Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  In the passenger seat, there was a manila folder containing a case file Dunn had thrown together for her. In addition to his own notes, he’d made copies of all the discovery materials the DA’s office had handed over to date. She collected it, made her way into the restaurant, and settled in at one of the larger tables near the back. When the server came by, she ordered a lunch special—two slices with peperoni and sausage and a large Mountain Dew. Then she read through the documents while she waited.

  The T-shirt, blotched and smeared with blood, was a damning piece of evidence. The detectives suspected that Strickland had used it to clean his hands after the murder. Presently, it was at the State Crime Lab in Raleigh awaiting DNA testing. Eventually those tests would confirm what Dunn and Rachel already knew. That the blood belonged to Hubbard.

  A woman in a red-stained apron appeared with a tray of food. She spotted Rachel and shuffled over, set the tray on the edge of her table, and went back to the kitchen.

  Rachel covered her pizza in crushed red pepper, then flipped through the file until she found a sheet labeled INTERVIEW. The pages that followed were scans of handwritten notes, a detailed account of the detectives questioning Strickland at his home. She read while the cheese cooled off, sipping on her soda and growing discouraged.

  The interrogation had lasted for more than half an hour and had been a mess from the start. Strickland had been terrified. It seemed his nerves had gotten the best of him, and, like a lot of murder suspects, he’d made the mistake of trying to talk himself out of trouble. The pair of detectives had taken him apart with ease. Rachel could hear the conversation in her mind.

  I just dropped him off at the store. I don’t know who he was waiting on. He didn’t tell me. I mean it, I just dropped him off and left. Hell, I didn’t even get out of the damn car.

  You sure about that? one of the detectives asks.

  Yeah, I’m sure. How many times do I gotta tell ya? I just dropped him off and hauled ass.

  So, if we talk to the clerk at the store, he’ll tell us you didn’t go inside?

  Yeah. I mean, no, he won’t. He shouldn’t. Unless he’s telling you a bunch of bullshit.

  You didn’t go in to buy a pack of cigarettes? asks the other detective.

  No. Well … I mean, yeah. Just a pack of cigarettes. But that’s it, man, I swear.

  Lies and inconsistencies. Confusion and backpedaling. By the time Strickland announced he was done talking, the damage had already been done. They arrested him three days later.

  Rachel took her phone out and called Dunn.

  “Didn’t take long,” he said.

  “You were right,” she said. “There’s not much here.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like regret.”

  “Not yet.” She tested a slice of pizza with the tip of her finger, then dug a piece of sausage out and dropped it into her mouth. “I’m calling to ask for a favor.”

  “All right. How can I help?”

  “Would you mind calling the drug treatment center for me? Let them know I’m coming by to ask a few questions. I’d like to talk to some of the counselors, if I can.”

  She heard him chuckle.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “You’ll see when you get there.”

  Rachel ended the call and ate her lunch. She got a refill of Mountain Dew and lingered at the table so she could comb through the file, looking for every reference to the treatment center and its staff. She wanted to be prepared when she got there. Interviewing doctors could be difficult. Sometimes fruitless. They were always touchy when it came to talking about their patients. Even the dead ones.

  TEN

  Parker stood in the ditch, dizzy and nauseous. His body was confused, enduring a cold sweat in the afternoon heat with no clouds to shield him from the sun. His bones and muscles ached, and he felt nearly incapacitated by fatigue. He couldn’t concentrate, which made him agitated. Or maybe that, too, was just another symptom.

  It was the worst he’d ever felt. Like having the flu with food poisoning and a hangover. But worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. Even worse than the day after he’d spent fourteen hours power-drinking tequila and Irish whiskey with three of his awful friends in Orlando.

  And the doctor had said he could expect another week of this. At least.

  The nurse had all but begged him not to check himself out. He would have agreed to stay had the diarrhea not subsided. For practical reasons.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  She was probably right, whoever she was. A female voice, vaguely familiar. But Parker had gone there for a reason. He was looking for something. Standing there, sweating and shaking and fighting the urge to lie down in the grass, trying to find it, though he couldn’t remember exactly what it was.

  “My phone,” he said weakly.

  It was just a guess, but it turned out to be right. His hand moved to his front right pocket, and it was empty. He reached around and felt for his wallet, found it in the wrong back pocket, then felt the front again and found nothing.

  No phone. No keys.

  He turned around to look behind him. The yellow van was gone. There was a police cruiser there instead. And a woman in uniform, slowly walking toward him.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I’m Officer Ramirez. I’m the one who found you here yesterday morning.”

  None of that made any sense to him, so he went back to searching. “I gotta find my phone.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Maybe I can help you.”

  She walked around with her head down, trying to look helpful. Parker stumbled in a circle, covering the same ground again and again until the dizziness became too much. He stopped and lowered himself onto the rise, dropped to his side, and vomited.

