The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Zugg moved slowly into the room. I could see that Zugg, despite all he had seen over the years, was taken aback by the man’s appearance. He took some time studying the suspect before returning.

  “His appearance is alarming, isn’t it, Dr. Zugg?” Maiguay said.

  “You’re a master of the obvious, Doctor. It’s a shame he’s never had the benefit of reconstructive surgery,” Zugg said.

  “Even so, he’d never be normal,” Maiguay said.

  “No, not normal, but certainly better,” Zugg replied. “Maybe he wouldn’t have spent his life lurking around defunct subway tunnels like some kind of lab animal.”

  “I wonder how long he’s been down there.”

  “A great while, I would think.” Zugg looked again at the suspect. “Look at his skin, so pale. It takes great courage to leave the shadows.”

  “I pity him,” Maiguay said, “People recoiling in disgust at the very sight of him—an outcast since birth. I wonder if his own mother had the courage to love him. I doubt he’s ever known a moment of true happiness.”

  Maiguay sounded quite prophetic. “You seem to know his pain very well, Doctor.”

  “I see a lot of unfortunates in my line of work,” Maiguay said. “You can’t help but become absorbed in their lives, their anguish. I honestly don’t know how they make it through—I don’t think I’d have the strength.” Maiguay’s pager went off. I could hear it vibrating on his belt and saw the LED change from a red to bright turquoise. “Excuse me, I have to run.”

  Maiguay jumped back in the elevator, leaving me alone with Zugg. “This creature certainly explains a lot,” Zugg said.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” The elevator chimed again. The ward was starting to sound like a pinball arcade. Lido and Ambler stepped off and joined us. “Good timing. The brilliant Dr. Zugg was just about to enlighten me with his revelations on the case and other manner of prestidigitation.”

  Zugg smiled. “No slight of hand, Chalice, just my observations.”

  “Why’s he still sedated,” Ambler asked. “We should have him up and answering questions. What exactly are we waiting for?”

  “The doctor has him sedated and I have to say I agree,” Zugg said. “This man’s been through a terrible ordeal. We found him neglected and frightened. It’s the middle of the night. Let’s give him the benefit of a sound night’s sleep.”

  Ambler was not in an agreeable mood. Like the rest of us, he was exhausted, and he knew that R. C. Liu and the Director of the FBI would be breathing down his neck at any minute. “Are you crazy, Damien? Paul Liu’s been MIA way too long. If our perp has any information, I want it now, before the Chinese Ambassador’s kid becomes a statistic.”

  Zugg spoke with great confidence. “Paul Liu is fine, I assure you.”

  “How can you know that, Dr. Zugg?”

  “He’s fine and being well cared for—of this I’ve no question.”

  “Enlighten us please—the rest of us aren’t quite up to speed.”

  “I know that Paul Liu is fine because the top of his skull has not been sheared off and bolted to the top of our suspect’s head.”

  Forty-One

  An explanation like Zugg’s cannot be rendered while loitering around in a hospital corridor. It required a table and chairs and enough cafeteria coffee to force our sleeping neurons to fire.

  It was now about two AM. The only coffee available came by way of a vending machine. It was tasteless and watery. I could only hope that it contained a reasonable level of stimulant.

  Ambler was at wit’s end. This was his second night without sleep and I had just dragged him through one of the city’s long lost subterranean cavities. He was facing the wrath of God if he didn’t quickly produce the missing Paul Liu. On top of that, he was getting Silence of the Lambs answers from the forensic genius he had personally hand picked and dragged out of retirement to assist us with the case. He was screwed. At least he was very close to it unless we pulled this thing together quickly.

  “Alright, Damien, could you please explain in layman’s terms, just how you’re so sure no harm has come to Paul Liu.”

  I didn’t know how Zugg was holding on. He looked close to death. God only knew how he was holding it together. “It was clumsy of me to be so blunt.”

  “It’s alright, Dr. Zugg,” I said. “We’re all just very tired and confused.”

