Devan looked away, looked out the window.
“I want to question Ryan Addison. I want to see if he’s as remorseless as he seems. That’s all I’m asking for, Devan. Let me question this kid.”
Devan turned back to him. “Fine, but I’m going to be there. I’m going to watch. And you’re not doing the questioning. Get one of your detectives for that.”
“Done. I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”
Devan nodded and pushed himself to his feet. As he did so, a loud cacophony sounded from the squad room. They exchanged a confused look, then Marco grabbed his cane and hurried around his desk, yanking open his office door.
Carly was standing by her desk, her hands covering her mouth. Jake and Stan were backed into the doorway of the conference room. Easing out further, Marco could see Cho and Simons were struggling with a man. The man wore tattered clothes, a straggly beard on his jaw, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Spiky brown hair stood up all over his head and he had tattoos running up and down both arms. Cho had his arms pinned behind his back and Simons was struggling to get the cuffs on him, while the guy rained down a string of curses.
“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Marco.
“Byrony gave us this prick’s name, so we picked him up for questioning, but he’s on something, Captain!” shouted Cho over the man’s swearing.
“Tase him!” Marco ordered.
Simons gave up with the cuffs and reached for the taser in his belt, but the moment he released him, the guy tore away from Cho and raced for the front door. Marco stepped forward to cut him off, but he never braked, slamming full body into Marco and sending him back into the counter.
He heard Carly scream, then his leg gave and he slid down the counter, crumpling at its base. He was vaguely aware that Cho and Simons jumped on the guy’s back and brought him down, but all he could think about was the agony raging through him.
Devan and Jake appeared at his side.
“Call an ambulance!” ordered Devan.
“No!” he gritted out. “I’m all right. Help me up!”
He caught Jake’s worried look and he focused on him. “Help me up, damn it!”
They hooked him under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. The minute he put pressure on his leg, the leg buckled and he nearly went down again.
“You need to go to the hospital!” said Devan.
“No! Give me a minute.” He leaned on the counter, closing his eyes against the agony in his thigh. Looking over at Cho and Simons, he growled, “Lock that bastard up until he comes down off whatever he took.”
They nodded and led the guy away, but he could see the worry in their eyes. Turning his attention to Jake, he held out his hand. “My cane.”
Jake retrieved it. “Adonis, you need to go to the hospital.”
“It’s Captain. Captain, damn it!” He curled his hand around the cane and set his foot on the ground, praying that it would hold him. Gradually easing away from the counter, he gave the leg more weight. It held, but spears of pain shot through to his groin. Gritting his teeth, he pivoted and limped into his office, shutting the door behind him. When he made it to his desk chair, he threw himself into it and reached for the Scotch.
* * *
Scanning the apartment for Marco, Peyton set her keys on the sofa table and pulled off her blazer, hanging her gun on the peg, then she hurried across the living room and pushed open their bedroom door. He was sitting, propped up against the headboard, his leg elevated on a pillow with a bag of ice covering it. Pickles was beside him, his head resting on Marco’s other thigh.
She released her held breath. “How bad is it?”
“Did Jake call you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m fine.” His eyes were a little blurry.
She crossed to the bed and ran her hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and leaned in to her touch. “Did you take a painkiller?”
“Mmhmm. The room’s spinning.”
She kissed him. His breath smelled minty and clean. Mouthwash? Reaching over, she rubbed Pickles’ ears. “Is he helping?”
“More than the painkillers.”
“Jake said a suspect body-slammed you into the counter?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I got hit that hard playing football. He was on something. Probably meth.”
She circled around the bed and climbed on the other side, shifting Pickles a little. Laying her head on his shoulder, she fitted her hand inside his. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have gone to the hospital?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He kissed the top of her head. “I just need to rest and ice it, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
She sighed and pressed closer to him. She was always worried anymore, but she was afraid to tell him that. Especially now. She sensed it was the last thing he wanted to hear.
CHAPTER 11
Peyton sat quietly on the ride out to Palo Alto. Marco had gotten up this morning, forcing himself into the shower, then struggled to dress. She could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was in pain, pain like when he’d first been released from the hospital, but he wouldn’t consider going to the doctor. And he didn’t want to talk to her about it.
Marco had always been reticent about sharing his innermost thoughts, but this went beyond that. He was shutting her out and it scared her.
“You okay, Sparky?”
She blinked and turned away from the window. “What?”
“You okay? You haven’t said a word all morning and that’s definitely weird.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She reached for her phone and thumbed it on, hoping for a text from him, but there was nothing.
“Fine and you don’t seem to be in the same zip code.” Radar looked over at her with his mirrored sunglasses.
She knew Marco wouldn’t appreciate her discussing him with Radar, but she didn’t think Radar was going to give up without some information. “My fiancé got hurt at work yesterday and he refused to go to the doctor.”
“Hurt? How?”
“A perp body-slammed him.” She placed the phone back into her pocket.
“He’s a cop, huh?”
“Captain.” She drew a breath and released it. “He’s the one who was shot in the thigh last fall.”