  Ramirez approached and stood by his feet. “Sir, don’t you think it would be a good idea to go back to the hospital? They can help make you feel better.”

  “Don’t want no more drugs,” he said, spitting into the grass. “Stupid drugs.”

  “Stupid drugs,” she said sympathetically.

  “I need my phone.”

  “Yeah.” She looked around again quickly. “I don’t think we’re going to find it here, hon. Maybe you left it somewhere else. Before you came here. Can you remember where you were before?”

  “Yes,” he said, but then he thought about it. “No.”

  He pushed himself up, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. The frustration was overwhelming. He wanted to scream and cry. He wanted to rage against … someone. Whoever had done this to him. If only he could figure it out. He needed to be able to focus, but the only clear thought he could muster was how much his hair hurt when he touched it.

  “I can’t think straight.”

  “It’s like that,” Ramirez said. “It’ll come and go.”

  Which made sense. He had been so lucid when he’d walked out of the hospital earlier. When he’d gotten to the parking lot and realized he had no way to leave.

  “I don’t have my car.”

  “I noticed that. Did you call a taxi to get you here?”

  “Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples to fight another wave of nausea.

  “Why don’t you come with me? I can give you a ride. Maybe we can figure this out together.”

  He nodded and stood up. Took a second to steady himself, then followed her to her car and got in. He sat still and enjoyed the air conditioning while Ramirez spent a few minutes talking to the dispatcher. She gave him a bottle of water, which helped a lot. The chill had passed, for the moment, and so had the queasiness. He used his shirt to wipe his face, then leaned against the headrest and stared out the window.

  When Ramirez got off the radio, she looked over at him. “Feeling better?”

  “A little,” he said.

  She turned the car around and started heading toward the highway. “How did
you know to come back here?”

  “The nurse told me. Said she knew the old man who called 911.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Did she tell you I was here?”

  “No. The old man called us again.”

  “Figures.” He closed his eyes. His mind was getting clearer. He tried to recall everything that had led to him lying in the ditch, dying of an overdose. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving me. The nurse said you saved my life with the Narcan or whatever it was.”

  “Well, you should be thanking that farmer. If he hadn’t called us, you’d probably be in the morgue right now. It’s lucky for you he was awake at that time of the morning.”

  “Wait.” Parker opened his eyes and looked around. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought I’d take you back to the hospital.”

  He was about to protest when an image appeared in his mind. A ranch house sitting behind a horse fence. It sprung into view with near-perfect clarity, followed by a memory. Then a string of memories, piecing together a story that managed to shine through the confusion.

  “I know where I was.” He sat up and turned to face her wearing a look of excitement. “I remember where I was.”

  She glanced at him with doubt in her eyes.

  “Seriously. I was going to meet someone. My car should still be there. I can tell you exactly where it is.”

  “And the hospital?” she asked.

  “I don’t need a doctor. I need to figure out what happened to me. And I need to get ahold of someone.”

  “Rachel Carver?”

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  “You were begging me to call her for you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Detective Hughes did. He said she came to see you at the hospital.”

  “Really?” He dropped back in his seat. “I thought I imagined that.”

  Ramirez paused at the intersection, waited for a car to pass, and then turned onto the highway.

  “Listen,” Parker said, “I know what you’re thinking. And I don’t blame you, but I promise, I’m not a heroin addict. I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I may drink more than I should, but I’ve never, ever been into drugs. I mean, I may have hit a bong once or twice in college … maybe rolled a couple of times…”

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors right now.”

  “The point is, I didn’t shoot up, okay?” He leaned forward to catch her eye. “I swear to you, someone did this to me.”

  “Why?” she asked, though her tone wasn’t as skeptical as he’d expected it to be. “Why would anyone want to drug you?”

  “It’s because of something I found. Someone, actually. Someone who witnessed a murder.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  “What were you doing trying to find a witness to a murder?”

  “It’s what I do. I’m a reporter for the Raleigh Herald. A few months ago, I wrote a story about an SBI agent. Rachel. She was working a homicide, and she shot a suspect. Her supervisor closed the case, but she thinks the real killer is still out there.”

  “I think I heard about that,” she said.

  Parker put his eyes on the road. He was feeling nauseous again. The excitement had held it at bay, but it was returning now with a vengeance.

  Ramirez was quiet for a minute. She seemed to be considering whether to help. “You know, that old man’s property is just barely inside the city limit. A hundred feet to the west and you would’ve been the sheriff’s problem. Just my good fortune, I suppose.” She sighed, dug her phone out of her pocket, and checked the screen. “And I’m off now. You were my last call. Lucky for you, it’s my ex’s day to pick up my daughter. Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” he said, feeling the sweat build on the back of his neck. “But right now I need you to pull over. I’m gonna be sick.”

