It might have been the first time I’d ever managed to ask Squealer a question without snapping at him in the process. That thought must have occurred to him at the exact same time and he gave me a little smile of forgiveness. “Goosey…” he began.
“It’s Mike. Or Larsen.” I was still just barely tolerating Squealer, and there wasn’t much margin for error. After all, we were nowhere near to becoming best buddies.
“Sorry. Mike. I think you need to come over here and take a look at some of these case files.”
We left Big Jim and Agent Mackenzie to walk down where the other detectives were organizing the mess of papers into neat little stacks. Debbie Carlson was going back and forth into one of the offices with her chubby arms full of records, probably making triplicate copies of everything.
Squealer pointed excitedly at all the different stacks. “These are the medical records from each patient…and those over there look like bloodwork or MRI results or something, we’ll have to get a doctor to look them over…but take a look at these files here. These are Demming’s personal case notes, along with a first draft of the study’s results. I guess he was getting ready to publish his findings in a medical journal.”
Squealer passed me a folder that contained a thick stack of reports. It was obviously just a first draft since it had a lot of words crossed out and notes penciled in the margins. I scanned down the first page until I saw the section marked “Synopsis,” then began to read the words out loud. “Patients in the variable group showed markedly improved physical strength and coordination in comparison to patients in the control group. I recommend submitting the CRX series immediately for expedited review and approval by the Food and Drug Administration.” I shook my head in an effort to clear all the ten-cent words from my mind. Some synopsis, I thought. All that nonsense didn’t tell me anything.
When I looked up at Squealer, he saw the confusion on my face and pointed to the next section on the paper. “Keep reading.”
I sighed, but read off a few more long medical buzzwords from a paragraph marked “Methodology.” “Fifteen subjects were selected for participation in a double-blind study to test the effectiveness of the CRX series of dopamine precursors in treating physical symptoms associated with Parkinson’s disease.” The word “fifteen” was crossed out and “twelve” had been handwritten in above it. I ignored that mistake and kept right on reading.
“The variable group was given 10 mg doses of CRX every twelve hours, while the control group was given a placebo that was identical in appearance. All subjects participated in a strength training program during the study which included aquatic exercises and progressed to resistance weight machines. Subjects in the control group demonstrated an average improvement of ten percent in both strength and coordination, but subjects who were administered the CRX series averaged a seventy-five percent improvement over the course of the study. Members of the variable group also self-reported unusually strong feelings of happiness, confidence, and creativity.”
I looked up at Squealer. He was grinning from ear to ear, but for some reason his expression wasn’t bothering me as much as it normally would have. “So these CRX drugs are a cure for Parkinson’s disease?”
“Not quite, Mike. Doctors can’t cure Parkinson’s because they still don’t know what causes it. All the medications out there only treat the symptoms.”
I remembered how Smithson had looked in front of the station. “You mean like the tremors?”
“That’s right.” Squealer looked impressed. “Remember, it’s a degenerative disorder. The tremors and loss of coordination are just the first symptoms but eventually the whole central nervous system will break down.”
I wondered how far along in the process Squealer’s dad was. “That’s got to be pretty tough to deal with.”
He nodded. “The disease will usually start in middle aged men and get worse over time. The disease might take two years or twenty to run its course, depending on a lot of different factors, but it just gets harder and harder for the patient to function in the meantime.”
I listened and tried to take it all in. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if my body broke down to the point where I had to depend on someone else just to get through each day. I mean, it was no wonder the patients had agreed to keep their families in the dark and disappear. Demming’s study must have given them the hope they needed to go on living.
I thought of how Shawn McGurn had looked laying in the street, and I was finally able to empathize with the dude. If I had to face the prospect of nothing but more and more suffering until the day I died, I’d probably just go ahead and off myself too. On the other hand, I’d probably try to be a little more considerate and not make such a show out of it. After all, there’s no need to leave a mess for other people to clean up when you go.
I handed the report back to Squealer. He passed me a thick, leather-bound notebook in return. “This is what really seals the issue of mental incompetence, Mike. This is Doctor Demming’s research journal.”
I flipped the book open and took notice of the dates on each page. The first entry was marked “3 January,” which I guessed was when the research study began. I flipped a little further in and found an entry from February that read, “As indicated by the recorded statistics, the three subjects comprising the CRX variable group displayed remarkable improvement in both muscle strength and coordination. Unexpectedly, these subjects have reported positive side effects such as constant feelings of happiness, possibly resulting from the increased levels of dopamine.”
It wasn’t very hard for me to guess which three subjects must have made up the study’s variable group. I flipped further down through the notebook and picked out another shorthand entry, this time from March.
