Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “NO!”

  I stepped back, startled at how powerfully the priest managed to shout his command.

  “I made a deal with Gabriel, so please let me keep it. No help! Gabriel said there is a confession from Morehouse upstairs for you to find. Why don’t you go upstairs and see if it’s there. Take a picture of it with your phone and then leave it for the cops to find.”

  “Wait, what do you mean Gabriel said there is a confession for me to find? He knew I was coming here? How?”

  Father Barnes shrugged, his head dropping to his chest as he appeared on the brink of drifting into a state of semi-consciousness.

  “Just take a look upstairs and see if Gabriel was right. He said the room is at the very end of the hall on the right of the stairs.”

  I put a hand on Alberto’s left shoulder.

  “Stay here with him. I’m going upstairs.”

  I found the master bedroom where I was told it would be – at the very end of a long hallway that ran the length of the mansion’s upper floor. Like the study, you entered the room through a set of large, custom made, dark wooded double doors. To my left, propped up in matching chairs, were the bodies of the two men who had first attacked me outside the Off the Record, and had been following me ever since. Their unblinking eyes faced the massive, pillared bed that dominated the wall on the other side of the room upon which the body of Bruce Morehouse lay, remnants of bone and blood splattered across the wall behind him, his right hand still holding the weapon of his recent demise. He had shot himself with an older, 357 snub nose revolver, blowing off a considerable portion of his upper right skull in the process.

  Or was made to look like he did so.

  At the foot of the bed was a handwritten note, written in black ink on yellow pad paper, that said the following:

  My name is Bruce Morehouse. For over thirty years I have worked closely with representatives of the leading pharmaceutical and medical care corporations, along with some of the highest ranking members of government, to create and maintain a drug and treatment research and development monopoly, often at the expense of critical care opportunities for past, present, and future patients.

  The Food and Drug Administration’s participation has been an essential component of this relationship. That institution has allowed myself, and others, to thwart efforts to bring potentially life saving treatments to patients, such as the recently tabled legislation in Congress designated HR 4221. The primary motive for this among all parties involved was greed. I have personally been awarded millions in direct profit and a myriad of benefits for my own services in this endeavor.

  For this reason, as a gesture of conciliation for my part in something that has caused so much pain and suffering to so many others, I take my own life.

  -B. Morehouse

  Next to the note was a color photograph of Bruce Morehouse standing on the bow of a large yacht with his right arm draped over the shoulders of Congressman Walter Mills, current Chair of the House Appropriations Committee. Both men were laughing, each of their free hands holding a drink. The photo appeared to be recent.

  I used my phone to capture an image of the suicide note, and then grabbed the photograph, left the bedroom, and returned to the downstairs study. Alberto was feeling for Father Barnes’s pulse by the time I re-entered the study.

  “I’m not dead - yet.”

  The priest’s voice was a soft, whistling whisper, interrupted by a low, deep gurgling noise from his chest. His ability to continue breathing had worsened considerably since I had left the study to go upstairs.

  Alberto looked up at me and shook his head. Father Barnes was now fading fast.

  “Find a note?”

  I leaned down and took the priest’s left hand.

  “Yeah, it was there, just like Gabriel told you.”

  Father Barnes smiled as his eyes remained closed.

  “He may be crazy, but I guess he’s no liar. Can you use it to get that legislation passed?”

  I squeezed the dying man’s hand and nodded.

  “Oh yeah, absolutely. No worries there, Father.”

  The priest’s head suddenly lifted, and his eyes opened.

  “Need you to do me something for me, ok?”

  I stared back at Father Barnes, seeing for the first time the level of sadness in his eyes. Whatever life the priest had lived, he’d seen some shit.

  “Sure thing. What do you need?”

  “First, take the formulation.”

  I stood there confused, not seeing the piece of paper Gabriel had earlier left inside of the priest’s pickup truck.

  “It’s in my collar, see?”

  Sure enough, the white paper had been neatly folded and placed inside of Father Barnes’s clergyman collar.

  “Very clever hiding place, Father.”

  “Keep it safe, Bennington until you can hand it over to that organization of yours.”

  I secured the paper inside one of my jacket pockets.

  “What else?”

  The priest glanced to his left, towards the study desk.

