by Gary Starta
***
Alison fumbled in her pocket for her phone to see if she’d gotten any messages. “Where are Michael and Eliza? It’s getting late! Clara, if something happened to them and they don’t come back, we have to have a plan of our own. I’m still on the Silver Man’s radar, and now I’m probably wanted as a fugitive, too. Your own killer is out there, and this time I don’t know who it is or if he’ll be able to resist the killing drug.
“We have to figure out a way to save you first, and then go to the police so you can back up my story. Michael’s worthless to us. Eliza hasn’t done anything against the law, and soon the drug will be out of her system. The meeting was a secret, so even if she offers up her invitation and the address of the last meeting, she can’t prove she was actually there – not unless they raid the place, and the Silver Man said they never meet in the same place twice. We have to find out where they’re meeting next so we can take some of the vials as proof of what they did to me and then tip off the police so they can find the rest of it there. I want to time it so that they get there at the start of the social hour. That way they’ll catch the waiters passing it around in the drinks and Galatea giving new members their orders to kill. That’ll give us leverage.”
Clara sashayed over to her closet, rummaging around for an old outfit she’d thrown in there a few years ago but had forgotten about until now. “Sure, Alison. Leverage. So, how are you going to help me get rid of my killer? Right now, that’s the only thing that matters to me. I can’t help you until you help me, honey. You know that. Friends ‘til the end, right?” Clara flashed her a great, big ingratiating smile.
“Right.” Alison blushed all the way to the roots of her dirty brown hair.
“We can figure out all the rest later. You know, I don’t need any leverage, I only need protection, but like I said, you help me and I’ll help you. If Michael comes back, we’ll send him out to the liquor store or something, make an anonymous call to the police and have him picked up. If Eliza comes back, we can still use her even if the drug is already out of her system. Like you said, the Silver Man knows by now she didn’t kill me. He’ll be after her, too. She has to help me. I mean, us. Us.”
She sat behind Alison on the bed and began to braid her hair. “Oh, Allie, I could introduce you to all the best people. You’d have invitations pouring in every weekend. You know what? I should do your hair for you! Let me give you a completely new look. I’ll cut it into the latest style, get rid of that mousy color and make you into a racy redhead. What do you say, bestie?”
Alison was aware that she should change her look for her own protection, but she never made any changes, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to make such a drastic one now. “I don’t know, Clara, it’s kind of a lot to think about.”
“Come on, Alison, you need to look like a different person or you won’t last a minute outside this apartment, and you certainly can’t go home to get anything. You can wear something of mine until we can get some clothes and anything else you need. You do have money, don’t you? I can’t afford much, I’m afraid.”
Alison was becoming overwrought again. She bit her nails right down to the quick while considering what to do. “Yes, I have money. I suppose you’re right. I do have to change my look. All right, let’s do it.”
“It’ll be fun, Allie! We need a diversion anyway or we’ll worry ourselves to death. I’ll get us another glass of wine and we’ll play Cinderella.”
Clara left the bedroom and went into the kitchen for the wine. Once there, she let out her breath in a whoosh of relief, rolled her shoulders and arched her back. Playing this part was becoming a strain on her delicate body. Maybe it would have been easier for her if she liked Alison or even respected her, but Clara didn’t know the meaning of the words. She spent her life putting on false faces to get what she wanted. It always worked before, so she saw no reason to try being a true friend to have one.
Clara was perpetually rewarded and admired for her selfish, willful machinations by Uncle, a man of wealth, power, and social standing. He’d taken her in to live with him in his home as a child several months after her father lost his job and could no longer support her. Clara’s mother passed on shortly after.
She’d grown up in the elderly man’s home spoiled and privileged beyond reason. He was a proud and ruthlessness Machiavellian and a brilliant lawyer determined to win at any cost. Wildly successful in the business world, Uncle was neither admired nor envied. He was feared as a sly, calculating, trickster without remorse or pity. Uncle taught Clara that justice meant nothing; winning the case created its own justice. Everything was about winning.
Clara was the jewel in his crown. Alone and lonely, he had no one to coddle or brag to other than her. The little girl grew up every bit as self-serving as Uncle. She learned early on that her grace and beauty emitted a blinding light even he could not see through. She learned quickly and well. Money and power bought anything, even justice. Men were ridiculously easy to hoodwink. Women were much harder to fool, though, so she generally had no use for them.
Uncle was smart, but not smart enough for Clara who was cursed with living what she learned at home. She wanted all the things he did - money, nice things, high-class friends, the best of everything. As the years rolled by, her desire for his money and a glamorous life clashed with cold, stark reality. His money wasn’t hers. She had to pamper his ego and tease him playfully for every nickel she got, and he squeezed those moments out of her for all they were worth, whether they were genuine or not. The old gentleman was in his dotage now, and Clara had finally perfected the art of getting what she wanted out of him. He could never say no to her. Clara might have seen a lot more trouble in her life if he hadn’t continually bailed her out, but he did. As it was, he saved her one kind of trouble, but brought home another. She was a monster of greed who spent most of her time and all her energy hurtling towards disaster at lightning speed.