“The latest bi-weekly battery of motor skills tests shows a remarkable performance increase for the CRX variable group, far beyond any expectations. These three test subjects show an increased confidence in their abilities and continually request more difficult tasks. CRX subject 107 is displaying remarkable agility in the pool, while CRX subject 108 has developed a much more outgoing personality. CRX subject 109 displays the most impressive progress, though. CRX-109 continues to set lofty performance goals for himself in the timed coordination tests and displays a remarkable boost in self-confidence. CRX-109 remarked to the researcher that the treatment regimen makes him feel ‘invincible’.”
I flipped through another couple pages, but most of the later entries said the same thing, and the gist of it was that Demming apparently had some wild success testing this new CRX drug. Normally I would’ve expected a medical report to be a dry and boring read, but it was clear from the writing that Demming was pretty excited about the progress he’d made. I guess I would have been excited too if I had the chance to be on the receiving end of a cool twenty million.
Squealer flipped the book ahead a few pages and jabbed his stubby little finger down at this one particular section. “Check out these entries here, Mike!” Ordinarily his behavior might have set me off, but for some reason I didn’t mind it right then. I moved my finger down to his and read an entry from a few weeks earlier.
“The three subjects comprising the CRX variable group continue to deteriorate. Subjects’ symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia have become much more pronounced. The subjects have isolated themselves from the other participants and CRX-109 has even demanded an increase in their prescribed dosage. These three subjects appear to be losing touch with reality in a manner consistent with Parkinson’s disease, but at a vastly accelerated rate.”
I broke out in a sweat. I knew it was supposed to be a medical report and all, but I just couldn’t get over how cold the analysis sounded. I flipped further ahead to the very last entry, dated from the Sunday before.
“I’ve decided to remove the current variable group from the experiment as their mental degeneration is disrupting the research atmosphere and skewing the test results. I will extract them during the coming week and begin the research
study again with variable group members chosen from the current control group. I am uncertain at this time if the CRX series has played any role in their mental degeneration, but this consideration will be closely monitored during the next phase of testing.”
I looked at up Squealer. “Holy shit.”
He smiled. “Holy shit is right. I’ll give you three guesses who the variable group members were.”
I shook my head. “So let me get this straight: Demming kicked Encienario, McGurn, and Smithson out of the study when they started going crazy? I mean, he just washed his hands of them?”
Squealer nodded with enthusiasm. I could tell that he really wanted to go off on another long-winded lecture, but thankfully he managed to hold himself in check. “That’s what it looks like. I mean, we can’t say for sure if that CRX drug was exclusively to blame for their behavior, but it’s all too much to be just a coincidence, don’t you think? Those three were the only ones actually taking the drug, and they all developed schizophrenic tendencies before committing suicide!”
I couldn’t disagree with him. When it comes to detective work, most things are exactly what they appear to be. I took a deep breath, then asked, “So what do you think, Mealor? That Demming turned them all loose on the street like they were a litter of unwanted puppies?”
He nodded again, confirming my worst fears, and I thought about how Leonard Encienario must have felt when he plunged into that dark water. His death had seemed like an accident at first, but there was no doubt in my mind now that it had actually been a suicide. I pictured Shawn McGurn next, standing all alone up there on top of the parking garage and wanting nothing more than for the end to come.
And I thought about James Smithson. He’d lasted the longest of them all, and kept his head screwed on just long enough to blow the whistle on Demming’s project. I shook my head in disgust at the wasted human lives. “In their shape, those guys never stood a chance on their own.”
Squealer gave another nod of agreement. Our small group fell silent as we stood there in the hallway for a few more minutes, just watching the other detectives work their way through the rest of the papers. Squealer had this faraway look on his face and his mouth was turned up into a little smile. For a moment, I found myself wondering why everyone always felt the need to give that guy such a hard time. I mean, once you got past his college boy exterior there was actually a good ol’ boy buried down inside him. Squealer still hadn’t made it up onto my Christmas card list, but he was definitely working hard to get off my shit list.
I broke the silence. “Penny for your thoughts.”
He turned to face me. “The way I see it, there was no way we could’ve saved Encienario, McGurn, and Smithson. They were pretty much done for the moment that Doctor Demming cut them loose.”
I nodded at his assessment.
He went on. “But that last entry in his case notes? Where he said that he was about to start another test of the CRX drug next week using some different subjects from the control group?”
I nodded once more.
“Well, it looks like you just saved the lives of at least three other people. And if that drug had been approved for sale by the Food and Drug Administration, who knows how many more Parkinson’s patients might have died before anyone caught on to the side effects?”
The thought stunned me. Before I had the chance to respond, Squealer put his arm around my shoulder. “Nice work, Mike.”
I was at a loss for words. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before, but I guess all my long hours at work had actually done some good after all. I looked down at Squealer. The dude was grinning from ear to ear again. I wasn’t about to admit it to his face, but that guy probably deserved some small piece of the credit too.
“Call me Goosey” I finally said. “Everyone else does.”
He looked up at me with a huge smile, his cheeks pushed up into rosy layers of baby fat. “Goosey it is. You know, I’ve always meant to ask about the story behind that nickname of yours?”
