Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  He drove by Jack’s apartment, an extra fifteen minutes out of his way, and parked across the street. He saw Jack’s car, but wished he hadn’t. If it had been gone, that would mean Jack was at least alive and well somewhere.

  He hoped Jack hadn’t met the same fate as young Riesner.

  The thought of Jack sitting up there, dead in his bed, made him shudder. Jack hadn’t answered his calls. He’d left at least one clear message. He felt sure Jack would have responded to it if he could, if only to tell Thornton he didn’t want to be disturbed. Should he go up? If Jack was fine, how would he explain the interruption?

  The car was still on, the heat turned up, but still Thornton felt cold as ice. He was thrumming his fingers on the dashboard, trying to grasp the enormity, the severity, of what he had done.

  What was he thinking?

  Over the last week he had set his reputation, his career, everything he’d worked for in the last thirty years, leaning on a teetering ledge. He hadn’t slept all night after seeing the news report about Riesner, couldn’t eat a thing this morning. Here he was, a never-married, fifty-six-year-old man with a shiny bald head, living all alone with some of the finest furniture money can buy.

  All he had was his work. What if he’d lost that now?

  Or worse, what if he had to spend the rest of his life in jail?

  24

  Thornton had arrived home at his condo fifteen minutes ago. Now he sat staring at the telephone on his desk. He finally worked up the nerve to call the private number of Dr. Curtis Jameison in McLean, Virginia, a neurologist who specialized in sleep disorders. He knew Jameison probably wouldn’t pick up. He’d be down at his clinic, The Sleep Center in Falls Church, but Thornton wanted to leave a voicemail in case he couldn’t get through at his clinic.

  As he picked up the phone, he tried to remember the stupid security procedures Jameison had insisted on. After the beep, he said as calmly as he could: “Jameison, Thomas Thornton here. I won’t say too much on the phone, but suffice it to say Bre’r Fox is dead. That’s right, dead. Died in his sleep last Friday, very likely after his dinner appointment with me. Well, that’s all I should say for now…call me as soon as you get this. I’ll try to reach your office. If I don’t hear from you in a couple of hours, I’m flying up there to see you. We’ve got to talk about this…this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  He hung up and looked for Jack’s cell number. He’d written it on Jack’s card yesterday. He had to know if Jack was all right. If Jack didn’t answer, Thornton would drive by his place again, only this time he’d get out and knock on the door.

  He looked down at the phone. What if Jack did answer, what would he say? He had to think of some reason for the call and say it as calmly as he could.

  # # #

  For the last ten minutes, Sergeant Joe Boyd had sweated through another difficult phone call. He should have just let the thing ring; he was almost out the door. “Yes sir, I will call you back as soon as I hear back from the coroner. I understand. No, it’s no trouble. Good bye.” He hung up the receiver and swiveled in his chair. Hank Jensen was standing by the door with his overcoat slung over his forearm. They were about to head to an appointment with a city councilman, to pitch a request for a better communication system for the department.

  “Hear back from the coroner?” Hank repeated. “What was that about?”

  “That, my friend, was Ralph Riesner, Senior.”

  “The father of the dead kid?” Hank said.

  “The same.”

  “What’d he want from Dr. Hargrove? I thought the case was closed.”

  “I’m sure it still is. He’s just a grieving dad looking to make some sense of losing his boy. Can’t fault him for that.”

  “He doesn’t buy the heart attack?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Boyd took a sip of his morning coffee, which was awful. “Who made this? Somebody’s got to learn how to make coffee around here besides me.”

  Hank leaned back to catch a glimpse of the coffeemaker sitting just beyond the water cooler. “I don’t know, Joe, but there’s two more cups worth in the pot. You want me to make a fresh pot before we go?” He looked at his watch, a respectful hint.

  Boyd poured his mug into a potted ficus tree next to his desk, its yellowing leaves offering silent protest to its steady diet of caffeine. “No, I know we gotta go.”

