(1995) Chain of Evidence

by Ridley Pearson

  “Looks like you get a gold star, Dartelli.”

  “What if I don’t want it?” Joe Dart asked.

  CHAPTER 26

  With Bud Gorman having retraced Zeller’s former employment to Proctor Security, Dart started with Terry Proctor.

  The security firm occupied the top two floors of a four-story cement and steel structure on Asylum Street. The receptionist, in her late twenties, wore a gray wool Italian suit with black buttons and a white blouse buttoned at the collar. At Dart’s office, the receptionist was an Irish sergeant with a wart on his chin and a scowl on his face. After waiting a few minutes, Dart was led down a hallway lined with corporate citations and black-and-white photographs of international cities. Terry Proctor imagined himself a big player in corporate security, when in fact he was small potatoes. The big boys, like Kroll Associates, had never heard of him and never would. His office overlooked a section of the Connecticut river, brown and lazy, and a view east of barren trees interrupted by buildings. It had been decorated like a cheap tearoom. Muzak played from hidden speakers, making Dart slightly nauseated. He half expected a cocktail waitress.

  Proctor was ruggedly handsome, six two, with piercing blue eyes and wide shoulders, but he dressed like a used-car salesman. He wore gold-plated cuff links and black glasses etched with a bifocal line. His hairpiece matched his glasses; his smile, the cufflinks—gold fillings. Dart sank into a brown vinyl couch that hissed at him like a snake. Proctor worked a remote control device, aimed it at the wall, and the music stopped. Thank God!

  “I had hoped you might be looking for employment,” Proctor said. To Dart he came across as a male madam trying to lure Dart into homosexual prostitution.

  “Walter Zeller worked for you after he left the department,” Dart said.

  “It was quite the coup when we got Walter,” Proctor said, though he looked a little nervous, Dart thought. “A huge disappointment when he left. But then again, with all he’d been through—personally—not too big a surprise. I’m not sure he’ll ever be happy in the private sector.” He advised, “Some people aren’t made for this work. And I’m not saying it’s easier or more difficult than what you’re doing, where you are now—different is all.” He toyed with his wristwatch—also gold-plated, some of the finish worn off.

  “Can I ask what he was working on when he was with you?”

  “Of course you can ask.” He smiled a toothpaste smile and offered Dart a patronizing look. “If only I could answer,” he said, the smile not leaving his face. “The strongest selling point for any private security firm is confidentiality, Detective—the cornerstone of our business. I’m sure you understand.”

  “It goes no further than me,” Dart promised. “I’m not here to lift your skirt.”

  “Joe,” the man said earnestly, leaning forward and speaking softly. Dart wondered if the office had a hidden tape recorder. He basically confirmed this when Proctor reached out and triggered the remote, returning the music and covering his voice. Guys like Proctor thought of themselves as big shots; the real big shots never let on. “You wouldn’t believe the NDAs I have to sign. Nondisclosure agreements. The boilerplate runs twenty pages. Many go over fifty.” This length seemed to be a source of pride for Proctor. “You wouldn’t believe the penalties—seven figures in some cases. I’m bound legally and morally to keep my lips zipped—that’s all there is to it.” He didn’t have a moral ounce in his body. “So are my employees. It’s one reason we pull such large paychecks. People come to us to keep things quiet. Okay? Sorry.”

  “So even if you wanted to help me, you couldn’t,” Dart tested.

  “Of course I’d like to help.”

  “Bullshit. Let me tell you something, Proctor. I’ll come here with subpoenas if I have to.”

  “You’ll have to,” the man said, offering another staged smile, seemingly unaffected.

  “Corporate? Private? Anything you can give me.”

  “Sorry.”

  Dart saw resistance in the man’s eyes. He didn’t want Dart to have this information. Out of stubbornness, or guilt?

  “I’m in a position where I have to have no comment, Joe. I wish I could help you. Okay? Sorry.”