“Oh.” Radar pulled into the hospital parking lot. “I’m sorry, Sparky.”
She nodded and fell silent as Radar maneuvered the Suburban into a space. They climbed out and strode across the parking lot for the interior of the hospital. Fog had blanketed San Francisco this morning, but Palo Alto was bright and shiny.
They entered the hospital and approached the visitor’s desk. Radar laid his badge on the counter, along with a warrant, pulling off his sunglasses. The older woman studied the documents, then smiled up at them. Radar didn’t smile in return, but Peyton forced one.
“How can I help you, Agent Moreno?”
“We’re here to see Roy Harwood.”
She turned to her computer and typed on the keys. “Um, I don’t see a Roy Harwood here.”
Peyton gave Radar a telling look.
“Are you sure? He’s being treated for cancer.”
“Yes, no one by that name is listed in our current patient files.”
Radar snatched up his badge. “Can you tell if someone’s been discharged?”
“Sure. Give me a moment.” She clicked some more on the keys. “Nope. No discharge.”
Radar turned to face Peyton. “Do you think he was ever here?”
“I don’t know. Looks like maybe he wasn’t.”
“There’s one more place for me to look. Give me a second.” More clicking ensued. “Oh, goodness.” She leaned back from the monitor.
“You found something?”
“Let me get my supervisor.” She got to her feet and hurried into an office directly behind her desk.
“Huh, that’s strange.” Peyton propped herself on tiptoes and leaned on the counter.
“What are you doing?” hissed Radar.
�
�Trying to see the screen.”
“Stop it!”
Peyton dropped down and gave him a disappointed look. “You really don’t get the whole detective thing, do you?”
“I do things legally. I don’t peek at computers and…” He dropped his voice. “I don’t go through people’s medicine cabinets.”
“Do you solve any cases?”
That earned her a glare.
The older woman returned with another woman in her mid-forties. “Agents, how can I help you?” the new woman said.
Radar held out his badge and the warrant. “I need information on Roy Harwood, ma’am.”
The older woman pointed at the screen. The other woman leaned closer and squinted at it, then she straightened. “I’m sorry, Agent Moreno. Roy Harwood died two days ago. His body’s in the morgue.”
“The morgue? Has his mother been notified?”
“We’re trying to reach her.”
Radar and Peyton exchanged a look. “Who was his attending physician?”
“Dr. Morehouse.”
“Cancer doctor?”
The supervisor gave Radar a quizzical look. “No.”
“Then what?”
“Neurologist.”
“Ha!” said Peyton.
They all looked at her.
“We need to see Dr. Morehouse. Now.”
The supervisor picked up the phone and dialed a number. She studied Radar and Peyton as she waited for someone to pick up. “Yes, I have two FBI agents here with a warrant who want to speak with Dr. Morehouse.” A pause while she clicked on something on the screen. “Fine. I’ll send them up.”
She hung up and placed a map on the counter. Drawing lines with a Sharpie, she directed them where to go. Radar grabbed the map and headed for the elevators.
“Thank you,” said Peyton, hurrying after him.
Once they got into the elevator, Radar punched the button and stared at the floor. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“What?”
“You’re gonna make me dig up a dead guy.”
Peyton hid her smile.
“It still doesn’t add up. If Junior Harwood is dead, how did he kill that guy in Locke? He had to be too sick to leave the hospital.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he went home, killed the guy, then got worse and came back here.”
“Right. He took a little break from dying just so he could kill again.”
Peyton shrugged. “Maybe human brains taste really good.”
The elevator doors opened and let them out into a brightly lit hallway with sterile linoleum floors. Painting of landscapes lined the walls, all with placards that offered them up for sale. Radar lifted the map and they began walking, making two right turns and a left before arriving at their destination.
The door read Department of Neurodegenerative Disease. Beside it was a list of doctors and midway down a Dr. Evelyn Morehouse. Radar pushed the door open. The interior of the office was covered in blue carpet with pale blue walls. The furnishings were warm and welcoming – blue armchairs and end tables with magazines strewn across them. A counter ran across the end of the end of the room with sliding glass windows. Potted plants were arranged on either side of the counter. Two women sat in the chairs, reading magazines, one quite a bit older than the other – grandmother and granddaughter, perhaps.
As they neared the counter, a young man rose from his chair and pulled back the sliding window. “Good morning.”
Radar slapped his badge and warrant in front of him. “We need to talk to Dr. Morehouse now.”
“She’s expecting you.” The young man pressed a buzzer beneath the counter, letting Peyton and Radar into the office. He met them on the other side of the door and walked them briskly down a corridor to another office, passing nurses as they went.
Opening the office door, he peered inside. “The Agents are here.”
“Send them in.”
He motioned them into the office. The small room glowed with light. A wooden desk dominated the center of the room and floor to ceiling bookshelves ran along three walls. There wasn’t a window, but Peyton didn’t think there’d be room for one with all of the books Dr. Morehouse possessed.
