The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan)

by Paul Sekulich

  “What can we use against him from these visits?” Frank said. “Opening a storage unit isn’t against the law, and it won’t convict the bastard of murder.”

  “Patience, laddie,” Alasdair said. “He’ll trip up sooner or later. Remember all those stakeout nights we spent? Pays off in the end.”

  “My time’s limited up here.”

  “I can keep after him even when you’re away, you know. I can nail him.”

  “You’re not a cop anymore. Where’s your authority?”

  “Where’s yours, Florida copper?”

  “He murdered my father.”

  “You think he murdered your father, and your opinion alone is not going to hold up in court.”

  Frank drifted over to a mahogany triple dresser.

  “You’re taking all the fun out of this,” Frank said, picking up the King James Bible on the dresser.

  “Patience. Things will fall into place in time.”

  “I’ll try,” Frank said.

  “Celine’s making stuffed pork chops from a recipe she conned from the chef at La Brasserie. You won’t want to miss it.”

  “I have to beg off. If I eat one more of Celine’s dinners, I’ll be a stuffed pork chop.”

  Frank ended the call and opened the Bible to a place marked by a red ribbon sewn onto the leather binding. It held a place in the New Testament’s Book of Hebrews. There was a verse, high-lighted in bright yellow, in Chapter 11. It read:

  “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

  Frank studied the verse and considered its simple message. It was a favorite line of his grandfather’s from the scriptures. Frank felt William was, once again, speaking to him from the beyond.

  The leather binding on the Bible was well-worn, its edges tattered in places. Frank set the book upright and held out the cover and the back like the wings of a bird. He immediately noticed the back cover was thicker than the front. It felt like something was inside between the leather back and the inner glued lining. Frank found a starting point and began peeling the inside material from the outer leather. It became evident soon what was in the category of “things not seen.”

  Frank pulled a folded cloth from inside the binding and opened it fully, revealing a full-color map printed on the sheerest silk.

  It was a detailed map of the coastal area around Tokyo, Japan.

  * * * * *

  The mysterious silk map was taken to the Dewey Loman Veterans of Foreign Wars post in Arbutus where Frank asked some of the older war vets what it was. The consensus of the group believed it was a map used by airmen in World War II if they had to bail out and needed to determine their geographic position. Unlike paper, the silk was relatively impervious to water damage and could depict the area of a bombing run or mission destination. A parachuting soldier might save his life, or elude capture, if he could guesstimate where he was and find a way to safety. Frank also learned that the skill required to manufacture and print these specialized maps was top secret and expensive. Many in the group knew about the maps, but only one veteran at the post had ever seen one in person.

  The fact that Frank’s map covered the central coast of the main island of Honshu and, in particular, a very specific section of Japan’s Tokyo Bay coastline, had Frank’s synapses making connections. His mind immediately locked on the conversation he’d had with Braewyn Joyce; the conversation about an American observation plane that had crashed on Tokyo Bay late in World War II.

  Chapter 27

  As Frank sat in the parlor with his morning coffee, he began reviewing the past few days. There were so many loose ends and unanswered questions he hardly knew where to begin. Frank decided to start with his father’s death, the event that put everything else into motion.

  It was known that Joe had gambling debts and dealings with characters who likely weren’t the most upstanding citizens. If the money he owed was big enough, someone might kill him for his default on payment, but that would’ve been a stupid thing to do. A murder rap on your head and no chance to ever get paid? It made no sense when he’d considered it earlier, and still didn’t. Maybe Joe’s death was an accident, an intimidation attempt carried too far. Still, a dumb move, even for an angry bookie.

  Recently something else came to the light. Joe knew about the Omega formula. He had to. William’s memo put his son smack in the middle of his conspiracy. That being the case, someone might have wanted information about the alleged Omega weapon.

  But where would they have obtained any knowledge about it in the first place?