  “Morehouse has controls for the sound system over there. He was telling me all about it while he had me tied up here. I want you to play a song for me if it’s in the system, Celtic New Year by Van Morrison. Guess my imminent demise has made me more of a sentimental prick than I anticipated. Now once that music starts, I want you to get the hell out of here. Close those doors and leave me to dying. I want to do it alone, just me and God. Can you take care of that? Can I count on you to start the music and walk out of here?”

  I nodded my head slowly.

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  The sound system digital controls were housed in the wall just behind the study desk. There was a small keypad that allowed one to punch in artist and song, similar to a much smaller version of an old school jukebox. Celtic New Year registered on the small digital screen, and seconds later, the song began to play from several hidden surround sound speakers placed throughout the mansion. Father Barnes managed to carry his voice across the room loud enough for me to hear.

  “Turn it up.”

  The priest’s head was once again resting on his chest. His eyes closed as a faraway smile crept across his face, and even as his body shook with a series of wet, rasping convulsions, that faint smile remained.

  “Keep working on the truth Bennington. And thank you for everything. Now get the hell out of here.”

  A spray of blood flew from Father Barnes’s mouth as he began coughing violently. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair as he willed himself to again be still as Van Morrison sang of wanting to see someone further on up the road.

  “Please, go before it gets ugly. Close the doors. Just me and God now…”

  Alberto wheeled himself alongside me as we both moved outside of the study. I turned to pull the doors closed and paused to see Father Victor Barnes staring across the study at me, seeming to hesitate about his demand he be allowed to die alone. That hesitation quickly passed. The priest simply nodded his head once while keeping his eyes locked on mine as the doors clicked shut, the sound of Celtic New Year filling the massive interior of the Morehouse mansion.

  The priest was given the choice to die like a man, on his own terms, and with the hope of his life lost helping to secure a life saved.

  We should all be so lucky.

  31.

  I was about to head down the driveway toward the road when Alberto called out for me to stop. He had just navigated himself down the mansion’s entrance steps.

  “We got to call 911 Bennington. Let the cops show up, take their pictures, ask their questions – it’s how the priest wanted it. Let the evidence be discovered, documented, reported on, whatever. We don’t need to wait around for them to show up. They run logistics which will tie them to the priest’s wounds, the marks on those two guys’ hands from beating on him, and Morehouse’s note. Case closed.

  “What about the knife wounds to the two men left upstairs in the bedroom wit
h Morehouse? How do we explain that?”

  Alberto was already wheeling himself down the long driveway toward the road.

  “We don’t. If we get called in, they were all dead by the time we got here. We don’t say shit about nothing.”

  I had to jog to catch up to Alberto, who appeared completely at ease with the dead bodies we were leaving behind.

  “They’ll want to know why we came here in the first place, right?”

  The former Army Ranger stopped his wheelchair, and then spun it around to face me.

  “All that crap will be handled, Bennington. This is a T3 matter. We got the formulation, we have a visual copy of the suicide note, which you say can be used to ram through the fast track legislation. We’ve done our damn job, man. This clean up shit, ain’t our problem. We get us a cab back to the hospital, see how Dedra’s holding up, and I’ll make the call to the cops on the way there. You don’t worry about it.”

  I nodded my agreement and began walking toward the street, my mind already hoping Dedra was continuing to fight, and even though the rational part of me knew it was impossible, wondering if Gabriel had paid her a visit and provided her some kind of cure.

  Stop it, Frank. Live in reality for God’s sake. Gabriel is like Father Barnes said, some guy suffering from delusions, who also happens to possess some damn impressive knife skills.

  The cab didn’t arrive for nearly twenty minutes, and it took another twenty minutes after that before Alberto and I once again stood outside the entrance of George Washington University Hospital. As we neared the large sliding door into the primary reception area, I saw a familiar figure approaching me from the right.

  “Mr. Bennington and Mr. Diaz, I see we all had the same thing in mind.”

  Congresswoman Mears looked tired. Her face was absent any make-up, her clothing somewhat rumpled, as if she had not changed outfits in the last twenty four hours. I noticed Alberto sat upright in his wheelchair and nodded a greeting to her, his face betraying his nervousness.

  “Well, gentlemen let’s go see Dedra. I haven’t been able to get a hold of that Dr. Stone who is treating her. You got me worried after our last conversation, so I left two messages with hospital staff, but no call back. So here I am.”

  The congresswoman paused just inside the hospital and inhaled and then exhaled slowly.

