Chapter 6
With two recovering schizophrenics in residence, the brownstone was beginning to resemble a halfway house. After introducing Michael to Francisco and Margaret Dutton, and leaving instructions for my bemused but sympathetic secretary to bring them anything they wanted, I ensconced myself in my private office on the ground floor and settled in for a good long, hard think. Although I hoped I had put up a cheerful, optimistic front for Francisco and my two guests, the fact of the matter was that I felt shaky, not only made sick to my stomach by what I had witnessed and heard but also not a little overwhelmed by the responsibility I had taken upon myself and the position I had put myself in. I needed time to center myself, and then figure out what I was going to do for my next trick. Of one thing I was certain, and that was the need for extreme caution.
I had entered the lair of monsters, and the ice-pick-wielding man who was dispatching New Yorkers by the dozens was only their mascot. The killings had started at just about the time when Raymond Rogers would have hit town.
I believed every word of Michael Stout's story, for so much of it jibed with what I had already seen and heard from Mama Spit. The horror of the patients' situation was not lost on me, and I was struck dumb by the unimaginable cruelty of the people who had run River-cliff on a day-to-day basis, physicians who had betrayed their Hippocratic oath and become willing pawns in conducting Nazi-like illegal and immoral research on fellow human beings. And then there was the equally monstrous, inconceivable motives and behavior of some pharmaceutical research team, possibly but not necessarily an arm of the company that manufactured the drug. They had come up with at least a preliminary model, however flawed, of a miracle drug for schizophrenia, one that was generations ahead of any medication currently available. Yet they had then kept it a secret for years because they or their backers were apparently more interested in the flawed drug's side effects than the fact that it might furnish normal lives to untold numbers of men, women, and children who suffered from one of the most debilitating of mental illnesses.
Instead of searching for what might be only a minor reformulation that would produce freedom for the many, they had chosen to imprison and experiment on a few. Monsters; every last one of them, from the maintenance personnel at Rivercliff who had conspired to keep the secret, to the doctors who had conducted the experiments, to the drug company executives who had cooperated, to whoever was behind it all. It made me very angry, and it was this anger as well as my nausea and horror that I had to overcome before I rode off in search of windmills, or started pushing any buttons that could open a trapdoor under me as well as the wandering members of Sharon Stephens's lost flock.
All of which led me to the next mantra in my meditation: pondering who might be pulling the strings. It would take an extremely powerful organization to mount and maintain an operation like Rivercliff. Over the years laws had been broken, state and federal regulatory guidelines and commissions blithely ignored with impunity, detailed and confidential information gathered from state institutions across the country, specific patients without family or friends culled and transferred to Rivercliff. All this, presumably with no follow-up from the bureaucrats who had sent them there, and very likely with no paper trail of records. Accomplishing it with no apparent breach of security was no mean feat. And then there was the question of finances, how Rivercliff could have stayed afloat with an apparently large building or complex of buildings, a professional staff and patient population of half a hundred, all with presumably no revenue from insurance companies or funding from state and federal mental health programs.
It didn't take me long to come up with a favorite candidate for Culprit, my usual suspect when it came to conspiracies of this magnitude, expense, and lunacy—the beloved, frequently deadly CIA. It was probably a group of busy beavers in one of the Company's science research divisions. I was going to need help.
Normally it would be Garth I would turn to, assuming he was not already involved and running at my side, but my brother and his wife were on a skiing trip that was scheduled to last through New Year's, and since I had nothing specific to ask him to do, I saw no good reason to interrupt their vacation. What I needed most was information, and I needed it quickly. I had three weeks to take care of a lot of business. Not the least important was the task of somehow finding a fresh supply of the drug that was keeping the schizophrenics mentally afloat and alive. Accomplishing this would give me a time cushion of however long it might take, after the survivors had gathered on Christmas Eve, to negotiate a safe passage for them through the treacherous shoals of bureaucracy to a haven with some authority that understood and respected their special need. I knew these three weeks could slip through my fingers like water; I couldn't count on Sharon Stephens getting the job done, because I couldn't be certain I'd find her before the professional assassins on her trail took her out. Indeed, except for the pressing needs of Margaret and Michael, it was possible that replicating the drug in large quantities could be a wasted exercise, for all of the remaining ten patients who were presumably still alive and out on the city streets could be dead by Christmas Eve; in addition to whatever else I had to do, I was going to have to start tracking the shepherdess, Ms. Jekyll and Dr. Hyde, and her lost flock myself.
I needed the NYPD, state police, and FBI playing on my side, and I was severely limited in the amount of information I could offer up as enticement to get them to even enter the game; no matter what, I was not going to offer up Margaret Dutton or Michael Stout, except perhaps as a very last resort if it became clear there was no other way to save their lives and sanity. Finally it came down to the question of whom I was going to reach out to first, and I was afraid I already knew the answer. I might have plenty of contacts, and even a few friends, at One Police Plaza, in Washington, and other seats of power, but I was convinced that most of the coming action would take place on the playing field of Manhattan, since I was certain that most of the missing patients, like Michael, had stayed close. Sooner or later I was going to have to deal with Felix MacWhorter, and if he found out he'd been left out of the loop at the beginning, not only could it prove seriously counterproductive but I'd have destroyed any chance I had of building a relationship with him.