  The fallout shelter appeared undisturbed until he and Alasdair had entered it. The film was still encased in Cosmoline. And if anyone should have known about the activities at Elm Terrace, it should have been Frank, the only living heir, but he knew nothing up until the last few days.

  One thing was certain. Joe knew about the Omega formula and never divulged a word about it, or else the fallout shelter would’ve been ravaged and everything inside would now be in the hands of his killers. That didn’t happen. This new motive for Joe’s murder dimmed the spotlight on Dellarue.

  What the hell would a cop near retirement want with a weapon of massive killing power?

  Frank refined his thinking to the only scenario that made sense to him: Joe knew everything about the Omega formula and died without giving it up.

  Maybe my father was a man deserving of my respect after all.

  So many Christmases had passed without seeing Joe, and Frank’s insides churned from the awful pride he’d harbored. A pride which hardened him from making contact throughout those wasted years and allowed for so many missed opportunities. No contact was attempted for birthdays, holidays, or Father’s Days. Now he discovered his father was heroic in the face of death. Frank had failed to keep in touch with the one hero every son wants in his life.

  Frank also knew out there were murderers who needed to be found for the sake of justice, his personal satisfaction, and for what they might actually know about the Omega formula. If they knew enough to come looking for it, and kill for it, they had to know something.

  Frank may have wasted time in his past life regarding his father, but, for his sake, he couldn’t squander a moment more from here on.

  William’s portent applied, now more than ever:

  “The clock is ticking, gentlemen.”

  * * * * *

  That night, Frank returned to the house from a search of what remained in the fallout shelter. The FBI hadn’t left a lot, but Frank wanted to be sure they both hadn’t missed something, anything. After an intense re-investigation of the shelter, he discovered that, in fact, they had. The back of the oak desk contained a sticker with the name of furniture store where it apparently had been purchased. The name of the store was Hapburg’s Home Interiors in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t much, but Frank wasn’t going to disregard the find.

  Frank returned to the house, tossed his keys in the bowl on the leaving table, and looked at his face in the vestibule mirror. He saw lines around his eyes that weren’t there a month ago and his mouth was uncharacteristically down-turned. He hung his jacket on a coat hook, took off his shoulder rig and draped it over the Newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

  The kitchen air was warm and humid. He turned on the noisy exhaust fan over the range, poured himself a neat scotch and tossed it down. He refilled the glass and plodded into the parlor. He pressed a button on the remote and the TV came to life. The late news was on with the anchor introducing the lead story of the day.

  “Three more bodies have been recovered from the collapse of the schoolhouse in Cairo,” the news anchor said, “bringing the total to 97 children and five teachers. The cause of the disaster─”

  Frank switched channels. A popular talk show, Tell It Like It Is, filled the screen.

  “Our investigative team’s diligence has been rewarded by getting a clip from the Omega Formula film from the 1940s that has the media buzzing,” the show’s ho
st said as a brief portion of the film played on the screen and faded out. “There’s much more to the film, but it may be disturbing to some viewers, so we’re going to leave it for you to watch, at your own discretion, on our late edition at eleven.”

  Frank sipped his Johnnie Walker Black Label and sat on the sofa.

  “There has been so much buzz over this item that even the president weighed in today after a closed door meeting this week at the White House,” the anchor said. “Did this movie cause Japan to surrender in World War Two, or is it a hoax like the famous Orson Welles radio show in 1938, which had a lot of people panicking about the world being attacked by Martians? I suppose the answer is: Who knows? And who knows if we’ll ever know?”

  Frank pressed a button on the remote and the stern face of the talk show host was replaced by a military documentary. Artillery barrages boomed throughout the room. The scotch was having its effect and he placed his glass on the cocktail table, relaxed his tense, upright posture and slouched on the sofa, resting his head on the back cushion. His eyelids drooped. The drone of the noisy kitchen fan and the monotonous warfare sounds on the TV combined with a drowsiness that began to shut down Frank’s typically sharp perception.