Tonight, Clara was exhausted but friendless and frightened. She couldn’t go to Uncle with this problem; he' know in an instant that she’d been responsible for the ruin of that woman’s career. She couldn’t risk being disinherited. Alison was her only hope.
The irony of Clara’s assumptions were in how she went about using Alison, who’d offered help willingly before it was even asked for. She asked for nothing because she expected nothing. She gave what she had without expecting anything in return.
Armed with a fresh bottle of wine and a plate of cheese and fruit, Clara pulled herself together and plastered a smile on her face before walking back into her bedroom to face a night of girl talk and beauty makeovers. Alison, whose bravery and altruism outshone all the stars in heaven, sipped, ate, and laughed with Clara, who could never serve up anything other than artifice.
***
Carter sat in his office thinking about the billboard advertisement for the Cloisters that Deeprose pointed out to him. She really did entertain the possibility that Michael might have been influenced by someone or something. But he’s not smart enough to understand much, let alone be influenced by anyone.
I’m looking at unrelated murders that seem related, but not to serials or thrillers. Unrelated yet related. What could tie separately planned and executed murders together besides the person obviously pulling the strings? What if he wasn’t influenced by a person but by a chemical? That would make a lot more sense where Michael’s concerned. Could the stuff in that vial be the connection in these cases? Is this all about drugs?
The still unidentified substance didn’t appear to be anything they’d ever seen.
Was Michael killing for drugs? The death of the curator and the guard didn’t seem to be about money. Nothing was missing. If he did kill for his drugs, he’d have taken the bag of money. But why would anyone leave a sack of money in a grave unless they were under the influence of…something?
Carter relaxed his mind and let it float over the rooms of the museum. Deep in meditation, he could hear every conversation he’d had or hea
rd concerning the crimes there. Suddenly, he opened his eyes. He remembered that Deeprose believed the near-priceless painting, donated by the odd and absent temporary curator, Arthur Moreland, was a clue.
And it was!
But if Mr. Moreland knew something, there were a thousand ways he could have let us know what it was. Why run away and hide? Why leave a painting behind that no one would think twice about? What was it Deeprose said? It didn’t belong there. It was from a different period altogether – Impressionist. That’s what she said; it didn’t belong there, but Moreland left it there just the same.
We have to find Mr. Moreland.
***
Agent Seacrest knocked on his office door and barged right in without waiting for an answer. She was as excited as a child playing Show and Tell. “Pop this flash drive into your P.C., Carter, and bring up the video on it. Sorry I didn’t bring any popcorn, but I promise you one hell of a show.”
“Let’s wait until Agent Deeprose gets here, shall we? Whatever it is you have up your sleeve, I want her in on it.”
When everyone had their coffee and was comfortably seated, Seacrest turned the screen so that it faced the three of them, and pressed ‘play’. She narrated a gruesome story as an unsuspecting cockroach became a two-car garage for a wasp determined to raise its young inside of it.
“What you are observing is neuroscience in all its horrible glory. The wasp has injected its venom right into the roach’s brain to take control over it. See how it moves away from the roach for a period of time? That’s because she’s waiting for the drug to take effect. Notice now that the roach is obsessively cleaning itself. The venom induces it to create a germ-free environment for the wasp’s offspring. The roach has now stopped all motion and sits docilely, allowing itself to be dragged by an insect many times smaller than itself into a safe place she has already chosen and one from which the roach will not try to escape. He has become a zombie – an unwitting, yet willing victim. He will play host to the wasp’s egg, without caring that it is being eaten alive little by little from the inside out.”
“The venom is used for mind control?”
“Indeed. And it’s done that way throughout much of the insect kingdom. The roach might be physically able to crawl away from its fate, but he won’t. His brain has been altered to accept anything that happens to it. He may even experience euphoria in this altered state. We don’t know for sure. But we can surmise that the wasp’s venom is as powerful as any drug known to man. Maybe stronger.”
Carter raised a hand. “I assume we’re watching this because it relates somehow to our case. Am I right?”
“Go to the head of the class. Certain behavioral responses may be shut down when a drug, or venom, mutes specific neurons. Our wasp was born with venom that shuts down just the right centers of brain activity to immobilize the roach. Humans experience the same loss of control when they ingest certain inhibitors, like Rohypnol, known as ‘Roofies’; Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid, known as ‘Liquid Ecstasy’, and Ketamine, also known as ‘Special K’. These are the most commonly used drugs in date rape, where the victim is conscious but can’t move or talk or resist in any way. These drugs all come in pills, liquids, or powders.”
Deeprose jumped out of her chair. “Liquids! You mean the liquid in that vial we found?”
“In a way, Agent Deeprose. You see, the same way a drug can make us docile and unable to resist an attack, other drugs might make us extraordinarily aggressive, like Angel Dust, or open to suggestion, like Scopolamine.
