TKO ddm-2
Page 12
With not a whole lot clogging up my day planner, I dropped by Rudy’s office at the hospital. His office was buried back in the corner of the second floor, and it was filled with stack after stack of papers, textbooks, and interoffice envelopes. I walked in without knocking.
“Excuse me, Doctor, I have this hemorrhoid I’d like you to look at,” I said.
“Geez, you are a hemorrhoid,” Rudy said without looking up from his desk.
“What do you know about prison medicine?”
“What are you, making a documentary? Look, kid, I’m really freakin’ busy-why aren’t you at work?”
“There was an incident.”
“There always is with you-it didn’t have anything to do with my new tenant Sanchez, does it? I can’t believe you had me lie to social services.”
“No, it’s not that. Rheinhart was on my caseload and I’m trying to find out about what his prison time was like. A bunch of his tiermates OD’ed back then on something they called ‘Blast.’ You ever hear of it?” I asked.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I have. A guy in my practice did some rounds at the prison during that period. It was a synthetic hallucinogenic with some narcotic characteristics. The high was supposed to be like a combination of acid, heroin, and crank,” Rudy said.
“Wow, now there’s a trip for ya. Where’d it come from?”
“That’s the thing, no one could ever figure it out. The other thing was that once it built up in the system it was very quickly fatal. Turns out that it metabolized into something very similar to strychnine. The inmates who died had only done it three or four times.”
“Could they’ve made it themselves?”
“Unlikely. This wasn’t a bathtub crank, it was more like graduate-chemistry shit. Some of it broke down with different half-lives and that prolonged the high while something else broke down more rapidly to accentuate something else. It was pretty complicated shit.”
“Have you ever seen it turn up since then?”
“No-hey, Duff, this is all pretty interesting, but unless you want to go check on the seventy-four-year-old guy with the colostomy with me, I got to go.”
I thanked Rudy and got the number of his doctor friend. As he was leaving he gave me the rundown on his friend.
Dr. Manuel Pacquoa was about sixty-five years old, four foot eleven, and had an expression on his face like he just took a huff of a rotting fish. His specialty was infectious diseases and in his home country of the Philippines he was seen as a deity for the work he had done with the poor people. He still traveled back there three times a year to treat as many of the street people as he could. Later in his career, he added psychiatry and his work in the prison was part of his certification process.
He greeted me in a friendly way that was more customary politeness related to his friendship with Rudy than it was because he was glad to see me. Rudy had explained to me that when Dr. Manny had some visa problems he had lent him a hand, and the Filipino never forgot his gratitude. He brought me coffee and fussed a great deal about making me comfortable.
“Dr. Rudy tells me about the favor you did for your patient without a home,” Dr. Manny said. I was surprised that Rudy would’ve bothered to share such information.
“Yeah-it was nothing really. I hate to see a guy get screwed by the government for stupid reasons,” I said.
“You are a good man. I understand the man is from my homeland?”
“I think his mother was, anyway.”
“Thank you for helping him.” It was an interesting response. He clearly saw a favor to a member of his country as a favor to him. “Someday, if I can return your favor, I hope you allow me.”
“I’m good at allowing people to do favors for me,” I said. The doctor didn’t laugh.
I asked him about his time in the prison, what he remembered about Howard, and about the deaths related to Blast overdoses.
“This Blast was very addicting and very exciting, especially to those with thrill-seeking tendencies. I believe the monotony of the prison life made it appealing.” He took off his wire-rim glasses and ran a hand through his thin black hair.
“It was like the crack drug that is popular now, but it had hallucinogenic qualities as well.”
“Do you have any idea where they got it?”
“We never found out because the inmates died, all within three days of each other. Then, it abruptly stopped.”
“Any guesses?”
“It would be only a guess, but there was a graduate assistant that left without notice during that same period. I never saw or heard from him again.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“It’s not that I don’t remember it, it’s that I didn’t ever know it. I only came in two times a week and then I saw patients back to back. I just remember the rumors.”
I thanked the doctor for his help, and he thanked me again for helping Sanchez.
“Please remember me when you need a favor,” he said.
22
In all the years I’ve been training in either karate or boxing, I never took much time off. I never saw it so much as dedication as just something I did, like taking a shower or going to the bathroom. Not going felt weird, and I felt out of sorts both physically and mentally.
On the way back from Dr. Pacquoa’s I found myself down by the Y. I didn’t get there on purpose or totally by accident-it was more like I got there on instinct. I went past the parking lot and saw Smitty’s Olds, and I got a sick feeling in my stomach, kind of like when you see an old girlfriend with someone new. He wouldn’t call me; I’d have to show up or call him, not because Smitty was stubborn but because he always contended that boxing wasn’t for everyone. He’d often say that it wasn’t the healthiest way to spend your free time and the minute you wanted to leave it behind that was okay with him. He didn’t like guys who were ambivalent, but he respected people who made clear decisions based on their conscience.