Step One.
I picked up the phone and called Midtown North.
"Midtown North. Sergeant Colchen speaking."
"Lou, it's Mongo."
"Mongo, my friend," the police sergeant said, and laughed. "Angel was telling me about the show you and the chief put on earlier. I wish I'd been here. Angel said it was the best stuff he's seen since Abbott and Costello."
"Yeah. We plan to polish it just a little more, and then maybe take it on the road. As a matter of fact, I'd like to speak to the dear man. Is he around?"
"You've got to be kidding. In case you haven't noticed, he doesn't much care for you; his blood pressure goes up when he so much as thinks about you. I've even heard him refer to you in unflattering terms, such as 'fucking dwarf vigilante.' "
"Well, that does it; I'm not going to ask him to marry me. But I'd still like to talk to him."
"Seriously, Mongo," the desk sergeant said, lowering his voice. "I don't think he'll take your call; if he does, all you'll get is a hassle. Why bother? Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll try to accommodate you. You and Garth have always been straight with us, and it's not your fault that a lot of action comes your way. The chief just has some bug up his ass."
"Thanks, Lou; I appreciate that very much. But it's MacWhorter I have to talk to. Tell him I may be able to provide him with some information on the ice-pick killer."
There was a short pause, then: "No shit?"
"No shit. There's been some action coming my way."
"Hang on."
I didn't have to wait long, less than twenty seconds, and then
MacWhorter's sharp, impatient voice came over the line. "What's this business about the ice-pick killer, Frederickson?"
"Chief, I'm involved in a matter wh
ere I've happened to come across certain information, and you're the first person I'm calling."
"You told me earlier you weren't on a case."
"I'm still not; I don't have a paying client. It's just something I got mixed up in, and now I think the police should act as quickly as possible. I'm not certain, but I have reason to believe that the name of the ice-pick killer could be Raymond Rogers. One possible way to confirm it is to check the victims' clothing, and even the crime scenes themselves, for any semen stains. There'll probably be a very low sperm count, but if it is Rogers, his prostate seems to be working serious overtime. You can get a detailed description of him by getting the state police to subpoena the records of an upstate New York mental hospital called Rivercliff. While they're at it, the state police might want to scope out that whole operation, because there may be some funny doings up there. Finally, I have reason to believe that if you perform an autopsy on the corpse of the man you found in the Carnegie Hall Dumpster you'll find some kind of toxic substance in the tissue. If that turns out to be the case, and if the police lab can identify the substance, I would appreciate it very much if you'd be kind enough to share that information with me."
There was a rather prolonged silence, during which I could hear MacWhorter's hoarse breathing. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded odd. "Frederickson?"
"What?"
"I already have a description of Raymond Rogers."
"What?! Who?!"
"You're the third person who's called me about this Rogers. The only difference is that the other two were dead certain the killer is Rogers. One even claimed to be an eyewitness to one of his murders."
"Who were they, Chief?"
"Both women, and neither would give her name. The first sounded cool, matter-of-fact, professional. She just said the killer was Raymond Rogers, and hung up. The other one, the woman who said she'd watched him kill somebody, called herself 'the night owl.' Even described him—tall, rangy, dark hair and eyes."
"Jesus Christ," I breathed. My mouth was dry, my palms moist, and my thoughts were not only racing but stumbling over each other.
"Frederickson?"
"Yes, Chief?"
"You want to tell me now what this is all about?"
"I'm not sure what you're referring to by 'this,' Chief," I said carefully. "I picked up some information, and I passed it on to you. I don't have anything else to tell you."
"Listen to me, you little shit," MacWhorter said. His voice had risen only slightly, but the anger in his tone was naked and shining. "This is the kind of crap you and your brother pull all the time, and it's exactly what I was talking about this morning. You're involved in something the police should know about, and you're in it right up to your eyeballs. This time I may just push you under and let you drown. You call me up and give me not only the name of this wacko but the name of the mental hospital he escaped from. Then you tell me what the M.E. is going to find if he does an autopsy on a body found two blocks from your home. Now, you may think you're going to catch this freak all on your own, get some more publicity, and make the police look like fools. If you think you can get away with withholding vital information from me, you're out of your mind. This is a serial killer you're playing with, Frederickson; not leveling with me could get people killed."
"I'm not playing with a serial killer, Chief," I said, leaning back in my swivel chair and rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. I was really sorry I'd made this call—or at least sorry I'd called MacWhorter. "And I'm not withholding any information that could help you. It seems to me you should be thanking me for giving you the information I did. Were you this courteous to the two women who called to give you Rogers's name?"
"We still haven't found Mama Spit."
"I told you that whatever happened to Mama Spit is a complete mystery to me."
"She's a material witness to a murder."
"No kidding? I seem to recall I was the one who told you that."
"I think you know where she is."
"You think what you like, but that's a pretty goofy idea."
