Ben smiled a little. “You’re a leg man.”
“Guess my secret’s out.”
“It’s not a crime.” Ben folded up his notebook and prepared to leave. “What about Ray? Was he a leg man?”
“Oh, no.” A crease crossed his forehead. “He made that very clear on more than one occasion. He went for the eyes.”
Ben felt his back stiffen.
“He was nuts for a good pair of eyes,” Hubbard continued. “He’d catch the ladies’ gaze and follow them from one end of the club to the other. Staring at their eyes.”
Chapter
17
“Ear kindling? That sounds dangerous.”
“Not kindling. Candling.”
“Ear candling?” Mike shrugged. “Still sounds dangerous.”
The doctor appeared all too accustomed to this reaction. “It’s a well-established scientific technique. Dates back to ancient Egypt.”
“So does trepanning, but I wouldn’t want to try that either.”
Dr. Harris smiled. “Totally different, I assure you.”
“And Erin Faulkner went in for this?”
“She visited me once a week. More regularly than she saw her psychiatrist, I understand.” Dr. Jamison Harris was a relatively young man—in his early thirties, Mike guessed. He was a trifle overweight but seemed in generally good shape, with long, brown hair that curled uncontrollably down his head and touched his shoulders. “She enjoyed her sessions.”
“Do you mind if I ask—why?”
“It’s very relaxing,” Harris explained. “And we live in an age when people are looking for relaxation, for something to calm their nerves and relieve their stress. Simple ways to achieve an altered state. No one more than Erin Faulkner.”
Sergeant Baxter frowned. “Personally, I think I’ll just stick with a good hot soak in the tub.”
Harris nodded. “And do you light candles when you take your bath?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Turn on some soothing music?”
“When I have the time.”
“And what Erin Faulkner did with me was much the same. Only more so. And with some medical benefits.”
“If you say so.” Mike dug his fists deep into his trench coat. “You ever heard about this ear-candling bit, Baxter?”
“Actually, I have. I had to educate myself. We shut down a couple of so-called therapists who were doing it in OK City.”
“What was the charge?”
She gave the doctor the eye. “Quack medicine.”
Harris held up a finger. “But they weren’t licensed to practice medicine, right? I am. I’m beyond your reach.”
“True enough. But I wonder how the AMA feels about this?”
Mike gave her a stern look. Don’t alienate the witness before they have a chance to interrogate him.
Baxter took the cue. “Maybe I haven’t had it explained to me properly. Could you tell me what it is exactly you do?”
“I’d be delighted.” Harris walked them across his apartment to a long table in the corner. It looked to Mike like something he might expect to see in a massage parlor, which, combined with the fact that the doctor was operating out of his apartment, did not elevate his opinion of the man’s practice.
“It’s very simple, really,” Harris said, raising a long white object. “I light the wide end of a hollow conical candle made of waxed cloth. Very gently, I insert the narrow tip on the opposite end into the ear. The heat generated by the flame creates a vacuum that sucks out all the foreign matter in the ear.”
“Like what?”
“Wax, obviously. But there’s more. Dust, dirt. Ear mites. Sometimes even small insects. Spiders and such.”
Mike cringed. “Out of someone’s ear?”
“You heard me.”
“You know, I’ve personally viewed sixty-four homicide victims, most of them violent deaths. But this is making me sick.”
“It’s not that bad, I assure you.”
“But how do you know if you actually accomplished anything?”
“After the procedure is finished—it takes about an hour—you can cut open the hollow candle and see for yourself what came out.”
“Oh happy day. And you say Erin Faulkner went in for this?”
“She said it was the high point of her week. She looked forward to it. It made her feel clean—in a way that nothing else did.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about what Erin might’ve told you. When she was in for her . . . er . . . candling sessions.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Privilege, you know.”
“She’s dead, Doctor.”
“Yes. But I still prefer not to reveal confidences. Not unless I’m ordered by the court.”
Apparently this was more than Baxter could bear. She stepped in between Mike and Harris. “Look, Doctor—if you were performing open-heart surgery, I might buy that. But this is medicine-show crap and we both know it. I’m not going to let you hide behind any so-called medical ethics.”
“I very much resent that. The ear-candling technique is a tried-and-true—”
“Don’t pull that crap on me, Doctor. I’m aware that this is the hot trendy new treatment for society broads who don’t really have anything wrong with them. But that doesn’t mean it works.”
“And tell me again where you got your medical degree?”
“There’s absolutely no proof whatsoever that this procedure does any good. What’s more, it could lead to infection, not to mention burns on the ear canal or eardrum or hair. The FDA considers it a heath hazard.”
“As if they knew anything about medicine.”
“Does the American Academy of Otolaryngology know anything about medicine?”
Mike did a double take. Now he was impressed.
“Because I happen to know for a fact,” Baxter continued, “that they don’t think it works. They say a lighted candle could never create enough suction to draw wax or much of anything else out of the ear. They say that stuff that shows up when you cut open the candle is just melted wax.”