  Frank slipped into a pleasant, restful state that weighted his eyelids and dulled his senses from picking up extraneous sounds ...

  Like the squeaking of door hinges from the vestibule.

  Chapter 28

  “Can I join the party?” a man’s voice said from behind the sofa that had Frank leaping to his feet.

  Staring at him from the parlor doorway was a man with a revolver aimed at him. Frank recognized it as a Charter Arms .38, a gun the cops back in the day called “a throw-down piece.” The man holding it was John Dellarue.

  “So you confiscated my collateral on your deadbeat old man’s gambling debts.”

  “The Reo?” Frank said picking up his drink and moving away from the sofa. “The car belongs to me. You’ll have to deal with my father for your money. Oh, that’s right, you offed him. Collecting debts from a stiff’s a bitch.”

  “You can’t prove any of that and you know it.”

  “I do, but I know what I know.”

  “That’s precisely why I’m here,” Dellarue said moving into the room and nearer to Frank. “I want my money─”

  “And me dead.”

  “Doesn’t have to be that way,” Dellarue said.

  “That would explain the gun aimed at me.”

  “Would you cooperate without it?”

  “May not with it.”

  “I know you’re a tough sonofabitch, Dugan,” Dellarue said moving closer. “I pinned a lot of those commendations on your uniform back in the day, but this is business, not personal.”

  “I’m willing to bet if I handed you the money right now my life wouldn’t be worth using for a doorstop.”

  “You’re wrong, Frank. I just want what’s due me and I walk away. You’ve got nothing you can use against me, and if you try to squeeze me, I’ll be back.”

  “Okay then, let’s talk business,” Frank said then raised his glass of scotch. “Get you a drink?”

  “Gin, neat,” Dellarue said and lowered the pistol.

  Frank started for the kitchen by walking past Dellarue, but, as he passed close to him, he threw his remaining scotch in the captain’s face. The momentarily blinded Dellarue reflexively fired the .38 at the floor, then reeled into the arm of the recliner. Frank snatched the brass lamp from the end table and attacked Dellarue with it, bashing him on the side of his neck with a respectable swat. The force of the hit knocked Dellarue across both arms of the recliner and rolled him onto the floor. Dellarue dropped the gun, trying to cushion his falling bulk with his hands, while Frank scooped it up and held the barrel to the back of Dellarue’s head.

  “You twitch an eyebrow and I’ll send you to straight to Hell,” Frank said.

  “You kill me, you’ll go up for murder. Then we’ll see who’s in Hell.”

  “Get up.”

  Dellarue struggled to lift his oversize frame back to its feet. He rubbed the bright red side of his neck and clenched his teeth in pain.

  “What now, detective?” Dellarue asked huffing for breath.

  “Not sure, but the offer of a drink’s out. We’re all out of gin.”

  Frank maneuvered a safe distance from Dellarue’s reach and kept the gun on him.

  “I’m going to give you my one, get-out-of-jail-free pass. After that, if I have to tangle with you again, I put you in the dirt. You understand me, captain?”

  “Couldn’t be clearer.”

  “Now get out of my house and off my property.”

  Dellarue hesitated a moment and looked at Frank.

  “Forget how to find your way out?” Frank said.

  “Naw, I know my way around this joint.”

  “How’s come?”

  Dellarue about-faced toward the door without responding and hobbled out of the room with Frank a few feet behind him.

  “You knew your way around here when you killed my father,” Frank said.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d have the integrity to work out a payment plan for the twenty grand Joe Dugan beat me out of?”

  “You know, John, you should try stand-up.”

  “I’m only trying for fairness,” Dellarue said and turned back to Frank.

  “Quit trying,” Frank said moving close.

  Dellarue swiped at Frank’s gun hand and knocked the .38 to the floor where it skidded down the hallway. The captain fell to one knee and snatched at his pant leg to grab a pistol from an ankle holster, but fumbled at retrieving it. Frank pulled the walking cane from the umbrella stand, withdrew its concealed rapier, and rammed it into Dellarue’s gun hand. The big man screamed, the pain forcing him to drop the pistol. Frank yanked out the blade from Dellarue’s hand and kicked the ankle pistol away. Blood dripped from the wound onto the hardwood floor.