  “What makes a man leave a cushy security job after only a couple months?” Dart asked. “That’s not privileged.”

  “I told you: As far as I could tell he just wasn’t ready for this. We operate differently than you guys. Sure, we pay well; and for that we expect loyalty, dedication, attention to detail. My take is that Walter needed more time. He needed more time to grieve over his wife’s death—that’s my opinion.”

  “You’re saying it was for personal reasons.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Nothing to do with his work,” Dart pressed.

  The man looked uncomfortable.

  “You can answer that,” Dart reminded.

  Proctor flashed his plastic smile. “You want to tell me what it is that you are working on, Joe? What’s your interest in Zeller?”

  “Are we both interested in Zeller?” Dart asked.

  “We serve a necessary function. I help ease your workload whether you acknowledge that or not.”

  “You break laws to accomplish your clients’ needs. We uphold those laws.”

  “We break the little laws—the ones you wish you could break. Chain of custody? Warrants for search and seizure? We’re rarely after a court settlement. We do what we’re hired to do.”

  “To break the law.”

  “Not at all. You know that, Joe. We play within the accepted boundaries. If we didn’t, we would be out of business. You know that.”

  “You won’t help me with Zeller?” Dart asked.

  “I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to—”

  “And if I subpoena you, and it happens to leak to the media—”

  “Are you threatening me, Joe?”

  “I’m warning you, Terry,” he said, having never met the man before. “I’d rather keep the gloves on, but if they come off … I want you to know that I’m serious about this. We’re not talking about taking bedroom pictures of some CEO’s unfaithful wife.” This somehow caught Proctor where he lived. The man squared his shoulders and sat back in his chair, his face red, his fists and jaw clenched.

  In an angry voice he said, “Don’t be an asshole, Dartelli. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I need answers.”

  “You won’t get them here.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “We’ll see.”

  On his way back, Dart found a pay phone and called Gorman. “I need a client list for a security firm in town. Can you get it for me?”

  “Proctor Securities?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I can identify all deposits, and I can trace those deposits to bank accounts. Will that do?”

  Dart gave him the dates of Zeller’s employment at Proctor.

  “Are we getting somewhere?” Gorman asked hopefully. Part of the reason for the man’s participation over the years, Dart had come to understand, was the excitement. The speeding tickets were just an excuse.

  “We’re getting somewhere,” Dart answered. But the closer we get, the worse it looks.

  CHAPTER 27

  “I tell ya,” Teddy Bragg said to Dart, sitting in the cramped forensic sciences office. “This is rocket science, or might as well be, so if I lose you, speak up because I don’t want to have to explain everything all over again.”

  Dart felt uneasy. Bragg had excitement in his bloodshot eyes, and he offered a wide smile of his capped teeth. Recently, Bragg had not been smiling about anything. His skin had a little more color to it. He had come to Dart in person, something unheard of for Bragg. He had ranted on about how Dart should thank him for doing all the necessary research because without it he wouldn’t know what he knew, and now that he knew what he knew, he knew it was important. “Critically important,” he had said.

  Dart had followed him down the hall with his heart in his
throat. He’d never seen Bragg like this.

  “You look better,” Dart said.

  “Feel better.” He pointed to a canister in the corner of the office that, amid all the other debris, Dart had failed to notice. “O-two,” he said, “good old oxygen—or new oxygen, actually.” He smiled again, showing off his dental work.

  “Let me get this straight,” Dart offered, seeing the open pack of cigarettes on the man’s desk. “You’re still smoking, but now you’re taking oxygen as well.”

  “Physician, heal thyself.”

  “But you’re no MD, Buzz.”

  “Mind your own business. It works. Don’t knock it. Are you paying attention? Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed Dart a photocopy of a page containing too many boxes, all filled with numbers. “Full blood workup that you requested. Harold Payne.”

  “What’s it tell us?” Dart asked.