“That’s absurd! It’s—it’s—ear mites, and—”
“Dogs get ear mites, Doctor. Dogs and cats. Not people. And ear wax is good for you, at least up to a point. It traps dust and dirt and prevents infection. Ear canals are hard to get at for a reason—to protect the eardrum.”
“It helps relieve headaches. Stress. You’re totally ignoring the psychological benefits.”
“What, the pleasure of lying on a table for an hour with a decent-looking guy in the room?”
“My business has been thriving.”
“You’ve got other customers? Besides Erin?”
“I’ve never been so busy. Does that surprise you?”
“Well, frankly, yes. I mean, I know Erin was kinda messed up—”
“Excuse me,” Harris said, cutting him off, “but I don’t agree with that at all.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Mike sighed. “Dr. Harris, surely you realize that a report from us to the state licensing board or the AMA could get you shut down inside of a week. What’s more”—he glanced at his partner—“it should be fairly apparent to you by now that Sergeant Baxter would really enjoy doing it. I think you better talk to us, Doctor. Don’t you?”
“Okay,” Jones was saying to Loving as Ben entered the office, “I understand about the food and the water and the weapons. But why do you need the metal helmet?”
Ben’s eyes diverted to Jones’s desk, which was currently ornamented by an underwater diving helmet that had been tricked out with mirrors and an antenna. It looked like something Commander Cody might wear in an old movie serial.
Ben pulled up a chair. This was an explanation he wanted to hear.
“Two words,” Loving said, his face grave. “Mind control.”
Jones was not impressed. “I’
m supposed to believe someone wants to control your mind?”
“It ain’t just me, wise guy. When they come, they’ll come for everyone.”
“And they is—?”
“The Council on Foreign Relations. The UN. The CIA. The Trilateral Commission. The Rhodes scholars.”
“The Rhodes scholars?” Ben echoed.
“Hell, yes. Cecil Rhodes was a One World nut from the get-go. What did you think he was doing out in Africa?”
“Well, as I recall—”
“The Rhodes scholars exist to implement his totalitarian dream. That’s why the Trilaterals make sure they’re put in positions of power.”
“They do?”
“Of course they do. How did you think Bill Clinton managed to become president?”
“I’ve wondered about that, actually.”
“It’s all part of a scheme orchestrated by the CIA—but of course the CIA is controlled by the NWO.”
“Of course.”
“It’s well documented. Just like the CIA mind-control experiments.”
“CIA mind control?” Jones said. “Give me a break.”
“It’s a fact, chump. Ever hear of MK-ULTRA? Congress had to pay big bucks to the survivors of that early shot at LSD-induced mind control. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a dozen more that Congress knows nothin’ about.”
“But you do.”
“I try to stay informed.” Loving jabbed a thumb toward his massive chest. “They’ve expanded their reach. Programmed suicides. Jonestown. Heaven’s Gate.”
“All CIA experiments?” Jones said. “And here I thought those people were just easily manipulated losers.”
“I gotta friend who downloaded a top secret NATO report off the Internet. Shows how the New World Order plans to soften up America with treaties like NAFTA that suck away all our jobs, then terrorize us with operations like Ruby Ridge and Waco. When all hell breaks loose, the UN so-called peacekeepers will be sent in to quiet things down. Those troops are already stationed in our national parks. They’re just waiting for their cue to spread out and take over. And our military will go along with it. You know why?”
“Uh . . . mind control?” Ben hazarded.
“Damn straight. Been setting this up for years. And the American public won’t resist. Know why?”
Ben and Jones spoke in unison. “Mind control.”
“Right as rain. But they won’t get me.” Loving patted the big round hunk of metal on the desk. “ ’Cause I’ll be wearing my helmet.”
“Well, not in the office,” Ben said. “Violates the dress code.”
Loving appeared miffed. “This is serious, Skipper.”
“Seriously deranged, you mean. This is the most paranoid stuff I’ve heard since . . . well, since the last time we talked, anyway.” Ben pushed himself out of his chair. “But enough fun. I want a status meeting in the main conference room in ten minutes. Be prepared to tell me what you’ve learned.”
Jones scowled. “And if we haven’t learned anything?”
Ben checked his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“Let’s try this again,” Mike said. “Why don’t you agree that Erin was pretty messed up?”
Dr. Harris pursed his lips, obviously unhappy. But given a choice between talking and facing the wrath of Sergeant Baxter, he apparently decided he could be a bit more garrulous. “I had a chance to talk with her on a regular basis for more than two years.”
“And you found her perfectly normal?”
“I don’t know what perfectly normal is.” Harris spread his hands expansively. “Certainly I’ve never seen it. But Erin was no worse than most of the women I see. To the contrary, when you take into account all that she had been through, all that she had experienced, I think she coped rather well.”
“I would agree with you. Right up until she killed herself.” He saw Baxter glare at him, but chose to ignore it.