  “Jesus Christ, man,” Dellarue said in agony and clutched his bleeding hand. “What the hell is this place? A medieval armory?”

  “Never know when a piece of shit cop may come visit,” Frank said as Dellarue stumbled to stand and trudged out the front door and onto the porch. He pivoted back and made a hand gesture of firing a pistol at Frank’s head, then turned away to go down the steps.

  “Hey, Dellarue,” Frank said. “You want your money?”

  Dellarue stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face Frank.

  “Come on back inside.”

  “What the hell for? Last time I went in there I got beat up, stabbed and threatened.”

  “Good times, eh, cap?” Frank said.

  “If this is your idea of making nice so you can talk to me, your approach needs work.”

  “I want to make a deal with you,” Frank said and leaned on the porch railing.

  “If this includes money coming my way, I’m listening.”

  Dellarue took a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it on his bloody hand.

  “Could be,” Frank said. “Here’s the thing. I know you had something to do with my father’s death.”

  “See ya, asshole,” Dellarue said and headed for the steps.

  “Hear me out.”

  “You got ten seconds.”

  “I can place you at Elm Terrace on the night Joe died. The gin bottle tagged you.”

  Frank waited for the lie to sink in. Dellarue faced Frank, disbelief on his face.

  “What gin bottle?”

  “The one we found in the kitchen with your fingerprint on it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, John, play it any way you want, but I’m going to make enough stink about this with your department the Grand Jury will have to indict you. Even if you get off, the stigma will follow you forever. You could lose your pension. The one you’re only weeks away from claiming.”

  “I can beat any rap you lay on me, bub.” />
  “I got storage units with a stolen Reo, money motives, bank accounts, Dicky K’s murderd body, my father’s forensic results. It’s enough to get you charged big time and dragged into a long public trial. You’ll be the darling of the media. Damning stuff, and I’m not the only one who knows all this.”

  “Circumstantial, all circumstantial.”

  “You and I both know enough circumstantial evidence can convict. Look, I personally don’t give shit-one how you spend your retirement: a publicly-tormented ex-cop accused of the murder of one of his own, the inmate ex-cop in Patuxent’s max security with a lot of cop-hating unfriendlies with shanks, or a respectable man enjoying a well-earned retirement fishing off the Outer Banks. The choice is yours.”

  “What’s your deal?”

  “Tell me the truth and I go away for good. Were you there when Joe Dugan was killed? And who killed him?”

  “I give it to you straight, all I know, and you walk away from this for good?”

  “For good.”

  Dellarue lumbered to the glider and dropped hard onto the seat. He wound the bloody handkerchief on his wound.

  “I didn’t kill Joe, but I was in the room when he got the hypo that did him in. I didn’t want any part of it, but it was out of my control. They called me on the phone. Threatened my wife and family. I believed them and took them to Joe that night. They came to my home. Two of them stayed with my family, and I was told to go with the two in the car. One of the men that stayed at my house called the main guy Caesar, like Julius Caesar, I guess. They all wore disguises. Masks, like that big asshole Michael in them Jamie Lee Curtis Halloween movies. Said if I knew who they were, they’d have to kill everybody.”

  “What did they want?’

  “Some fucking sci-fi weapon, a bomb maybe. They thought Joe knew about it and knew how to make it. Your granddad was in the picture too. They worked Joe over. Rough stuff at first, then later with drugs and booze. But Joe wouldn’t tell them anything. He showed guts, and call it cop instinct, but I think he knew what they wanted. I tried to get them to stop leaning on him, but in the end they finished him off. That wasn’t the original plan, the lead guy told me, but it’s how it ended up. I still remember his words. Told me, ‘Sometimes you have to adjust the battle plan.’”