  “So why’d the father call?”

  Boyd stood up. “He says he’d been studying the autopsy report, and he noticed something he didn’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand about a heart attack?”

  “Let me look at this thing a minute.” Boyd held Hargrove’s autopsy report at arm’s length. He had glasses but hated to wear them. “Here it is. There’s a section detailing foreign substances found in the bloodstream and Hargrove mentions here finding slight traces of something called Temazepam—if that’s how you pronounce it. He’s made a note next to it that says ‘a benzo-diazepine’. Anyway, Mr. Riesner says he’s looked it up on the internet and it’s some kind of insomnia drug—a prescription-only insomnia drug. He says Ralph wasn’t taking anything like that.”

  “Wow, that is odd,” Hank said sarcastically. “A college student taking an insomnia prescription. And without his father’s permission.”

  “I know. But he wants me to call Hargrove and ask him if that could have sparked his son’s heart attack.”

  “I don’t think Hargrove would have missed something that obvious.”

  “Me neither,” Boyd agreed. “But, hey…what can I say? It’s his kid, it’s the least I can do. You remember if we took any prescription bottles from the kid’s apartment?”

  Hank’s eyes rolled back slightly as his brain scanned its files. “Can’t say as I do. But when it started looking like natural causes, I don’t think we got so picky about what we brought back.”

  “Did we turn over all the kid’s effects to the dad?”

  “I’m sure we did,” Hank said, “since we were closing the case. But I can look when we get back and make sure. If we don’t have anything left, I’ll check our paperwork, see if we made any mention of a prescription for—what’s it called again?”

  “Here.” Boyd handed the report to Hank. “I can’t pronounce it.”

  “But Joe, you know this is going to be a dead end.”

  “I know. Let’s just do it so we can say we did. I’m going to make myself a note here to call Dr. Hargrove when we get back. He’ll probably just restate the obvious, but at least his father will know we tried. Maybe then he’ll be able to let it go.”

  “Poor guy,” Hank said. “Can’t imagine losing your kid like that. All those years taking care of them, day in and day out, watching ‘em grow up, saving all that money for college…he makes it all the way to his senior year and then—bam—dies of a heart attack at twenty-two. They must be falling apart right now. I don’t have any kids, but I can imagine.”

  “Could we not talk about this right now?” Boyd asked. “I do have kids.”

  “Sorry, Joe. At least when we get done with this little exercise, we can put this thing to rest for good.”

  25

  After what seemed like the longest time, Jack’s eyes finally opened. His breathing was deep and labored. He felt the syncopation of his heartbeat inside his throat, temples and ears. He lay on his back perfectly still, his arms by his sides, palms facing down. Without moving his head, he allowed his eyes to roam about, surveying his surroundings.

  Clearly, he wasn’t in heaven.

  He looked up at a fixed spot on the wall. The Norman Rockwell calendar was hanging right where it belonged, right month, right year. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. It said 10:20 am. He had slept for over twelve hours.

  He rolled on his side. His sheets were drenched in sweat. Slowly, he forced himself out of bed. After the Pearl Harbor dream, he had almost danced to the bathroom. This morning he shuffled like a tottering old man. On the way, he noticed the library
book about Doolittle’s Raid sitting on the desk. He was tempted to open it. After last night, he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself in one of the pictures inside.

  Suddenly, Jack’s heart began to race. He felt lightheaded. Was he about to pass out? He made it back to the bed and sat on the edge. It was hard to breathe. He lay down for several minutes, his eyes closed.

  A little calmer now, he took a slow, deep breath. Then another. He sat up slowly. He had to use the bed to help him to his feet.

  What was that? He’d never had heart problems before. His blood pressure had always been perfect. It must just be fear brought on by The Dream. Maybe a panic attack. He walked back toward the bathroom, using the wall to steady himself.