  “It tells me. I tell you,” he replied arrogantly. “What it tells me, is that your boy was a quart low on androgens. Everything else checks out fine.”

  “Androgens?”

  “Male hormones. Testosterone and company. The ‘hard’ in hard-on.”

  “Slow down, Buzz.”

  “We aren’t even started yet. I tell ya—this is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This is the kind of thing that a guy like me lives for. You been there. You know.”

  “Androgens,” Dart repeated. He took out his notepad.

  Seeing this, Bragg said, “Good boy. Now you’re getting the point.”

  “What is the point? Or do you have to take me through two years of pre-med first?”

  “Don’t get cute,” Bragg warned. “Most hormones can be categorized as either peptides or lipids. Peptides are chains of amino acids; lipids are fats and oils. Steroids are an example of a lipid. Did you hear me? Steroids. Do I have your interest yet? Both males and females possess endocrine systems that deliver estrogens, what we think of as female hormones, and androgens, the male hormones, in varying quantities. Those quantities control development and maturity of the genitals, body hair, breasts, voice range—human sexuality.” He craned forward, “Pay attention! Some say the psychology of sex as well, because many peptides have association with psychological activity. It is a delicate and precious balance responsible for the propagation of all species. A peptide is a chain of amino acids—you make it longer and it becomes a protein. In its shorter version it acts as a hormone. On an atomic level, there are some fascinating things that take place—but I’ll save you that, unless you’re interested.”

  “Give me the Cliff Notes version.”

  Bragg warned, “You’re going to need to study this if you’re ever going to understand it. This won’t come easy, Ivy. This isn’t ballistics or even DNA fingerprinting. This is heady stuff. We would have missed this if you hadn’t pushed for that workup, but you did, and I gotta tell ya, I love this shit!”

  “But worth what?” Dart repeated.

  “We’re talking about vastly diminished levels of androgens, Ivy. Radically diminished levels, if you follow me.”

  “I want to follow you. I’m trying,” Dart said.

  “I’ll tell ya something—based on this blood work, I would have bet the farm that Payne was a neuter. No testicles. But I checked.” Answering Dart’s puzzled expression he said, “Damn right. I checked with Doc Ray—jewels intact. Which means that there is no medical explanation for these deficiencies. And let me just say that hormone deficiency has been a major focus of the medical community for decades, and I’m quite aware of the science as a whole and certain treatments in specific.”

  “Does this has to do with—”

  “His being a wife beater? It certainly could. You bet. And if you ask me, it does. Opinions might vary. But there’s the rub: lower levels should make this guy passive; abnormally higher levels of androgens would be anticipated in a sex offender. And that’s where the research I was talking about comes in.” He pointed to a stack of books. He was speaking so excitedly that Dart could barely understand him. “I got some of this on-line last night. Some of it from standard reference. I’ve posted a couple of e-mails; I should know more by tomorrow or Friday. Fascinating stuff,” he said.

  “Let me get this straight: Payne’s levels were lower than normal. And given his abhorrent behavior with his wife, we would expect higher levels.”

  “I would,” Bragg corrected. “Yes. And here’s the bigger problem: The blood workup did not reveal any medication—the synthetic or animal hormones we would expect to encounter with chemical castration.”

  “Castration?”

  “Let me give you some background.” He pointed to the stack of books and newspaper articles on the countertop. “First off, keep in mind that we’re talking about sex offenders, Ivy. Very important! We’re talking about men who take ten-year-old girls behind toolsheds and force them to have sex. Full penetration. Oral sex. Anal sex. You name it. It ain’t pretty. If it’s assault, then they break a few limbs in the process. Beat her up. Or if it’s a Harold Payne, then it’s the beating her up that counts. Bruises. Contusions. Lacerations. Fractures. These guys are beasts.”