  “I know it won’t be good news. Not based on the last update I received, which I shared with you already Mr. Bennington. I’ve been praying though, hoping God will allow Dedra a little more time.”

  I watched as Congresswoman Mears snapped her head upward, and strode toward the reception desk, her short statured body somehow appearing much taller, stronger, and far more determined than I would have thought possible.

  “Congresswoman Mears and friends to see Dedra Donnigan, please. I would like to speak to Dr. Stone personally as well - NOW.”

  The receptionist, an older black woman with kind dark eyes and a wide full mouth behind which resided a mouth of perfect white teeth, smiled warmly at the congresswoman and asked for us to take a seat in the waiting area.

  “I know where her room is. We can just go on up Congresswoman.”

  The congresswoman glanced up at me and then back to the receptionist, who appeared on the verge of telling Congresswoman Mears we weren’t allowed to just go upstairs, but a look in the congresswoman’s eyes gave the receptionist pause, and she instead simply nodded her head.

  Following the elevator ride up, I was once again standing in front of the 4th floor cancer treatment reception desk, near the same spot I had so recently confronted Magnus Tork, and where hospital security had forcibly escorted me back outside after Tork drew a gun on me.

  The congresswoman began introducing herself, but before she could finish, I heard the voice of Dr. Stone calling out from behind me.

  “What the hell are you doing back inside this hospital? Laurie, please get security in here now!”

  I leaned over to whisper into the congresswoman’s left ear.

  “That’s Dr. Stone.”

  Congresswoman Mears walked toward the doctor.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you doctor. You’re certainly not as quick to communicate as Dr. Styles was. Is it your normal policy to ignore inquiries from members of congress?”

  Dr. Stone’s eyes looked toward the elevator we had just come from as her hands clenched and unclenched tightly at her sides.

  My instincts screamed something was wrong.

  I ran past the reception desk and down the hallway until I came to Dedra’s room. The door was half open, but no sound came from inside.

  Why aren’t the damn monitors beeping?

  I pushed the door open and stared at an empty bed. The bed Dedra had so recently been lying in. There was no sign of her. The room smelled of having been recently cleaned with disinfectant.

  No, this can’t be. She’s not gone.

  I walked slowly back to the reception area, where Congresswoman Mears and Alberto were looking back at Dr. Stone and a hospital security guard. The sound of the congresswoman’s question caused my knees to nearly buckle beneath me as I reached out to steady myself on the rounded corner of the reception desk.

  “What do you mean she’s dead? Why wasn’t I notified?”

  Dr. Stone had placed both of her hands in the white medical jacket she wore, and was trying, yet failing, to appear both calm, and in control.

  “She had another myocardial episode. I’m sorry, we tried very hard to revive her, but in her already weakened condition…there was nothing we could do.”

  Both my hands went to my face, temporarily blocking out the world around me – a world that at that moment, I no longer wanted to exist.

  They killed her, they killed her, they killed her!

  The phrase continued to repeat itself in my head as I opened my eyes to look back at Dr. Stone. I sensed something in me screaming to get out – a caged beast, a primordial monster absent any obligation toward rules of society, or law abiding justice.

  “He is not allowed in this hospital.”

  Dr. Stone pointed at me, soon followed by the security guard moving to once again escort me outside.

  “He’s with me Dr. Stone, and won’t be going anywhere. Tell us where Dedra is. I want to see her. I want to see her right now."

  Dr. Stone shook her head as the security guard paused, uncertain if he was to continue moving toward me.

  “I’m sorry Congresswoman Mears, but she’s being kept in the morgue downstairs - authorized personnel only. If you attempt to force your way in, you will be arrested. Don’t test me.”

  The two women’s eyes locked, each one measuring up the other. Then the congresswoman took out her cell phone and smiled though her eyes remained cold, challenging the doctor’s authority.

  “Give me two minutes doctor, and I think you’ll be changing your mind.”

  The congresswoman turned and walked several paces away with her phone to her ear while the rest of us waited, eyeing one another with increasing animosity and suspicion. She returned in less than a minute, her smile still spread across her fleshy cheeked face.

  Dr. Stone’s patience had run out, as she once again instructed the security guard to escort me out of the hospital. I braced myself, ready to fight if I had to, but the reception desk phone rang, followed by the receptionist holding the phone up and informing the doctor that the call was for her.