Right now, I was feeling ambivalent and that’s what was keeping me out of the gym. I circled the block to kill time and to think, and as I came around Union Street on the back side of the Y, I came across the karate guys again. This time they were talking to someone in another SUV, and I parked far enough away so they wouldn’t see me. Both their heads were close to the driver’s side window so I couldn’t see whom they were talking to. They kept up the conversation for a few minutes and then the driver handed Mitchell a shoebox. The three shook hands, and as the driver pulled away I got a look at him.
It was Abadon.
I followed him as he drove off, making sure to stay back a fair distance so he couldn’t spot me. He headed onto I-90 and then to 787 and took it as far as it would go. At Waterford he went up Route 44 and turned down a country road called Schemerhorn Lane. I didn’t make the turn because there was no way I could follow him and not get spotted, so I pulled over on the shoulder and waited five minutes. I knew there was a good chance that I lost him, but I had nothing better to do, so after my break I went down Schemerhorn.
The road was lined with swampland and heavy brush with an occasional farm but otherwise it was pretty much uninhabited. I was the only one on the road, and after about four miles or so I started to think about turning back. Before I stopped, I came upon a homemade wooden street sign at the end of a dirt road called Toachung Road. I remembered toachung from my karate days as the Korean word for sacred training area.
I slowed down as I passed it and all I could see was a long dirt road that eventually wound through the brush. I didn’t want to chance driving down it, so I drove ahead and parked the Eldorado on the side of the road in a dirt area behind some trees. I set off on foot toward Toachung Road.
I stayed to the side of the road so that if I needed to I could dive into the brush for some cover. I was on the road for a full twenty minutes when I came upon a clearing and what looked like a training camp of some sort. There was a log cabin, a pavilion with free weights and weight machines, and a corrugated steel building with a
single pipe chimney emitting smoke. To get in the steel building, you had to enter an area that was covered with stones and gravel and surrounded by a ten-foot-high fence. The stone area was set up with a large statue of the Buddha, maybe six feet high and four feet around. Surrounding the statue were heavy stone benches. The whole area was circular with a locked door at one end that was the entrance to the steel building. It was about thirty feet in diameter, and there were several other Asian-themed stone figures of dragons and tigers.
When I looked closer, I could see that Mitchell and Harter’s pit bull was asleep on the gravel just in front of the Buddha statue. Abadon’s SUV was parked just outside the fence, and after a few minutes he came out in a sweatshirt and shorts and headed over to the weight-training pavilion. I watched him lift for a few minutes and decided to head out before I got caught trespassing. The place had an eerie feel to it and I wanted to get out.
So, Abadon and the karate guys were training buddies, maybe close training buddies? What the hell would a self-proclaimed Christian be doing with friends like these guys? Who knows, but maybe they were into the whole Christian thing too. The place gave me the creeps, as did this bizarre friendship. I was walking out of the place, feeling a bit uneasy, and I noticed a half-pungent, half-sweet odor in the air.
It added to the creepy feel of the place.
At AJ’s, the brain trust was discussing several topics at once.
“Ripken was so upset, they canceled the game,” Rocco said.
“They canceled the game because his wife was having sex with Kevin Costner?” TC said.
“Were they humping on the mound?” Jerry Number Two asked.
“It was on her mound anyway,” Jerry Number One said.
“Maybe it was in the batter’s box,” TC said.
“Costner was clearly in the batter’s box and Ripken was on deck,” Jerry Number Two said.
“You know Marilyn Monroe had six toes on each foot,” TC said.
“What does that have to do with Ripken’s wife?” Rocco said.
“She had six toes too?” Jerry Number One asked.
“I don’t know, but you could see the extra toes in that scene where she’s standing on the subway grate,” TC said.
“Who was looking at her toes?” Jerry Number One said.
“Certainly not DiMaggio. He was pissed because you could see right through to her mound,” Rocco said.
“Hey-grass on the infield. Play ball!” TC said.
“That’s what Kevin Costner always said,” Jerry Number Two said.
“You know one of the Bond girls used to be a guy,” Rocco said.
“Huh?” TC couldn’t keep up. “A transmitter?”
“Yep,” Rocco said.
“How many toes?” Jerry Number One asked.
“I bet you didn’t see her mound in that movie,” TC said.
“I would cancel a game over that,” Jerry Number One said. “I’d refuse to even get in the batter’s box.”
“You screwball,” Rocco said.
Kelley was in his usual spot, turned away from the Foursome. ESPN Classic was showing that old home-run derby show and Hank Aaron was up against Moose Skowron.
“Hey, who’s on the mound?” I said.
“Please…,” Kelley said.
AJ slid a Schlitz to me and a Coors Light in front of Kelley.
“Any news about Howard?” I asked.
“No, they don’t have anything new.”
“I think it might have something to do with that prison overdose. Dr. Pacquoa said that around the same time that the inmates died, a graduate intern abruptly stopped coming to the prison.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Rudy knows a guy who did some psychiatric consultation in the prison during that time and I went to talk to him. He’s a Filipino doc and he told me about some things.”
“Oh really?”
“Maybe you could suggest to Morris and his bunch that they should look in to that?”
“Maybe you should go screw that Bond girl-what are you, nuts?”
“Hey-I’m just trying to help.”