“I don’t believe that, either,” Harris shot back. “The Erin Faulkner I knew would never give up like that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Think about it for a moment. If she didn’t give up when she was trapped in that basement—alone, abandoned, chained like a wild dog, listening to the tortured screams of her family—when would she?”
Mike didn’t answer.
“I think Erin had an inner strength she was only beginning to tap. She had some problems, yes. Something was eating away at her. She kept telling me there was something she had to fix. Something she had to make right.”
“Ever tell you what that was?” Baxter asked.
“I’m afraid not. I tried not to push her. I wasn’t her shrink, after all. I knew she’d tell me when she was ready. What I’m saying is—she was dealing with it. She was coping. There was absolutely no indication that she was at her wit’s end.”
Mike considered. “I got a lawyer friend who saw her the day she died. He says she made a big confession to him about . . . something she said at the trial.”
“But that again is an indication that she was dealing.” Harris looked down, shaking his head. “I just don’t believe she would kill herself.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t want to believe it,” Mike said. “Sounds to me as if you rather liked Erin.”
“Of course I liked her. Who wouldn’t? She was a survivor. A real one—not some media fool who won a game show. Someone who had been through an experience that would’ve killed most of us. Someone who conquered her fears and was functioning as a useful productive human being. Who wouldn’t admire that?”
Mike had to concede the point. “I don’t know what I’d have done if that had happened to my family. If I’d lost all the people I love and cherish most.”
Harris looked up abruptly. “Well, except—oh, of course. You’re right.”
Baxter stepped in. “What? What was that?”
“Nothing. You’re right. I agree.”
She positioned herself directly in front of Harris. An obvious intimidation move, but Mike had noticed Baxter didn’t exactly shy away from those. “Is there something else? Something else that happened to Erin?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
Baxter grabbed him by the lapel. “You’re hiding something. Tell me. Now!”
The proximity of her hand to his voice box made it difficult for Harris to speak. “I just—I sensed there were some . . . issues. Between Erin and her father.”
“Her father has been dead for seven years!”
“I know. Before that.”
“Stop playing games! What do you know?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!”
“Listen to me, you little quack. I got a twenty-two-year-old woman dead. I don’t believe she killed herself any more than you do, and if you know something that could help us figure out who did, you will tell me. Do you understand?” She leaned close, nose to nose. “You will tell me!”
“I don’t know anything! I don’t!” Given the panicked expression on his face, Mike couldn’t imagine that he was lying. “I just sensed that she had some problems that she was still dealing with. Have you talked to her shrink?”
“Yes. And she didn’t say anything about Erin’s father.”
“Well . . . maybe you should talk to her again.”
Baxter released the doctor with a little push. “Maybe we’ll do that.” She turned abruptly. “Are you ready to go, Morelli?”
“Yeah, just about. One more question, though.” He turned toward Harris. “Mind if I ask how you got started on this candling gig? I mean—I’ve checked you out. You’re a real doctor. Graduated with good grades from OU Med. Used to work at a well-respected clinic. I found no evidence of scandal or complaint.” Mike shrugged. “What the hell happened to you?”
Harris’s lips remained tight. He was obviously weighing all the alternatives, evaluating whether he wanted to speak or not.
“You know that clinic I was at?” he said finally.
“Yeah
. Over in Brookside.”
Harris nodded. “That was an HMO. HMOs believe in many things. Health, welfare, prevention. But what they believe in most is low overhead.”
“Go on.”
“They decided the best way to cut costs would be to have every doc specialize. Everyone was to have one chore they did well and efficiently. That would streamline the medical examinations.”
“Okay. So?”
“So . . . I drew rectal examinations.”
Mike’s lips parted wordlessly.
“Some career, huh? You start at the bottom—and you stay there.”
Mike tried really hard not to smile.
“I’d see some forty or fifty patients a day. Think about that—fifty big hairy butts a day, one right after another.”
“That would be . . . different.”
“Yeah. And of course, no one enjoyed or appreciated my work. No smiles, no chitchat. It’s worse than seeing the dentist. No one wants to talk when the doc is feeling up their butt. Although I did get the occasional twenty-one-gun salute.”
“Excuse me?”
“Farts. They can’t help themselves. They get nervous, and . . .”
Mike slapped his hands together. “Well, this is fascinating, but—”
“I was miserable at the office parties. All the other docs started calling me the Rear Admiral. Ha, ha. At cocktail parties, everyone wanted to tell me about their hemorrhoids. I mean, I went to school for years to become a doctor. I spent a fortune. And I was doing important work—colorectal cancer is a major killer. But no one else saw it that way.”
“So you quit.”
“I went out on my own. But do you have any idea how hard it is to get a solo practice going these days? I think some people have the idea that anyone who graduates from med school ends up rich a day after graduation. But it isn’t true. Not these days. Particularly not in a competitive market like Tulsa that’s already saturated with physicians. It’s hard to make a living. And you’re a slave to the insurance companies.”
“So you started in with ear candling?”
Death Row Page 18