  Bending over the tub, he turned the knobs to let the water begin to heat up. Just then his phone rang. He peeked into the living room toward the sound. He should just let it go to voicemail. He couldn’t talk to anyone right now. He listened as it rang twice, three times. He walked over to check the caller ID. Thornton. No way he could talk to the Professor now. He walked back to the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes and a hot shower later, he was actually feeling a little better. He put his robe on and decided to listen to Thornton’s message.

  “Hi, Jack. Thomas here. I…uh, just wanted to call and let you know, I’ve come down with a stomach bug. I was going to ask you to sub for me, but uh…couldn’t get you on the phone. I know that’s not why you came back to Culpepper. You need time to write your book, I understand. Rachel Cook is subbing for me instead. Hope…hope you’re doing well. Bye.”

  Jack finished drying off and got dressed in hangout clothes. He didn’t plan on going out today. He walked out to the kitchen. The smell of burned coffee filled the air. He’d put it on a timer last night, must have been smoldering there for hours. He washed it out and set it to brew a fresh pot.

  Better get this callback to Thornton over with, he decided. Maybe he’d just get his voicemail. The phone rang twice and Thornton picked up.

  Rats. “Hello, Professor.”

  # # #

  “Jack.” Thank God, thought Thornton. “You’re all right.”

  “You could say that.”

  Thornton wondered, was he really? He sounded weak; his voice, was it trembling? “Is something wrong?”

  “You see the time?” Jack asked.

  “Are you just getting up?”

  “I’m afraid so. I didn’t even hear your calls earlier.”

  “But you’re okay.”

  “Got a pounding headache; I’m a bit groggy—”

  “Did you hear my message a little while ago?”

  “Sounds like you’re not feeling too well, either.”

  Jack’s voice was beginning to sound more normal. He was okay. “It’s just a stomach bug of some kind. I think I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  “You said something about Rachel Cook?”

  “She’s kindly agreed to take my classes today. She’ll really just be moderating a number of videos. But I’m very grateful for her help. Are you planning on doing your next lecture tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure I can get back in before Monday.”

  “Well, Monday will be fine. I’ve given Rachel plenty of things to fill the time. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  There was a long pause, then Jack said, “Well, guess I’ll see you on Monday, if not sooner.”

  “Bye, Jack.”

  They hung up.

  So Jack was okay. That was something. Thornton had already seen the others on campus that morning. It was from a distance, but they seemed fine, too. But it didn’t alter his plans. One death is too many. He tried to steel his nerve for the confrontation that awaited him when Jameison called back.

  Thornton was a coward; he knew that. A stronger man would have never allowed himself to be put in such a predicament. He hated Jameison for this, for everything he had put him through.

  Thornton made his way through his condominium corridors and out to the parking lot. He drove up to the security booth and waved to the guard as the gate lifted to let him through. Smile the way you always do, he thought. Not like a guilty man with something to hide. As he drove off toward the gas station, he remembered the details of his bitter reunion with Jameison three months earlier in Atlantic City, the genesis of this whole sordid affair.

  Many years ago, Jameison had spent his first three years at Culpepper and had taken two of Thornton’s classes. Thornton had heard he’d left the school after that and switched to pre-med somewhere else. Thornton didn’t recognize him across the blackjack table in Atlantic City that night, but Jameison recognized him. He introduced himself. Thornton felt almost apologetic. He told Jameison he had just come here to relax, urged on by a colleague. He hadn’t taken a real vacation in three years.

  Now he wished he’d made it four.

  Once the gambling started it was like some kind of demon had taken hold of him. The debts began to mount. Before the end of the week, it was well into the thousands. And the drinking, every night to excess. It was like he had tripped and fallen down a mossy river bank, with no hold to grab. To make matters worse, a beautiful woman in a tight black dress, easily half Thornton’s age, had approached him in the hotel lounge on night four. He should have seen it coming; no one who looks like that had ever given him a second glance. When he found out what she was about and the price—it must have been the drinks—he actually agreed to take her up into his room, something he had never done. The next morning he’d spent twice that sum getting out of jail.