"Who's your client?"
"I keep telling you I don't have a—"
"Don't play word games with me, Frederickson. On whose behalf are you working? How did you happen to come up with all this information you've been giving me?"
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"The nature of your investigations and what people tell you isn't privileged information."
"I never claimed it was. I just said I wasn't going to tell you. That's what you get for calling me names and hurting my feelings."
"All right, wise guy, I want you to get your ass in here right now."
"Would you, really? Why? I've already told you all I'm going to tell you."
"Then maybe you'll be sharing a cell with the rest of the scumbags we pick up around here. I want a written statement from you describing what matter you're currently investigating, and how you came up with the name of Raymond Rogers."
"I always cooperate with the police, MacWhorter. I'd probably feel better about coming in to chat with you if I hadn't already done that once today and met with a less than friendly and respectful reception. Then you wanted to throw me out, and now you want me to come in. Make up your mind. If I make any written statement, it will be about how you've verbally abused me on two separate occasions when I tried to give you information concerning criminal activities."
"If you're not here within the next two hours, Frederickson, I'm going to issue a warrant for your arrest on the grounds that you re a material witness in a murder case and you're withholding evidence. You want to play games with me, I'll have your license pulled."
"MacWhorter," I said in my mildest, friendliest tone, "has anybody ever told you that you're a seriously stupid man? If I wanted any shit from you, I'd squeeze your head and it would come out your ears like toothpaste. Until and unless you do arrest me, this is the last conversation I ever intend to have with you. The next time I come across information I think the police should have, I guarantee I'll take it to a cop who's a lot smarter and more civil than you are, and that leaves me the choice of just about anybody else on the force. Stick your threats up your fat ass."
So much for my public relations efforts with the local constabulary. I hung up the phone while MacWhorter was shouting at me, leaned forward in my chair and drummed the fingers of both hands on the desk. I had personal ties to enough ace attorneys to stock a law firm, so I wasn't going to waste time worrying about being hassled by the police captain when I had more important things to worry about, like winning a race against madness and death before Santa arrived.
Step Two.
If it was the CIA that was behind all the doings at Rivercliff, and I didn't harbor a lot of doubt, I thought it highly likely that the killers they had hired to work New York City were freelancers from a long ways out of town. It was past three in the afternoon, which meant it was well past the dinner hour at Interpol headquarters in Berne. But the man I wanted to speak to, Inspector Gerard Moliere, often liked to work late at night in his office, and so I thought calling him now was worth a try. I had met Moliere two years before, when Garth and I had been in Switzerland trailing a man by the name of Chant Sinclair, an infamous terrorist who had turned out to be not such a terrorist after all. I hoped the inspector remembered me, and that we were still on good terms. I thumbed through my Rolodex until I found the number I wanted, dialed it.
"Oui?"
"It's Robert Frederickson, Inspector. I'm sorry to be calling so late."
"Mongo le Magnifique! How are you, my friend?!"
Well. It seemed Gerard Moliere did remember me, and we were still on good terms. "I'm fine, Inspector. How about yourself?"
"I am well, my friend. It is so terrible, this thing that is happening in New York. So many people killed."
"Yes, Inspector. It is terrible."
"Garth dropped by last week to say hello. He and his wife are skiing in Zermatt through the holidays."
"He hasn't broken anything yet?"
"Not that I could see. His wife, she is so beautiful."
"Mary is that."
"When are you coming to visit? You will be my houseguest."
"Thanks, Gerard. I appreciate that. Right now I've got some important business to take care of. I hate to impose on you, but I was hoping that you might be able to provide some information that could prove very useful to me."
"Of course, Mongo. I will be happy to help, if I can. What do you wish to know?"
"There are a couple of assassins working New York, professionals. They've already killed one person that I know of, and I suspect they've targeted close to a dozen more. I want to stop them, and it would be a big help if I could find out who they are. Since they do seem to be pros, I figure they may have worked in other countries, or come from another country, and Interpol might have something on them."
"MO?"
"A specially packed, low-velocity twenty-two-caliber bullet to the base of the skull. They've been described as being very young. An eyewitness to the killings says they looked like teenagers—a male and a female."
"Punch and Judy," Gerard Moliere replied without hesitation.
"Come again?"
"Punch and Judy are their code names, noms de guerre. They are husband and wife whose real names are Henry and Janice Sparsburg. They are rumored to live somewhere near Paris, but the Surete appears content to leave them unmolested as long as they limit their business activities to countries outside Europe. Their preferred method of killing is the same as you described."
"How old are these people?"
"They are certainly not teenagers. They are young merely in appearance, and then only if seen from a distance. Dressing and behaving like young people seems to be a fetish with them, and they are rumored to make regular visits to a plastic surgeon. May I ask whom they have killed over there, and why?"
"Just between you and me, I think the CIA hired them, but I can't be certain of that. A dozen patients escaped from a very shady mental hospital where they've been conducting illegal experiments for years. I think Punch and Judy have been sent to kill them before they talk to anybody about it."
Bleeding in the Eye of a Brainstorm Page 8