  ELEVEN

  The Monroe Outpatient Treatment Center was housed in a new single-story building with a flat roof and accents of gray stone and stainless steel. Rachel parked in the visitor lot and walked the meandering path to the entrance. Along the way, she passed a koi pond and what looked like a meditation garden surrounding a giant vase that burbled water over its rim.

  Inside, the setting was clinical. White and sterile. A potted ficus sat in the corner by a window, alone in its attempt to add a little color to the tiny lobby.

  Rachel stepped up to the counter and identified herself to the receptionist seated behind the glass. It took a few iterations of explaining why she was there before the young woman finally seemed to understand. She left her desk and disappeared through a doorway, then came back a couple of minutes later and said, “Ma’am, if you’d like to have a seat, someone will be out to see you shortly.”

  Twenty minutes later, a door opened and a tall woman in a gray suit emerged. She said, “Miss Carver,” and motioned for Rachel to follow her. They walked silently into a hallway, turned a corner, and entered an office. The woman waved Rachel toward a chair, then closed the door and walked around to stand behind her desk.

  “I’m Dr. LeMay,” she said. “I’m the medical director of this facility.”

  Pamela LeMay, Rachel recalled from the file. A psychiatrist specializing in the treatment of drug addiction. She was responsible for overseeing the staff, supervising the treatment of each patient, and writing all the prescriptions.

  She also owned one third of the clinic.

  LeMay lowered herself into her chair, leaned back, and folded her arms. “I apologize for the wait, but we didn’t get much notice that you would be coming. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do,” Rachel said.

  “Good. Before we get started, I should say something right up front. I know your firm represents Kyle Strickland and that we have his permission to talk to you, but that only covers him. I can’t discuss any of my other patients. And I really don’t know what more I can offer you about Kyle that I haven’t already told Mr. Dunn.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the relationship between Kyle and the victim, Adam Hubbard?”

  The lines at the corners of LeMay’s mouth curled into parentheses. Something resembling a smile but devoid of any real emotion.

  Rachel studied her for a moment. She appeared to be in her early fifties, though she could have passed for younger had she adopted a warmer expression. She was beautiful but harsh, a long face with a sharp chin and penetrating gaze.

  “Nothing at all?” Rachel asked. “Not even about their relationship outside the clinic?”

  LeMay shook her head. “You have to understand, Miss Carver, our patients’ personal relationships are often addressed in the course of their treatment. It would be a betrayal of their trust for me to discuss what I know about them in any way.”

  “In the course of their treatment…” she said, trying to think of a different way to get the information she wanted. “You’re referring to their counseling sessions?”

  “I am,” LeMay said with a nod.

  “And Kyle attended those?”

  “He did.”

  “One-on-one? Group?”

  “Both. And a couple of family sessions as well, while his parents were still involved.”

  “Why did they stop coming?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, but I know it was hard just getting them in here at all. Especially his father.”

  “Who paid for his treatment?”

  “A good portion of our funding comes from the state,” LeMay said. “It’s meant to help with patients like Kyle, who have limited means. On top of that, he was still on his mother’s insurance at the time. It wasn’t the best policy, but it helped.”

  “I see.” Rachel made a couple of notes in her steno pad. “When you say that a patient’s personal relationships are addressed, I’m assuming that’s because those relationships can cause stress? The kind of stress that might
trigger a relapse?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was Kyle’s relationship with his father like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any others?”

  “I’m sure there were.”

  Rachel waited, hoping for more, but LeMay just stared at her. “Okay…” She made a note and decided to change the subject. “How about anger management issues? Did Kyle have any of those while he was here?”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “I haven’t read anything about it in his file. Mind telling me a little more?”

  “I’m not sure what there is to tell. It’s pretty common for our patients to experience anger. Recovery is exceedingly difficult. Aside from dealing with the physical symptoms, the withdrawal, the cravings, patients also have to face the thing that led them down the path to addiction in the first place. The underlying issues that made them turn to drug dependency. It’s a battle on two fronts, and they fight it every waking moment of every day. Frustration, depression, anxiety, anger … they’re all very common.”

  Rachel couldn’t help but think about Parker, lying in the hospital bed. About the struggle he had before him. She shook it off and asked, “In Kyle’s case, did that anger ever cause him to lash out? Violently?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Doctor? Given the way Adam Hubbard was killed?”

  LeMay’s brow tensed. “The way he was killed?”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “I’m no psychiatrist, but beating someone to death with a brick … hitting him over and over again until half his face collapses … seems a little like uncontrollable rage to me.”

  LeMay cleared her throat. “I’m afraid that’s not my area of expertise.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.” Rachel was starting to feel like she was wasting her time. She flipped to a page of notes she had made at the pizza parlor and found a name she had written—the name of Strickland’s counselor. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Gulani?”