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

by Paul Sekulich

  Smoot had repeated his grisly experiments on more than 15 victims before Frank volunteered to be one of his subjects, and quickly became one of Oliver’s favorites. Smoot made the mistake of trusting Frank, and proudly showed him photos of his former handiwork moments before he planned to add him to his growing toll of bodies. Frank, who had been stripped of any weapons, was led into one of Smoot’s private chambers where the doctor tried to put restraints on him so he could experiment on his predictably unwilling patient. Frank was not only unwilling, he resorted to a primitive defense technique and knocked Smoot out cold with a solid right cross to the unwilling side of the doctor’s head.

  Smoot was similar in many ways to Chernac’s imposter, and Frank believed he might be able to shed light on complicated personality aberrations, and even motivations used by actors. But that was not the reason Frank wanted to see him, even though he’d be happy to accept any bonus help the diabolical killer could provide. Frank knew Smoot had a special talent; a talent he needed. The question was: Will he agree to share his talent with the man who’d put him away?

  In a few hours Frank would know.

  * * * * *

  The Union Correctional Institution loomed up ahead as Frank drove toward the gate. It was the only maximum security lockup in Florida and it housed most of the death row inmates for the state. Even in daylight it was a scary place to imagine taking up residency.

  Officials met and processed Frank for entry into the highly secure section of the men’s death row, and soon he was led into the austere cellblock that contained inmates awaiting the final resolution to their sentences. Frank was escorted by two linebacker-size guards past several over-built steel doors before they stopped at a cell about midway down the row.

  “I know you got this visit cleared with Warden Peddicord, but are you sure you prefer to meet with this man in his cell instead of in the visiting room?” the ranking guard said and motioned toward Smoot’s door.

  “I’ll be fine, officer.” Frank said.

  The guard opened the door of Oliver Smoot’s cell, checked out the inside carefully, and bid Frank to enter.

  “We’re required to be present, detective,” the guard said. “We’ll be right outside the door keeping an eye.”

  “I understand,” Frank said and stepped into the cell.

  Oliver Smoot was a small man with thin gray hair that barely covered his scalp. His true age was exaggerated by his ashen skin and sunken eyes, and his prominent cheekbones made him look more like a concentration camp survivor than a prison inmate. He looked up from his bunk where he lay, staring at Frank through his horn rim glasses.

  Frank stood in front of Oliver while the guard retreated, secured the door and joined his fellow officer in the corridor. Even though Smoot was not being interrogated like one of Frank’s typical suspects, he waited for the inmate to speak first.

  “Detective Dugan,” Smoot said and sat up.

  “Doctor Smoot.”

  “Come to see the fruits of your work?” Smoot said.

  “No. Came to pick that warehouse of shit you call a brain.”

  “Haven’t loss your gift of charm, I see,” Smoot said. “So you want to give a final exam to the professor. That may take some doing.”

  “I could use your help with a case I’m working. Involves a man not unlike you. Smart, crafty, an alpha type with an inordinate desire for power and control.”

  “Ah, I like him already.”

  “You’d need to fight him to be the lead dog.”

  “If you’ll remember, I killed all the other lead dogs I knew. Then I took their followers”

  “All but one.”

  “All but one,” Smoot said. “But I reigned as king for quite a time.”

  “And here you sit.”

  “An undeniable point. What do you want to know about this man?” Smoot said, rose and walked the two steps to the stainless steel toilet and peed. The smell of urine wafted to Frank’s nostrils as he leaned on the wall near the cell door.

  “Seems he’s bent on great power and limitless money. Strange thing is, this guy’s almost personable.”

  Smoot buttoned up and sat back down on his bunk across from Frank.

  “Sounds like a sociopath,” Smoot said. “Personable? Napoleon and Hitler had their personable sides. Many people loved and adored them. Does your man seem to have any compassion for those he targets?”

  “None I can see. I doubt he’s a stranger to using whatever it takes to get what he wants.”

  “Sociopaths and psychopaths are almost identical. They have no moral compass; never feel remorse for their acts. Products of a deprived or abused childhood perhaps. Whatever the psychopath wants, he feels he has a right to, regardless of who gets hurt in the process. He almost never accepts blame for his actions, and never apologizes. A few of these types are relatively harmless, but a true psychopath, driven with a need to control and wield power, is another story altogether.”

  “And murder?” Frank said.

  “If he finds that killing will work to his advantage, he’ll murder without regret or afterthought.”

  “Is that a force that drove you?” Frank asked.

  “To be a good theatre director one must be a student of psychology. A director armed with knowledge of one’s inner thoughts and private desires could gain control over the mind. Trouble was, I also wanted the power. Not simply power over actors in plays, but over lives on the stage of life. I’m sure you know the timeless cliché: money corrupts, but power corrupts absolutely.”

  “What do you think about tomorrow?”

  “Death? It’s over-feared. It’s an eternal sleep. Peaceful. Painless. Shakespeare said: ‘That which is so universal as death must be a blessing.’”

  “I commend your courage.”

  “Life’s a long process of getting tired. Tomorrow, I’m going back to the timeless nap I was taking before I was born.”