  Zugg unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. “Well, it goes something like this. It’s my guess that the man we found would like to replace the top of his skull with Paul Liu’s.”

  Ambler almost choked. “Are you crazy?”

  Those were the words forming on the tip of my tongue, but knowing what I did about Zugg, I refrained from uttering that response. “Now hold on, Herbert, I’m sure the good doctor will elaborate.” God, I was hoping he was going to say something that made sense. Lido was looking at him like he was crazy also.

  “I think that our UNSUB has been hiding behind that air vent for years, waiting for the right person with the right skull to come along. I’ll bet if you go back and check Paul Liu’s charge records, you’ll find that he’s dined at The Nine Circles Restaurant often—at the very least, he ate there just before he went missing.”

  “Easy enough to check out,” Lido said. “It doesn’t explain why Kevin Lee was abducted and murdered.”

  I already knew the answer to this one, Zugg had told me at the time of our first meeting. “They used Kevin Lee for practice, Gus. They studied his skull, marked it up, and threw it away when they were done.”

  Lido looked at me as if I had grown a second head, which wouldn’t exactly have been weird in a case like this one. “Dr. Zugg told me before. I’m not all that clever.”

  Lido sighed. “Thank God.”

  “So you think Paul Liu’s skull is a good replacement for his? You’re talking about some manner of skull transplant?”

  “I am, Detective. They’ve made incredible advances in the art and science of reconstructive medicine. The suspect has severe cleft palate disfigurement, but that is repairable, and small defects in the skull can be fixed with synthetic patches. This man’s skull, however, is so terribly deformed that it would require replacing the entire brain vault and we’re just not that advanced yet. There must be blood flow to the bone of the skull and the underlying tissues. We haven’t developed the synthetic materials or process to do it.”

  “So this is possible?” Ambler asked. “They can cut off the top of the perp’s head and replace it with the top of Liu’s?”

  “Our suspect and Liu both share a common Asian bone structure. They are both young male adults, and from what I remember of Liu’s photo, his hat size was about the same as our suspect’s. Our suspect had likely examined Liu from a distance and decided that he was a good fit.”

  “It explains why you found Gentian violet on Kevin Lee’s skull,” I said. “It was being marked with suture lines.”

  Zugg grinned. “I see you’re way ahead of me, Chalice. If that were so, our suspect would simply have to peel back the skin, saw away the defective section of skull, and cover it with a healthy replacement. The healthy skull would be prepared in advance, like a puzzle piece, to fit exactly as the one it’s replacing. The same medications that are used to prevent organ rejection and infection should work in this application as well.”

  “What are all those protrusions and knobs on the suspect’s head?” Lido asked.

  “Our dysmorphic friend likely suffers from a congenital disease known as V-Holoprosencephaly. The plates of his skull did not fuse together as they normally should have. By God’s infinite wisdom, the skull starts off in separate pieces and then fuses together as we mature.”

  “To facilitate passage through the birth canal.”

  “Partially correct. You no doubt learned about the bregmatic junction in your high school biology class. At the center of the forehead and at other suture junctions, the bones unite over time. At birth, the coronal and sagi
tal sutures have yet to form—it gives the brain room to grow, and as Chalice pointed out, it makes it easier on Mom to deliver. The protrusions you asked about, Lido, are areas where the plates of the skull never fused together. Those bulges are tissue and brain filled cysts.”

  “This sounds incredible,” Ambler said.

  “So, what do you do with those protruding cysts?” Lido asked. “You can’t just cut them off and throw them away.”

  “There are many surgical procedures in which portions of the brain are removed without a marked loss in function.” Zugg adjusted his cap so that we could see his surgical scar. “No one knows this as well as me.” He tugged his cap until it again covered most of the scar. “One of the cures for epilepsy involves the separation of the brain’s left and right hemisphere.”

  “So this is real?” Ambler asked.

  “Sadly, yes. Children are still born with birth defects everyday; especially in Third World countries where the quality of nutrition is poor and medicine is a century behind the rest of the civilized world.”