The woman herself rose from her chair and held out her hand. She was tall and thin, mid-fifties, with short-cropped grey hair. She had on a white medical jacket with her name embroidered on the pocket. A stethoscope hung around her neck and she wore pale blue scrubs beneath the jacket. Glasses perched on the end of her nose and her face was freshly scrubbed without a trace of makeup.
“Dr. Evelyn Morehouse,” she said.
“Special Agents Carlos Moreno and Peyton Brooks, ma’am. Thank you for seeing us.”
“Of course, please have a seat.”
They sat down in the same blue armchairs that decorated the lobby.
“We need to know about Roy Harwood. He was a patient of yours.”
“Yes, I was told you have a warrant.”
Radar passed it to her and waited while she read. She passed it back.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Harwood died two days ago.”
“We know. What was the cause of death?”
“I’m uncomfortable divulging that information, Agent Moreno. The deceased deserves privacy.”
“Well, as I’m sure you know, Dr. Morehouse, patient/doctor privilege ends at death. He’s at the heart of a triple homicide we’re working, so I need to know what killed him.”
She made an uncomfortable face. “I don’t see how this helps your investigation, Agent Moreno. Roy Harwood couldn’t have killed anyone. He’s been a patient here for the last two years, the last week in a coma with a breathing tube.”
Radar glanced at Peyton.
“He had a prion disease, didn’t he?” Peyton asked.
Dr. Morehouse hesitated a moment, then she sighed. “Yes.”
Radar’s head dropped back and he groaned.
“How did he get it?”
“If we knew that, we’d be able to make advances on treating the disease, wouldn’t we? We know it’s infectious. We know patients have to be exposed to it. Most of our cases have come from eating undercooked beef. We assumed that was the case with Roy.”
“What about eating brains?”
“Cow brains? Well, I don’t know who does that anymore, but eating any internal organ would expose one to higher chances of getting the disease.”
Peyton glanced at Radar, then leaned closer to the doctor. “I don’t mean cow brains, Dr. Morehouse. What about eating human brains?”
Morehouse reared away. “What?”
“Could someone get a prion disease by eating human brains?”
She looked to Radar for help.
“Please answer her,” he said reluctantly.
“Um, yes, that would be one way to contract it. Are you saying Roy Harwood practiced anthropophagy?”
“We believe he did. Who pronounced him dead?”
“I did.”
“Was an autopsy done?”
“Yes.”
“Was his mother notified?”
“We’ve been attempting to contact her, but she hasn’t been answering her phone.”
“So his body’s in the morgue here?”
“Yes. We have to be careful about releasing it. A commercial morgue has to carefully follow certain procedures when preparing the body, so there is no contact with neurological fluids. We can’t chance a cross-contamination. In fact, we’ll be recommending cremation when we finally get a hold of Mrs. Harwood.”
“We can tell her,” said Radar.
“Thank you.”
Peyton drummed her fingers on the edge of the doctor’s desk. “We’re gonna need to see the body.”
“What?”
Radar swung around and stared at her. Peyton gave him an emphatic look. He turned to Dr. Morehouse again. “She’s right. We’re gonna need to see the body.”
Dr. Morehouse’s face twisted into a look of bewilderment. “Okay? I can take you now.”
A
s she rose to her feet, Peyton leaned close to Radar and dropped her voice. “You know, if his body’s in the morgue, we’ve got a problem.”
“I know.”
Peyton felt she ought to address the obvious. “That means we’ve got a third member of our zombie cult.”
Radar reached for his phone. “I’ll have Bambi get to work on a search warrant for the Harwood farm.”
“And?”
Radar groaned in aggravation. “A warrant to dig up Old Man Harwood.”
Peyton smiled. “Bambi’s gonna love that.”
* * *
Ryan Addison was a handsome, raw-boned young man in his late teens, early twenties. He had spiky brown hair and his jaw was clean-shaven. He wore a royal blue polo shirt and jeans with sneakers. He sat in the chair in the interrogation room, looking frightened and young, not the cocky ass he’d been when he’d given the camera a thumb’s up.
Devan made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I bring him before a jury and they’re going to go soft.”
Marco ignored the comment and watched as Tag and Holmes entered the interrogation room. Holmes leaned on the wall by the door, but Tag approached the table, settling a file on it and taking a seat.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Tag lifted her blond head and gave the kid a look. Marco could see the skull tattoo on her neck from where he stood. The kid probably saw it too. “Yeah, we called him and he’s on his way, but I’m not sure why you’re all hot and bothered for a lawyer. We just want to ask you some questions.”
“You don’t pull people into the police station to ask questions. You’re trying to pin something on me.”
Tag looked over her shoulder at Holmes. “What cases are open that we need someone to pin them on?”
Holmes shrugged. “I’m sure we can dig something up. You like to play with fire, Ryan?”
“What?” Now he really looked scared. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Right,” said Tag. “What about Carissa Phelps? You know anything about her?”
Ryan’s expression shuttered. “Yeah. We went out for a while.”
“You did a little more than went out, didn’t you, Ryan?”
Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 18