  “No belief in God, heaven?” Frank said.

  “Detective, where I’m going tomorrow is heaven.”

  “I realize this is the eleventh hour to ask, but is there anything I can do for you?”

  Oliver placed a finger on his lip and gazed at a photo of a young girl taped on the wall.

  “As a matter of fact, you can,” Oliver said and stood. “Incredible as it may sound, I have a daughter. Helen Darby. She lives in Salerno, near you in Stuart. Perhaps you could stop by and tell her I always loved her. She won’t be here tomorrow. She hates me for what I did, especially since I came to Martin County to do my work and be near her.”

  Smoot paused and peeled the photo off the wall and handed it to Frank.

  “I always called her Hellie when she was a little girl. She liked that. It was something special between us, back when she called me Papa and kissed me goodnight. Back before I went… amoral.”

  “I’ll find her,” Frank said and tucked the photo into his jacket.

  “Exquisite,” Oliver said and, for the first time in his visit, Frank saw the condemned man’s bright white teeth.

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you,” Frank said.

  “Name it.”

  Frank reached into his back pocket and withdrew several pieces of paper and unfolded them on the bunk. One was the letter Frank received from the law firm, the one written in William’s classic handwriting.

  “I remember you were a superb forger in your heyday.”

  “Yes. Loved graphology. I once penned a copy of the Declaration of Independence. It could well be the one on display in Washington.” Smoot said.

  “Well, I need you to write one more of your lovely deceptions.”

  “Ah, to be useful one last time,” Smoot said and smiled.

  “Here’s the handwriting I need copied and here’s what I need it to say.”

  Frank took two more letter-size papers from under William’s letter and handed them to Oliver. Smoot studied the genuine letter, then read the words Frank wanted transcribed.

  “P
iece of cake,” Smoot said and picked up a clipboard from under his bunk. He made a few practice strokes on a note pad clipped to the board then went to work on the blank piece of aged paper with the fountain pen Frank had given him. The pen flowed out its words in wet, royal blue strokes, and Frank marveled at the precision of Oliver’s easy and perfect penmanship. It was as though William himself were guiding the nib.

  The sun was setting on the prison as Frank left the complex. It was also setting on Oliver Smoot’s life.

  How could the man I just left be so evil?

  When Frank was ten years old, his mother told him something about evil he never forgot.

  “The devil is not a red man with horns, a pitchfork, and a pointy tail. He is one of the most attractive persons you’ll ever meet. He’ll be the best liar you’ll ever encounter, and you’ll want to believe every word he says.”

  His mother’s words had aptly described Oliver Smoot…and another man. An attractive man with an ad hoc army of believers; a man who called himself Colonel Anton Chernac.

  Chapter 41

  Cezar Nicolai sat in the Tresor Penthouse in the Fontainebleau Hotel studying a paper lying before him on an elegant cocktail table. After a few minutes he gazed out the eastern windows of the sumptuous suite. His view from the 37th floor overlooked the blue-green Atlantic Ocean and a transverse view of Miami Beach and beyond.

  “This Omega riddle is not an easy one, Vladimar,” Cezar said. “What does ‘Men wish to swing in their seventies and fly with eagles’ mean to you?”

  The huge body of Vlad Torok lounged on the white leather sofa in the great room, his eyes followed a biplane, a few hundred feet above the beach, towing an ad banner past the hotel.

  “Men in their seventies…flying with eagles…? Maybe it has to do with older men getting pilot licenses and flying their own planes.”

  “What would that have to do with a weapon? The way it could be delivered? You may be on to something. Small deadly aircraft… Although that plane outside, with its unsolicited , annoying commercial, is not one of them.”

  “It’s for the new country club in Key Largo. I thought you liked golf.”

  “This week, if all goes well, we may be taking out the boats for their test runs,” Cezar said. “Do we have the personnel we need?”

  “We do, sir,” Vlad said. “Standing by.”

  “Good. You will captain both boats and manage the crew on the larger vessel. I’ll be a passenger onboard, nothing more. No one should know who I am or what I’m doing there. All purchases will go in the name on the passport I had made up for you. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  “Excellent,” Cezar said and brushed back his straight black hair as he stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror. “We meet with the sellers on Wednesday. Crude bunch, but what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll keep them in line, sir.”

  “I know you will.”

  Vlad’s cell rang and he plucked it from his jacket pocket. Cezar stared at Vlad as he studied the phone’s screen.

  “The plane’s ready. We can leave within an hour,” Vlad said and returned the cell to his pocket.

  “Tools onboard?”

  “Tools are onboard, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Janis Geller strode into Roland’s office and placed two papers on the desk in front of the sheriff, who held a phone to his ear. Roland casually glanced at the papers, acknowledged them as a portion of the many emails sent daily to his department, and nodded a dismissive thank you to Janis, who smiled and left the office. He was on hold in his call and began to scrutinize the email as he waited. The top page was from his friend Mark Hollenbeck in Maryland. The message portion read:

  Roland,

  Thought you might like to have a picture of the man you inquired about. It was in the Washington Post three years ago.