I felt my face go hot. “Don’t push your luck, Squealer.”
21.
A few hours later, I was parked up on the small hill where the James Island Connector dead-ends into Folly Road. The secret spot was code-named “The Grassy Knoll,” and it was one of the best places to hide out from everything while still staying close to it all. Some of the younger patrol cops liked to sit up in parking lots while they wrote their reports, but that was a risky practice since you could never tell when some Joe Citizen would walk up to your cruiser with a ridiculous report about a crime in progress. Honestly, I had a hard enough time staying focused on my work as it was, and I’d never be able to go back to faking concern about petty traffic accidents or lousy shoplifters. The Grassy Knoll was a perfect place to hide out in plain sight since there was no way in hell some citizen was going to drive his car up on the grass right in front of a cop, no matter how badly they might have thought they needed help.
Big Jim steered his cruiser off the pavement and slowly up the hill. He pulled straight in, lining up our car windows side to side. I handed my boss a brown bag from Melvin Bessinger’s barbecue stand and he grunted in appreciation. Neither one of us liked to eat lunch so late in the day but on the other hand, neither one of us were big on skipping meals. Jim pawed through the bag and dug out the giant onion ring. It was a gorgeous sight, deep-fried in so much batter that it looked more like a doughnut. I gave him a few minutes to chow down as I watched the mid-afternoon traffic spilling across the Connector. I considered making a break for Folly Beach myself, but it would have to wait until I’d had the chance to decompress with a hot bath and a cold beer.
Big Jim’s lips smacked with passion as he wound down on the cheeseburger and started right in on the fries. I had no urge to see him talking with his mouth full, so I kept my gaze focused out over the highway as I asked, “So they brought Demming in, huh?”
He gave me a couple more hard chews, then mercifully swallowed. “Yup. The Feebs picked him up at his house in Mount Pleasant. Suspicion of kidnapping and criminal negligence. Half the patients came from out of state, so it’ll definitely be federal charges.” He paused to take another bite, and his next sentence came out garbled through a wad of French fries. “The feds are going to handle the whole thing.”
Jim must have read the look of disgust on my face, so he took pity on me and swallowed before going on. “I know how much work you put in this week but let’s face it, Goosey, it’s probably better this way. After all, the Feebs have a lot more experience dealing with this sort of thing.”
Big Jim made it sound as if I should’ve been upset to have the cases snatched from me, but nothing could have made me happier. The fire had already been featured on Jive Five News at Noon, and the whole mess was certain to be on every channel that evening, but the last thing I wanted was some high-profile federal trial taking up all my time. I had a sudden vision of meeting with prosecutors and preparing case notes every night for the next year, with CPD’s command staff breathing down my neck all the while. It was a frightening thought, and I couldn’t hold back a shudder.
I waited while Jim wolfed down a few dozen more fries. When he finally came back up for air, I asked, “So is Demming talking yet, or do you think Captain Russell is going to have to break out the telephone books and rubber hoses?”
Jim laughed. “That guy hasn’t said a word but yeah, he knew we were coming. He had some high-dollar lawyer waiting at his house when the Feebs finally showed up.” Big Jim jammed another handful of fries in his mouth, chewed twice and gave me the courtesy of swallowing before going on. “It doesn’t matter, though. We’ve got him dead to rights. Even if the district attorney throws him a softball and they let him cop a plea, there’s no way in hell he’s getting off with less than twenty years. And that’s federal time, so he’ll have to actually sit for at least twelve or fifteen of them. Mark my words, Goosey, the guy’s done.”
I leaned back in my seat as I listened to Jim chew. It w
as almost three o’clock, pretty late on a Friday afternoon, but oddly enough I was in no big rush to head home. It had been a crazy week, but I guess that’s the way detective work goes. You can bring your A-game, not miss a single trick, but still wind up with nothing but three dead bodies to show for your trouble. I sighed, making a mental note to check the Help Wanted sections of that Sunday’s News and Courier in search of a new career path.
Jim held the paper bag up to his lips to dump out the last crumbs. He crumpled the empty bag up into a big wad, then tossed it out onto the grass and leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed. I swear, the only time Big Jim ever looked at peace with the world was when he’d just finished eating.
“Well, boss,” I finally said, “if the Feebs have the entire case, what else do you need from me?”
He looked off into the distance. “Nothing, I guess. Those guys have it just about all wrapped up.” He snorted in disgust. “Those FBI jerks, let me tell you. They were all strutting around like they’d just solved the crime of the century, but none of them would’ve had a single damn lead to work with if you hadn’t run all those cases down.” He turned to look me in the eye without lifting his neck up off the headrest. “Good job this week, Goosey. I mean that.”
I stepped on the brake pedal, popped the cruiser into gear, and started rolling down the hill. “Thanks, boss. Oh, just to give you a heads-up, I’m banging out sick on Monday.”
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 22