nodded. “I didn’t see him this morning. We had a 9 o’clock appointment and he’s always punctual. I just wanted to explain to him that I thought his hypnotism had gone far enough and that we should look for some other form of his artistic expression. But he didn’t show up, and he didn’t answer the phone. So I came here. He has a special room, an obvious imitation of his concept of womb. And he was there, and the door was jammed from the outside.”

  The sun played over the house as they approached it, as if boiling it for an egg salad lunch.

  “I like it,” Remo said.

  “Nobody likes it.”

  “I like it. I think it’s a hell of an idea for a home.”

  “It’s grotesque,” Brewster said.

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “That’s the opinion of everyone in Brewster Forum.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “No? Who likes it?”

  “I like it.”

  “Oh, you. Well, I’m talking about everyone.”

  “I’m someone.”

  “You’re our security officer.”

  “But I’m a someone.”

  “Yes. All right. If you want to look at it that way. He’s in there. I touched nothing.” Brewster stood at the entrance. The door was ajar.

  Remo nodded. “It’s really hard to refrain from panic in a situation like this,” Brewster said. “You may not have noticed, but I was on the verge of panic. Fortunately, I have incredible self-control. But this pushed me to my limit.”

  “Okay,” Remo said softly. Like most panic victims, Brewster had no recollection of his actions. He would not even remember fainting. “Stay here, Nils.”

  “Call me Dr. Brewster.” He leaned against the door frame, still shaking. “We’d be in an awful fix if I were the type to lose my head,” he said.

  “Yes, Dr. Brewster, we would,” Remo said.

  “Call me Nils,” Brewster said. Remo smiled reassuringly and went into the living room. He spotted the fireplace opening to Ratchett’s special retreat. There was Ratchett, nude, his body half covered in a pink puddle of water and blood. His face was a final set mask of horror. Remo reached in, careful not to slosh around in the liquid, and flipped Ratchett over. So much for how they did it. Now they had attacked the scientists, and to save them it might be necessary to kill them. If he called the police now, the next passage from Dial-a-Prayer might well be Deuteronomy. Remo stepped back carefully and picked up Ratchett’s phone. It was a vulnerable phone. But he was not doing business.

  He dialed information, got the number of Dr. Deborah Hirshbloom, and dialed it. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Remo looked to the ceiling without seeing, looked to the floor without seeing and whistled impatiently. And the phone rang.

  “Shit,” he said and hung up.

  He went outside.

  “Shocking, wasn’t it?” said Brewster.

  “What?” said Remo, his mind still on the phone call.

  “You look upset.”

  “Oh. Yes. Shocking scene. Awful.”

  “If you were as familiar with violence and its dynamics as a human form of expression, if you were as familiar with it as I am, it might have been easier for you, son.”

  “I suppose so,” Remo said. Dammit, she wasn’t home. This was his day off peak. And he planned to spend it with her. All day and all night. And now she wasn’t home.

  Dr. Brewster reached for something in his pocket, and brought out a pipe and a ripped bag of tobacco. “How the hell did this happen?” he said, looking at the ripped pouch as if it had betrayed him. “My pants are dirty too. I must have brushed against something.” He lit his pipe.

  “Violence is a strange thing,” Dr. Brewster said, musing on the smoke. “Many people never learn to accept it as a part of life.”

  She was supposed to be home. All right, maybe she had just gone out for something. Maybe she was just being funny. Playing a game. Or maybe she had changed her mind. The bitch. The little Israeli bitch had changed her mind.

  The two men went back to the forum center, the scientist talking, musing, explaining, pontificating, placing the elements of life and death in intellectual perspective. Remo Williams was planning. If she was just trying to make him wait, he would be very casual. Say that he wasn’t sure of the time. Was she late? Oh. Or maybe he’d disappear for a while and be late himself. No. He’d see her and tell her she was immature.

  “You see,” Brewster explained. “Even though you are a policeman, you have not fully accepted the fact of violence as an integral part of man’s life. You have not come to terms with the very obvious fact that man is a killer. And his greatest game is man himself. A predator. Only late in development did he become herbivorous. The overreaction against violence in more backward American communities is an eruption of the sublimation of violence. Which is really not sick. Violence is healthy, human. Vital.”

  Maybe he would call her a kike and just walk away. But what if she laughed when he said that? Worse, what if she were hurt? He would apologize and hold her. But if she were really hurt, she wouldn’t let him. No. Not Deborah. She would laugh. Right at him. In his face. Then he would laugh. Then it would be all right.

  “I know it’s difficult, son, but as I was explaining to some general or other, no, a congressman, I believe — well, in any case, one of those things. I told him that perhaps policemen like yourself are the ones who are least able to handle violence and therefore are drawn toward it as a profession. You know that’s how we get funding?”

  “What?” said Remo.