“That’s the problem. Once again you’re out of your league and in over your head. They have no interest in proving Howard is innocent; they’re interested in finding him as fast as they can. Until kids stop showing up dead, the cops and the general public don’t find Howard a terribly sympathetic character,” Kelley said.
Clearly, Kell wasn’t in the best of moods and I didn’t feel like getting scolded, so I shut up for a while. I went back to drinking my beer and AJ flipped the TV to Channel 13 for the news. The local stations were milking the hell out of the murder story with nightly updates even when they had very little new information.
“New developments in the Crawford Slayer case,” the pretty rubberized female anchor said, starting the news. “Toxicology reports indicate that victims Connie Carter and Alison Mann both had traces of illicit drugs in their system. The State Laboratory did not recognize any of the drug’s metabolites and they did not fit any of the usual drug categories.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I said.
“It usually means that the subjects were using a designer drug like ecstasy, except it’s a new version or some sort of derivative,” Kelley said.
“Hmmm…”
“What ‘Hmmm’?”
“Well, what do you think that does to the case?”
“The fact that a high-school kid was getting high? I don’t think it does anything. High-school kids being high, when did that become news?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
I decided that I had gotten my recommended daily dose of Schlitz and started to head out. On my way to the door, I couldn’t help but hear the Foursome looking for some sort of resolution to Cal Ripken’s problems with Kevin Costner.
“That’s why he played in all those games,” Rocco said.
“Because his wife was doing the guy from The Untouchables?” TC said.
“Apparently, he wasn’t untouchable in real life,” Jerry Number Two said.
23
Al, the long-eared alarm clock, went off at just after five on Sunday morning. In between the steady stream of WOOFs there was the familiar thwack sound.
“Good morning, Billy,” I said as I stood on my front stoop. It dawned on me that it had been a couple of days since I put the kid through his paces, which probably accounted for his early morning visit. He was throwing his stars into my tree from about forty or fifty feet. The kid couldn’t throw a kick without landing on his backside and he couldn’t string together more than ten pushups, but he was pretty accurate with the stars.
“Sir, yes sir.” He snapped to attention when he saw me despite the fact that I was wearing ratty old sweats and a dirty wife-beater. Today’s zit was at the point of his chin and he had a dollop of Clearasil on it. “Sir, we haven’t trained in a few days.”
“Sorry about that, Billy.” The kid looked at me with a face sadder than Al’s. “We can train tonight if you want.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“One ‘sir’ is more than enough, kid.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Meet me at the Y tonight, but not in our usual place. Let’s meet in that aerobics room on the second floor around eight.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Geez… Hey, Billy, let me ask you a non-karate question.”
“Sir.”
“How has this crazy shit going on in school with the killer affected things?”
“Sir, kids are scared.”
“Did you know any of the kids at school?”
“Sir, I keep mostly to myself. The girls that were killed were cheerleaders.”
He said it like the fact that they were cheerleaders made him unworthy to be in their presence. I remembered what high school was like for guys like Billy. Teenagers weren’t a kind, accepting bunch, especially if you were a little goofy-ask Howard Rheinhart-and Billy was more than a little goofy.<
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“I’ll see you tonight, kid,” I said. He bowed and ran down the street.
I brought Al with me to the Y and took advantage of his low profile to sneak him past the front desk. The disinterested teenager knew I was a regular and didn’t look away from the TV as I waved to him. I had seen Smitty’s car was in the lot, like it always was, but I wasn’t ready to say hello yet. Smitty was a lot of things and in many ways a complex man, but he didn’t trouble himself with small talk. He didn’t care for bullshit ambiguity and I was ambivalent about just about everything going on in my life. He would look at me and I’d divert my eyes and stutter. For the time being, I decided to avoid him.
The Y was a sniffer’s paradise, and the combined aromas of bad BO, talc, and liquid soap had Al a little overactive. There was just a bit too much for him to process, so by the time we got to the aerobics room he collapsed on a mat, rolled over on his back, and started to snore with his four legs in the air.
It was five after eight and my karateka was no place to be found. Billy had never been less than half an hour early for anything. When he was fifteen minutes late I started to worry, and at half an hour, I began to panic a little bit. Something was wrong.
While I sat there and grew more anxious, it dawned on me that I knew very little about the kid. His dad was dead and his mother worked a lot, but I didn’t even know an address or a phone number. Whenever I gave him a lift he asked me to leave him a mile from his house so he could run home. I don’t know what that was all about-maybe he was embarrassed about his house or his mom. Shit, maybe he was embarrassed about me. Maybe he just wanted to run. I swear, working in human services screws you up for life.
It wasn’t like I ever needed to contact him-God knows, Billy made himself available. At eight forty-five I figured he wasn’t coming, and I left the Y more than just a little nervous.
As we walked out Al pulled me all over the Y, once again overwhelmed with the sniffles. When we hit the parking lot he was like a burning man who had jumped in a swimming pool. He seemed to relax and say “Ahhh…” We walked past Smitty’s Olds and were headed toward the Eldorado when we came upon Mitchell and Harter’s SUV. At first Al paused like he didn’t want to encounter the pit bull, but then he proceeded over to it.