“I can’t find anything like the stuff in that vial in the national drug database. It may be a synthetic replica of a naturally occurring substance like the one inside the wasp. It may grow on a plant or a bush or tree. It may come from half way around the world. We don’t know yet, but once we’ve completed analyzing it using the mass spectrometer and we can identify the compounds, I think we’re going to find that it has similar properties to the classes of drugs I just mentioned. Until we know its components and test it, we won’t know what it’s meant for or to what degree it affects men, women, children and people of different sizes, ages, and weights – or for how long.”
Carter interrupted. “Just a second. Let me wrap my head around this, Jill. Did you show us that video because you think this substance we have might be one half of a set – the other half of which we don’t have? One drug to pacify the victim and one to suggest a plan and increase the aggressiveness of the perpetrator? Am I correct when I say that what we think we do have in our possession is either a stolen prototype or one that’s been reproduced into God knows how many doses? And that someone is going to have to ingest this thing to find out what it does before we can guess what its companion drug does?”
“Carter, we have no idea what we have, yet. It was found in a murderer’s possession and it’s an unidentified substance we’ve never seen before, but…I’m fairly certain that we’ll find it’s something like what I came here to show you. There may not even be a companion drug. I’m guessing there would be two, but maybe there’s only one. It may be that the killer only uses it to subdue his victim. Or maybe he uses it himself to feel the high of power and control that killers need.”
Carter was beginning to get a headache. “And it may be that whatever this drug is, it has nothing to do with the murders in question at all.”
Seacrest talked out loud as she paced around the office. “I’m waiting for test results from his blood to see if it’s still in his system. If he was dosed and forced into doing this, then no matter what we think of him, he’s a victim, too. If he took it knowingly, well, then that’s a different story- motive being that he knowingly took it to feel a high that would encourage brutally aggressive behavior. And killing that old man wasn’t spur of the moment. It was a half-assed plan, but it was definitely planned by someone, right down to the buried security guard and his bag of money.
“The fact that the substance is so hard to identify makes me almost positive it was stolen – if not by Michael, then by the ones who gave it to him. It’s not a new street drug; we’d know that in a minute. It must have originated in a private or government-sponsored institution. Michael would never have access to something like that; I’m sure of it.
“No, our thief is someone at a very high level of authority in the government or the private sector who reports to and is funded by the government. He knew what he was taking, where and how to get it, and how to reproduce it. And he took it for a reason. We need to know what that reason is and whether or not it’s related to the murders.”
Deeprose crossed her arms over her chest. “Let’s assume everything y’all just said is correct. If one or both companion drugs affect the morality or judgment centers of the brain, and the killer can prove he was dosed without his knowledge or permission, he can plead extenuatin’ circumstances, like temporary insanity or hijackin’ of the mind. Maybe he got dosed originally without knowin’ it, but Ah’m bettin’ he had it in the car because he already knew what it could do and wanted more. That’s what we’ll have to prove to get a conviction that can’t be overturned, and that’s gonna be damned near impossible.”
Carter got up and grabbed his overcoat. “I’m starting to understand the reason Michael won’t tell us the ‘why’ of the crime; no one would believe a story like that, and as dull as he is, he knows by now that if he does talk, he’s as good as dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
Seven Years Earlier…
The JASONS were a secret that had been around so long they’d become mythical in nature; they were the men who comprised the executive board of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (D.A.R.P.A.), dating back to the launch of Sputnik in 1957 and created by the United States’ Department of Defense (Directive Number 5105.15) to ensure that we would be the initiator, not the victim, of unexpected strategic technological leaps.
Working with innovators inside and outside of government, D.A.R.P.A. produced game-changing military capabilities such as precision weap
ons and stealth technology, the internet, automated voice recognition and language translation, and G.P.S. receivers small enough to embed in cell phones.
More powerful than any government or agency on earth, the JASONS acted quietly and under the radar. Their strength was not in numbers; it was in their absolute authority to approve or deny D.A.R.P.A. projects that would result in breakthrough technologies for national security. Approval was based on a unanimous vote, ensuring that one person always had the power to shut down dangerous proposals or unscrupulous board members. Therefore, it took only one vote to scrap a proposal.
The JASONS’ true identities were never revealed to the public, even after the Department of Defense abandoned their sponsorship. The majority of their proposals were submitted to the D.O.D. by a non-profit organization called the Meese Corporation, in Langley, Virginia. Meese conducted scientific research and development for the government and had done so for decades. They were naturally above suspicion. It was the perfect hiding place for the JASONS, known only as the board of directors at Meese. The D.O.D., always hungry to gain an advantage on the battlefield, focused on projects that were weapon-based. However, the secret committee of JASONS focused on a much bigger picture. No battles ever won provided a permanent, or even a long-lasting, peace for posterity. The JASONS considered it their responsibility to keep humanity from becoming extinct, any way they thought viable.
Decades before a single newscaster talked about acid rain or global warming, the JASONS were studying its effects. The computer and electronics-based battlefields of today, for example, was an idea generated in the early 1970’s. But it would not be implemented until years later, when The JASONS brought in a unanimous vote, finally agreeing that technology was at an optimal level to bring war to a swifter and less destructive end. Some members were bent on non-militaristic endeavors, which only led to further friction between them and the D.O.D.