  “How we get funding, son,” Dr. Brewster explained. “You exploit their little dreams or fears. Whatever.”

  “What are you talking about?” Remo asked. He would take care of Deborah later. “I was finding it hard to follow.”

  “Our funding, son. The way to get funding is to decide what you want, then throw in something the government may want. As an afterthought. Like our study on the community life of combat.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that paid for Schulter’s animal experiments and Boyle’s ethnic studies.”

  “I see,” said Remo. “And your little plan to conquer the world?” He dropped the reference casually.

  “That bought the golf course, the auditorium and about five more years of just about anything we want. I don’t know why I trust you like this. I just do. I’m a good judge of men.”

  He was, thought Remo, like most people who do not work at it, a very bad judge of himself. He trusted now because he felt safe. Apparently, he had taken Remo’s preoccupation with Deborah as shock over the Ratchett killing and no longer felt threatened by someone who might possibly be above panic.

  “Is there a plan
to conquer the world?”

  “Yes, of course. You could conquer the world with 50,000 men. Provided, the rest of the world wanted to be conquered. Hah. You see, it takes the cooperation of the losers. But we’re not going to include that in any study for at least three years though, not until we have another funding source. Your job is safe with us for another three years.”

  So it was just a hustle, after all. All the federal funds, the secrecy, the work of CURE, the deaths of McCarthy and Hawkins and Ratchett, all of it was only to allow these harmless nits to go on figuring up days and down days, drugging rhinoceroses and lowering heartbeats. A goddam hustle.

  “I imagine Deborah was working on that plan.”

  “Don’t call her Deborah. She’s Dr. Hirshbloom. I personally don’t mind, but you know how some of these medical doctors get. No, as a matter of fact, she wasn’t the least bit interested. Recently, I’ve been getting the impression she is interested in nothing but chess. A fine mind. But very unproductive, I’m afraid.”

  “Uh, uh,” said Remo, who noticed suddenly that he had been walking in his old manner, the natural walk of his youth and early manhood. His peak was falling rapidly now. Several times a day now, he was forced to go back mentally to his little room, where Chiun waited. But the effect was wearing off more and more rapidly. His vitality was ebbing.

  Brewster was rambling on about his plan to conquer the world. Of course, it could be pulled off if each soldier in the Army could be brought up to twenty percent capacity. Did it shock Remo that the average man used less than ten per cent? But no one yet, Brewster said, had reached twenty per cent. He wasn’t even sure if a human being could survive using twenty per cent of his capabilities. So, in a way, the forum was really giving the government its money’s worth. A brilliant plan that was impossible. Generals like those sort of things.

  Remo tried to concentrate on the room, but the sidewalk still thumped hard against his heels. He pulled oxygen deep into his groin, but still felt winded. He thought of Deborah and for a moment was exhilarated. He realized. She was uninterested in the work of Brewster Forum because she did not come to work for Brewster Forum.

  She was an agent, all right. Her control proved that, even when she was afraid of him. And she was beginning to fall in love with him. The alienation of their lives had been broken and both shared the first flushes of knowing someone. That was why things had moved so well the night before.

  And Conn MacCleary was the key. The Israelis wouldn’t let Conn fight his holy war against the Arabs after they had desecrated the sanctity of his still because, quite simply, Conn MacCleary was not in Israel to fight Arabs or even to train people to fight Arabs.

  Conn MacCleary, master of the personal attack, was training people to seek a different enemy. And it would also explain why he volunteered and why Deborah had not listed the real name of her village, and why, if it was so secret, the presence of Arabs would in no way compromise it.

  This little village was the first training ground for the agents who would follow those who had processed people in ovens, stripped human flesh for lampshades, tore off genitals with pliers, experimented on babies and women and men to see how long it took shock to set in when an organ was ripped off or when you tied a woman’s legs together during labor. The village was a training site for people to track down Nazis and Deborah was on the trail of one.

  And that one must be the killer, the one who had brought about the deaths of McCarthy and now Ratchett. Because they had somehow gotten in the way of his plan to get the compromising photos of the Forum’s staff. But why did he want the pictures? Probably to blackmail the staff into giving him the little plan to conquer the world. Well, the joke was on him. The plan to conquer the world was a hoax, only Brewster’s way of getting more federal funds.

  Remo would have a good day off peak. And if Deborah asked him to, he would help set up a snatch or a kill on the one she was after. He would show her how good he was. And then they would make love.

  “You know,” Remo said to Dr. Brewster, “it’s a beautiful day.” They were at the phone booth on the corner. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You’re not going to phone the police or something. I mean, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Remo said assuringly.

  “You’re sure you’re all right now? You were pretty shocked before, son. And I wouldn’t want you to do anything that would embarrass you or anything. Not many people can accept the violence we saw today, and I want you to know that I don’t hold it against you.”