  “If you’re asking if we care about these guys dying, all I can say is—”

  “I’m not! I tell ya, I’m not crying over losing Harold Payne—not if he took his own life. But we’re both questioning that, aren’t we? Of course we are, or you wouldn’t be here. Listen to me—several years back, late eighties, Finland instituted a program of voluntary castration for its sex offenders. They traded these men freedom for castration. The group was monitored and studied over a four-year period. The results were impressive: two to four percent recidivism versus eighty in the control group—a ninety-eight percent reduction in sexual assault; and even these figures are skewed. The two to four percent repeat offenders were picked up for offenses like voyeurism and flashing. In fact, none of the castrated offenders went on to commit a violent sexual act. Not one.

  “The castrations were voluntary, don’t forget,” Bragg continued. “I tell ya, it’s a relatively simple procedure: the testicles are removed and replaced by prosthesis. And don’t feel too sorry: A percentage of the group reported having intercourse about once a month. But the abhorrent behavior, caused by either ‘defective’ hormone production—if you will—or the body’s overproduction, was eliminated entirely. Simple English: Castration works.”

  “But Payne’s equipment was intact,” Dart reminded.

  “Scientists and researchers in this country bowed to the religious right and deemed castration barbaric. This, despite the obvious success. But it led to other attempts: The U.S. decided that a less barbaric solution would be to administer high doses of estrogen, in theory to counter-balance the ill effects of the over-production of testosterone. That’s known as chemical castration. It was tried on a voluntary basis in some of our prisons. It failed on two counts. One, because of the inherent social problems with this approach: breast development, loss of facial hair, a change of voice. Two, it just plain didn’t work. The funding was scrapped and the program dropped. We reverted to locking away sex offenders, but for far too brief a time.”

  “Teddy—”

  “Where am I going with this?” he asked rhetorically. “Let me tell ya.” He spun his chair around and produced one of several gray cardboard boxes, the size and shape of a shoe box. He removed the lid and pulled out a plastic bag, inside of which was a smaller plastic bag, inside of which were the glass vials recovered from 11 Hamilton Court. “Don’t jump all over me about the inadmissibility of this evidence, because I’ve heard all about it. And besides, that’s your problem. I don’t give a shit. My job is to make sense of evidence. And boy, can I make sense of this.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Dead viruses,” he said, pointing to the vials. “Mean anything?”

  “Vaccine?”

  “Good boy,” Bragg said, clearly impressed. “Only in this case you’re wrong. Close, but no cigar.”

&n
bsp; Mention of a cigar reminded Dart of Zeller, and he studied Bragg closely to see if maybe the man knew more than he was letting on. He decided that he wasn’t. “So?”

  “There are three systems currently in wide use for the delivery of gene therapy.”

  “Gene therapy,” Dart echoed.

  “DNA. The building block of life.”

  “I got that,” Dart said anxiously.

  “My guess is that our Mr. Payne was in a gene therapy program.”

  Dart finally saw what Bragg was getting at. He nearly shouted, “A program involving sex offenders, wife beaters?”

  Bragg nodded. “It’s called anti-sense technology. What it amounts to is divining which gene produces ill effects and then attaching DNA material to that gene to resequence its behavior. It’s been effective with Huntington’s disease, high cholesterol. It’s a wide-open field. The government has been actively mapping human DNA since the eighties in something called the Human Genome Project. Everyone’s involved—even Bill Gates.”

  “We found injection marks,” Dart stuttered. “We thought maybe giving blood or selling plasma.”

  Bragg acted out giving himself a shot in the arm. “Shooting up dead viruses mixed with fresh genes. It’s the ultimate solution,” he said. “Nothing barbaric about it. Fix the gene, correct the hormonal imbalance, improve the behavior. Like cutting the nuts off without a knife. Break the chain. I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here. But it’s possible.”

  “How possible?”

  “Quite possible.” Bragg pointed to the vials. “If this shit is what I think it is, it’s the cutting edge.”

  CHAPTER 28