  As satisfying as Zugg’s explanation was, there was one problem we hadn’t covered. “A surgery like this would require a skilled surgeon and assistants, yes?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “So someone else is involved; a surgeon and perhaps others.”

  “Why is that a problem, Detective?”

  Zugg had stopped making sense. He was solid right up to the very end, but his last comment had me completely baffled. I turned my head to the side. Zugg must’ve seen that I was perplexed. He smiled and filled in the blanks. “Nothing is a problem, Detective, for those who are insane.”

  Forty-Two

  Doe was fighting his way back. Deep in the womb of unconscious bliss, all of his disfigurements were gone. His skin was taut and smooth, his vision was sharp, and he had every reason to live. Weaving in and out of consciousness, he was vaguely aware that he was not alone. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn’t. Perhaps somewhere, deep down in his psyche, he understood that he was blind, and it prevented his eyes from opening. He would never again be able to see more than shadows, but the conscious mind was unaware of this defect or any other.

  The oxygen flowing to his nostrils slowed to a deathly hiss, and then stopped.

  He felt a soft caress against his cheeks and envisioned a white angel, buoyant in the air before him, its soft down-like wings stroking his face. His perfect, unfettered spirit rose just as the pillow was forced down over his face.

  “Goodbye, Brian.”

  Brian Wainscot, the man generically known to the police as John Doe, did not struggle as he left his earthly confines, and his murderer behind.

  Forty-Three

  I went out hard and slept like a rock from 3:00 a.m. until 7:00 a.m. It wasn’t a lot of sleep, but the quality was there. I felt like I was ready to take on the world when the alarm went off.

  Ambler had his expert, and I had one of my own. Before breaking up, we agreed that a psychiatrist should be present at our suspect’s questioning, and so it was that I was showered, dressed, and present at the home of Dr. Nigel Twain at ten-thirty on a quiet Saturday morning. Twain had privileges at Lenox Hill and had assisted me on a few of my cases. His methods may have been a tad unconventional, but he had proved that he had a cop’s sense about things, and there just weren’t too many headshrinkers that brought credentials like that to the table. Aside from that, he was easy on the eyes.

  Twain lived at 172 Bleecker in the apartment once occupied by James Agee, a novelist and film critic, who had won the Pulitzer Prize posthumously. Twain and Greenwich Village went together like hand and glove. He, like many of New York’s nontraditional citizens migrated here, a melting pot for bohemians, artists, and musicians, not to mention a slew of New York University’s horniest coeds.

  I’d called to apprise him of the situation and had given him roughly an hour to get his handsome self together. He seemed eager to be involved, so I was surprised to find him in his robe when I arrived. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. He was showered and shaved, just not dressed. He smelled like soap and looked like a hearty breakfast—but I had already eaten.

  “Nigel.” I hugged him and walked into his apartment. “Throw some clothes on. We have a case that needs breaking.” His eyes were a little bloodshot, so I didn’t know if he was sporting a hangover or had shampoo in his eyes.

  “Right-o, I’ll be with you in a shake. You look lovely, Darling.”

  Twain had that throaty British baritone voice that drove me and just about any other red-blooded American girl crazy. He looked a little wobbly and not quite under his own power as he lumbered off toward his bedroom.

  I plopped down on his sofa where a bottle of liquor was set out with some ice. The ice was fresh, so Twain was not hung over as I originally suspected. He was sporting a fresh buzz. Pre-noon is a little bit early for Yours truly to be hitting the bottle, but who am I to judge? It was a tall thin bottle. The label read Alandia Strong 68. I was unfamiliar with it, so I pulled the stopper and had a sniff. It smelled a lot like anisette.

  Twain returned quickly, dressed in wool slacks and a cotton pullover. “I see you’ve uncorked the green fairy. Join me for a glass, won’t you?”

  “It’s a little early, isn’t it? What is this stuff anyway?”

  “Absinthe, darling lady. I smuggled a supply home when I came back from Europe.”

  “Smuggled, why smuggled? You never heard of the duty free shop?”