  “Thank you,” said Remo. “But I think I can handle it.”

  Brewster put a fatherly hand on Remo’s arm. “I’m sure you can, son. I’m sure you can. And if the police need more information, I’ll be right here.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve got most of the information they need,” Remo said. “Somebody cut off Dr. Ratchett’s penis and he died from shock caused by loss of blood, while flailing around in a pink puddle of gore. They’ll find out for sure when they take his lungs out in the autopsy.”

  Dr. Nils Brewster nodded sagely and collapsed on the gravel before the booth in a dead faint. Remo removed the pipe from where it had fallen near Brewster’s head. It was still lit and could have set the tumbleweed hair afire.

  And that afternoon, the good Reverend gave Remo some delightful news. He was not only off peak, but he was to leave. Immediately. Remo spoke the number into the tape recording and waited. Dr. Brewster was blissfully in the land of out.

  A car passed and the driver offered to help. It was Anna Stohrs, the blonde with the hard face. Remo waved her away, angrily, and with a hard glint in her eyes she gunned the gas pedal and sped off.

  Remo whistled softly to himself as he kept the cradle down with his elbow. Some day he might set the record for holding down a receiver without moving. Guinness Book of Records: Remo Williams, three hours and fifty-two minutes. Let’s hear it for clean living and expensive training. But how could somebody pose people in sex photos without their knowing? Hypnotism? Too hard. Too hard. It must be drugs.

  The bing of the first ring and Remo released the cradle.

  “What is it now?” Smith sounded angry. That meant he was happy.

  “I’d like to stay a day. Here.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got something I’m working on.”

  “No,” said Smith. “Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

  “One of the people here has met with an accident.”

  “That’s all right. Doesn’t matter.”

  “I know about the little plan.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Aren’t you interested?”

  “If I see you in a year or so, you can tell me all about it.”

  “Well, why the sudden go?”

  There was silence. And then Smith said in a calm but pained voice: “You’re asking me a why?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “So am I. I’ll attribute it to the inordinately long peak.”

  “Well, screw you,” Remo said. “You ding-dongs set the peak, not me.”

  “Look. Rest.”

  “I’m not getting off till I get the reason. I want to stay another day.”

  “If you must know, another agency had moved into it. Remember the paint shop? Well, it’s become an international, and they’re working with an ally. In twenty-four hours that place is going to be crawling with agents. We’re not needed now. So if you suddenly feel some need to perform some public service that is not your job, why don’t you help with the garbage collection?”

  “I want that extra day.”

  “Why?” Smith was getting annoyed.

  “Would it surprise you if I told you I want to get laid.” Remo used hard terms, lest Smith suspect affection.

  “Anyone special?”

  “One of the scientists.”

  “Not that fairy?”

  “No. Doctor Hirshbloom.”

  “Remo.” Smith’s voice wa
s suddenly harsh and imperious. “Stay away from her. She’s an ally and she’ll be working with our people to clear up this mess. She’ll finger the targets.”

  “She’ll work better if she’s well-laid.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “What about the sex photographer?”

  “All part of the same thing. Blackmail against the government. I tell you, it’s in good hands. Now get out of there before you get arrested for loitering. We’re closing this number. We’ll reach you. You get lost until we do. That’s an order.”

  Remo hung up. Screw Smith and screw CURE. He was staying and he was having his day with Deborah. That was it. Insubordination. He had peaked too long. If he hung around, they would be after him to set him up. But a setup is not a follow-through and he was not a part to be replaced easily. Or was he?

  Well, if it came to that, he couldn’t think of a better reason to go. Conrad MacCleary chose patriotism. Remo Williams chose a woman. Maybe another day, he would feel differently. But today was today and it was August and he was going to stick it to Deborah, and then go to Henrici’s Restaurant in Dayton, Ohio, for a Wednesday night meal, and keep going to Wednesday night meals until they found him.

  On impulse, he dialed Dial-a-Prayer again. A tape recording told him, “The number you have reached is not a working number.”

  Fast.

  Outside, Brewster was coming to. The first words he said to Remo as soon as he regained his balance were “Are you all right, son?”

  “Yes, Nils. Thank you.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “I… ” Remo paused. “Couldn’t make the phone call to the police.”

  “That’s all right. I understand. You’ve been through hell. It’s a very difficult job to be security officer.”

  “I don’t know if I can, can continue in the job. Not now.”

  “Yes, you can,” Brewster said firmly. “Because we’re doubling your salary. You’re the first policeman good enough for the job. And that’s that. Don’t say no. I know men. You’re the first one good enough for Brewster Forum. I’ll make the phone call to the police.”

  Remo thanked Dr. Brewster who rumbled a dime into the telephone and dialed the emergency number listed on the board above the coin slots. He winked at Remo, made an okay sign with his right hand, and began to babble incoherently into the receiver.