  She was a policewoman.

  Somehow, Jameison had learned all about this. Thornton found this out when he’d accepted a dinner invitation from Jameison the following day. The dinner started out very cordial and friendly, Jameison acting as if Thornton had been one of his favorite professors, going on about how Thornton had turned him into such a fan of military history. Somewhere between the rolls and the salad, Jameison began to make his pitch.

  “So, Professor, I didn’t figure you to be such a wild and crazy guy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The gambling, the girls, that sort of thing. I didn’t see that side of you when I attended Culpepper. You were the picture of dignity and refinement as I recall, the stereotypical professor in every respect.”

  Thornton sighed.

  “Here I am at this rather boring medical convention, and I’ve got to tell you, you might be the very last person I’d expect to see in Atlantic City. And here you are…in it up to your eyeballs.”

  Thornton looked out the window, hoping Jameison would change the subject. It was already getting dark, he could see his own reflection more than the streetscape outside. The bald head, the droopy ears, the bags under his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’m making you uncomfortable. Let me shift into something I think you’ll find more pleasant.” Jameison then began talking about how Thornton could earn a great deal of money in a short period of time. Thornton had heard enough and interrupted him.

  “Please, let me finish,” Jameison said. He stuck his fork into a tomato wedge and plopped it in his mouth. He didn’t seem to mind talking while chewing. He spent the next fifteen minutes explaining his scheme.

  Although parts of it sounded fascinating, Thornton knew from the start he could never get involved. When Jameison finished, he said, “I’m sorry, that sort of thing wouldn’t be right for me.”

  “Oh, but it would, Professor.”

  “No, really. It would not. I’ve got my hands quite full at the moment.”

  “Yes you have,” Jameison said. “Full of gambling debts, fifteen-thousand’s what I hear, maybe more.”

  Thornton almost choked on a roll.

  “There, there, Professor. Are you all right?”

  How had Jameison found out? Was it really that much? He’d been afraid to find out the total. He should have never come to this place. How could he have been so foolish? He wanted to get up that instant, run back to his hotel room and pack hi
s bags.

  From there, the visit went from bad to worse.

  “And then there’s the matter of your little encounter with that female officer in the sleek black dress,” Jamieson continued. “You old dog. I guess that’s another thing I’d never imagine a man of your stature would be involved in. But hey, you’re just a man, right Professor? Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun.”

  Thornton couldn’t believe his ears.

  “I’ve done some further checking about how such things would be viewed at Culpepper. Don’t worry. I was discreet…for now. But what I learned confirmed something I suspected about an institution as upstanding as Culpepper. A certain document they ask every faculty member to sign, something that even transcends a man’s tenure.” Jameison paused, seemingly for effect. “I can tell by your eyes you know exactly what I’m referring to. That’s right, the moral turpitude clause. How very unfortunate for you. If the Board of Regents found out what a bad little boy you’ve been this week, you’d not only lose your life’s dream of becoming Dean; you’d be out of a job. You’d be lucky to get hired on at a local community college. Isn’t that right, Professor?”

  Thornton hung his head. To top off the worst week of his life, he was about to be blackmailed into Jameison’s scheme.

  This had all happened three months ago. After Thornton returned to Culpepper, Jameison had met with him two more times to lay out the plan, always cloak-and-dagger, a different place every time. Jameison had looked over his shoulder every few minutes, as if spies were just around the bend. He never brought up the blackmail issue again, but it was always understood.

  Thornton was to do what he was told. Jameison said he’d pay off his gambling debts and keep Thornton’s moral lapses between them.

  Thornton pulled into the gas station, a dark sense of foreboding surrounded him like a cloud. His life was slowly beginning to unravel. He could feel it. He used to read about people like this, or hear their tragic story played out on the news.

  Now he was becoming one of them.