  “Stephanie, the green fairy’s just become legal here in the states but I’ve had a contraband stash here for a while. I used to think of it like Cuban cigars.”

  “Cuban cigars are banned for political reasons. Something tells me that’s not the case with your private stock of hooch.”

  “Absinthe was banned in the states in the early 1920’s because some of the distillers used low grade alcohol.”

  “And?”

  “And as a result, some unfortunate people went blind.”

  “You know your eyes are a little bloodshot.”

  “That’s not from the alcohol. I munched down a mescal button with last night’s supper.”

  “Jesus, Nigel, why didn’t you tell me—I thought you were toasted. You’re mixing alcohol with hallucinogens and you expect to help me with a high profile investigation? Are you nuts?”

  “Never say die, my lovely, I’m coming down as we speak.”

  “Forget about it, you’re in no shape to diagnose the criminally insane.”

  Twain poured a sip of his green fairy into an odd glass and then added a splash of ice water. The green stuff turned a fuzzy white. Nigel swirled the liquid in its glass and drank it.

  “Oh, that’s beautiful. That’ll help.”

  Nigel had the silliest expression on his face that I had ever seen. “I only do this for the religious experience—you know that. I use mescal for its entheogenic qualities.”

  That much was true. Nigel was devoutly religious. His nearness to God began when he was a child growing up in London. He had lived through much ridicule for his use of psychoactive substances in the treating of his patients. For him, popping a peyote button was about the same as you or I dropping aspirin.

  I needed a little time to assess Twain’s state of mind, so I quizzed him to see if he had presence of mind. “So tell me about this green liquid you just chugged.”

  “My dear girl, absinthe has been around since the nineteenth century. It’s said to have hallucinogenic qualities, but I can assure you it does not—if anyone should know, it’s me. It was a very popular drink in most of Europe, Paris in particular, where it was enjoyed by many of the day’s most highly regarded artistes and creative minds: Baudelaire, Lautrec, van Gogh, Gauguin, and Picasso, were all fond of the drink.”

  Now Picasso, I understood; he’d have had to have been blitzed to paint some of the stuff he did. Go to the museum and check out Guernica, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

  “It’s made from wormwood.”

/>   I didn’t need to know that. As far as I was concerned, I’d spent too much time in the insect world already. I mean I know there are no actual bugs in wormwood, but a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere.

  So a few minutes had passed and Twain was still looking silly, but as far as I could tell, he was completely lucid. “Nigel, I’ll ask you one last time. Are you in touch with reality? Are you going to be able to analyze my tunnel rat and tell me what’s going on in his crazy head?”

  “Like no one else can.”

  Good enough for me. I put Twain in the car and drove to Lenox Hill. Nigel Twain had never led me astray.

  Forty-Four

  Zugg had gotten a lift back home. I sincerely hoped that he was enjoying some rest. The man had a good soul—what he was going through, it just wasn’t fair. I felt as if I needed to thank him daily for his help, as if each time I saw him might be the last. I didn’t for his sake—to help him stay strong and hopeful. I did include him in my prayers at the end of each day. As a matter of routine, I prayed each night for my father’s eternal spirit, my family, my friends, and of course for Gus. I had recently included my old boss, Sonellio, and now Zugg. The list was growing: the names of those I implored God to safeguard, the ones I couldn’t protect on my own. Who would be next?

  Ambler and Lido both looked like they had benefited from some well needed shuteye. They were at the hospital and waiting for us when we arrived. Lido was cordial to Twain, despite his nagging suspicions that Twain was a frequent visitor in my dreams, a demonic tempter with an animal magnetism I could not resist. Was that in Lido’s mind or mine? Ambler had his doubts about Twain, but kept his mouth shut, and would continue to do so as long as Twain continued to come through for us. As I mentioned, the man was a bit eccentric, but he had the right stuff.

  “Your John Doe died last night,” Ambler said.

  “The tortured man?” Twain asked. I’d given him a high level briefing on the drive uptown. The fact that he had retained some of it was good news—it just confirmed for me that he wasn’t totally sloshed.