  Best,

  Mark

  The email attachment was a copy of a newspaper article and photo showing several smiling people in an office setting. A middle-aged man in a business suit was centered in the picture with a small group surrounding him. The caption over the article stated:

  Anton Chernac retires from

  the NSA after 20 years

  Beneath the photo were the names of the others in the picture.

  Roland finally gave up on his phone call and hung up. He pressed a button on the intercom.

  “Greg, come see me for a second.”

  In less than a minute Greg Martinez was standing in front of Roland’s desk.

  “Give this to Frank as soon as he gets in,” Roland said, handing Greg the email from Hollenbeck. “I can’t imagine it doing him any good, but give it to him anyway. You know what an info sponge he is.”

  “He does things his own way,” Greg said with a smile and took the email from Roland.

  “Do you know why killer bees, fire ant,s and pit bulls are so dangerous?”

  Greg shrugged.

  “You can’t reason with ‘em. They do what they do no matter what. They’re actions are automatic, instinctive. Frank Dugan’s a lot like ‘em.”

  “Amen to that,” Greg said and left the office.

  Roland knew that Frank’s instincts had built up an arrest and conviction record for his department that had helped him win a landslide victory in the last sheriff’s election. He also knew those same instincts had often put his detective in tight situations, like the one he was in now.

  * * * * *

  Helen Darby was watering her baked lawn when Frank drove up her gravel driveway in Salerno. The smell of the nearby fisheries filled the warm air, but not in an unpleasant way. It was almost inviting, like the aroma of a fresh catch displayed in the Winn-Dixie. It had you thinking of flounder or red snapper for dinner.

  Helen was in her twenties with green eyes and flaming red hair. She shut off the water and put down the hose when she saw Frank step out of the cruiser. She waited for him to approach like she expected to be given a summons or a warrant for her arrest.

  “Hi,” Frank said. “You must be Helen.”

  “I am,” Helen said. “Is something wrong?”

  “If you mean am I here on official business, no. I met with your dad yesterday.”

  “I saw on the news. He’s finally paid for his crimes. About time, I’d say.”

  “I’m Frank Dugan.”

  “I know who you are. You’re the man who arrested my father, and none too soon.”

  “He asked me to give you a message,” Frank said.

  “Yeah?”

  “He said to tell you he always loved you.”

  “A little late for that.”

  “I sat with him for a while. We had time to talk. He smiled when he talked about you.”

  “He tell you why he did those awful things, and screwed up our lives, and murdered all those poor people?”

  “Yes, and he owned up to his deeds, and wished he’d been a different man, and a better father to you,” Frank said and forgave himself for the embellishment.

  “He said that?”

  “He did.”

  “Thanks for that. And for taking the trouble to come by,” Helen said.

  “He said he liked to call you Hellie.”

  Helen dropped her head down and stared at her feet.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Frank said and handed her his card. “Anything.”

  Helen stared at Frank, then at the ground

  “Thank you,” Helen said and turned her back on Frank and strode into the house.

  Frank sensed her abruptness wasn’t meant as an affront. He watched her display of hardness dissolve, and he felt certain she just didn’t want the detective to see her tears.

  His promise to Smoot kept, Frank ambled back to the street.

  The radio squawked as he neared his cruiser.

  “Frank,” Greg voice said from the speaker, “Roland needs to see you. It’s important.”

  Chapter 42

  Frank arrived at the sta
tion and was surprised to see Special Agent Braewyn Joyce standing in the lobby.

  “Getting anywhere with your grandfather’s files?” Braewyn asked.

  “No.”

  “Still think it was all a clever deception?”

  “Yep. More than ever.”

  “Does that mean you’re giving up on it?”

  “It’s a game. My grandfather never posed a puzzle to me that wasn’t solvable.”

  “Suppose you discover there actually is a useful Omega formula?”

  Frank stared at her in silence.

  “Detective, if you think people are after you now, wait ‘til they believe you’re holding the secret to the greatest killing weapon on earth in your possession.”

  “Can’t imagine it’d be a whole lot different.”

  “Who would be more important to an ancient warring nation? Braewyn said. “The guy who has the ingredients to make gunpowder, but can’t figure out how, or the guy who doesn’t have all the ingredients, but knows how?”

  “What would you do?”

  “Hand off the knowledge to someone who can secure that kind of information. Someone who’ll keep it safely in the hands of trustworthy people and a nation with moral integrity.”

  “Like the nation that dropped those atomic bombs?” Frank said.

  “Better us than a faction run by twisted fanatics.”

  “Well, this is all academic. I don’t have the foggiest notion what William was pointing to in his files. Maybe he had Alzheimer’s, or slipped into a psychotic state at the end of his life.”

  “Weren’t you with him until he died?” Braewyn asked.

  “Not every day. I checked on him once or twice a week. He was becoming more and more distant and introverted in his last months. He often wasn’t the same man I knew as a kid growing up.”

  “Age snares us all in the end.”

  “What are you doing here, besides pumping me for info I don’t have?”

  “We’re chasing down a lead we got on a foreign arms deal. May connect with your Omega weapon.”