Fats growled, “Political pressure, as if we don’t have enough crap to handle.”
“Well, let’s get cracking,” I said. “Better go and take a ride, talk to Meyer’s father. Then take a ride to that mental institution. Something very strange in all of this and we’re going to get to the bottom of it by hook or by crook.”
“I’m with you, Griff!”
Old Man Meyer wasn’t much help. Rich, retired industrialist, clipped coupons, recluse on a secluded estate, quiet, lonely, desperate. His second marriage to a fecund showgirl 40 years his junior had produced one child, Ronald. Wife died in childbirth. His son had been his life, and that life had gone dark a year ago when Ronald had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor that brought on paranoia, dementia and sudden outbursts of extreme violence. He’d killed a man in a fight, but what had been kept out of the papers is that he had also cut out the man’s heart and eaten it. Witnesses were terrified. Ronald was tried and put away in an institution for the criminally insane. That was our next stop.
We were driving out of Bay City. After a while Fats started getting chatty. Always a bad sign.
“You know what the problem is, as I see it, in this world of ours?”
I was afraid to ask.
“All the damn assholes, Griff.”
I couldn’t disagree. I nodded, I could see where this discussion was going. I knew it was going to be a long ride out to the nuthatch.
“No really,” Fats insisted.
“I don’t know. Assholes are annoying, but I think if you really want to fix things it’s the scumbags that really cause the problems.”
If you’ve been in police work, or ever lived life with your eyes open, you’ll know these are two very distinct types of trouble causing people.
Fats cogitated on my words a moment and smiled, “You’re right, you know.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No really, I think I got it figured now. The assholes are bad, they’re trouble sometimes, but the scumbags are definitely worse.”
“Absolutely. Assholes usually are just annoying, and every one of us can be one now and then.”
“Right you are,” Fats bellowed.
“Yeah, but scumbags… Man, they’re the guys that do the bad stuff.”
“Right, Griff, except if you’re talking about skells. Now you take your basic city skell and I’ll peg him worse than a scumbag any day. And a lot worse than any mere asshole.” Fats said, letting his words of wisdom scoot around in his brain.
“Right, but you know all scumbags and skells are also assholes,” I added.
Fats nodded, driving, thinking some more, then adding; “Yeah, but not all assholes are scumbags or skells. See what I mean?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, his logic was impeccable.
“Now, take your basic scumbag skell, some mother raping bastard or druggie whore, some thrill killer maniac lowlife only fit for the electric chair. That’s gotta be the worst kind of combo there is,” Fats said proudly. “That’s where all our problems come from.”
I shrugged, said, “Slow down, Fats, we’re coming to Willow Grove.”
Willow Grove didn’t let on it was an institution for the criminally insane, but the high walls and discreet guard towers told us this wasn’t your average funny farm.
“They’re coming to take me away, aha, aha, aha, la, la, la, de, da.” Fats sung as we got out of our car.
“Shoulda happened years ago,” I muttered. We walked the white pebble drive to the gate to announce our presence. Soon we were in the main building and greeted by a pompous looking oaf who dressed all in white who said he was Doctor William Willard, the high mucky-muck of the nut house.
We shook hands and then Fats and I got down to business.
“Doctor Willard,” I asked, “the reason we’re here is to investigate a murder and one of your inmates…”
“We call them patients, officer.”
“Well, it’s Lieutenant, actually.” I responded.
Fats laughed, chugged down some Ju-Ju Bees. I guess he imagined he was at the movies, waiting to see the main attraction, which would be a tour of the asylum.
“Anyway, Doctor, one of your patients figures in a murder we’re investigating.”
“I doubt that very much, Lieutenant. Regardless, we value the privacy of our patients very seriously.”
“Even when they break out!” Fats barked.
“Impossible, detective! Turner is held under the tightest security.” Willard said.
I looked at Fats and he looked at me. I said, “Doctor, I don’t know who this Turner is. We’re here because someone killed Ronald Meyer. Meyer escaped from here last night and was found dead this morning. Mutilated.”
“Oh that? Of course, it was a terrible shame,” Willard said nervously, backsliding now.
Fats gave me his most meaningful nudge.
“We need your cooperation, Doctor Willard,” I said trying to play good-cop to Fats’ Attila the Hun. “Do you have any prospects, especially in the werewolf area that we can talk to?”
That made his face grow serious, fearful.
“Come on, Doc, we need your help in this,” Fats prompted.
Doctor Willard took a deep breath; nervously looked at us. “Yes, one of my patients does have serious delusions that he is a lycanthrope.”
“A what…?” Fats barked.
“That’s Doc lingo for were-wolf, Fats,” I said.
“We have him under constant lock-down and medication,” Willard continued apparently ignoring Fats’ outburst. “He is one patient that no one on my staff has been able to reach. Medication only tranquilizes the situation; it does not allow us to cure it. But this man is heavily tranquilized all the time, I assure you, and under restraint. He is certainly not leaving his cell or the grounds.”
“Could that be this guy, Turner, you mentioned?”
Willard nodded reluctantly.
“Could he be faking it? Faking taking his meds?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose so, Lieutenant,” Willard said thoughtfully, “patients do that from time to time, but my staff acts accordingly to ensure that all patients are amply medicated as the need arises. Whether they want it or not. We are quite aware that we have some dangerous people here, but most are ill and really just misunderstood.”
“Yeah, right, Doc. They’re misunderstood, like Al Capone was misunderstood,” Fats barked. “Is this an institution for the criminally insane or not?”
I deflected Fats’ question and asked, “Well, Doc, who is this Turner?”
Doctor Willard took a deep breath, said, “We house him in a special ward all by himself and he is under 24 hour watch. Elijah Turner is our most violent and dangerous patient here at Willow Grove.”
“And that’s gotta be saying a lot,” Fats added.
I ignored his remark; “We’d like to see Turner right away.”
“Impossible,” the doctor said.
“Nothing’s impossible, Doc, a murder’s been committed,” Fats bellowed.
“You can’t do that!” Doctor Willard seemed shocked, surprised, he moved back a step.
Fats moved forward a step, Willard moved backwards another step.
Fats said, “Don’t tell us we can’t see him, Doc.”
I put my hand on Fats’ two-ton arm and more pleasantly said, “You see, Doctor Willard, this is a Capitol case now. A murder has been committed. We want to see Elijah Turner right away.”
“You can’t see him, it would be too traumatic. Why, when he sees people—anyone at all, even myself or staff—he flies into violent fits of rage that are almost impossible to control,” Willard said nervously.
“I get that way myself, sometimes,” Fats laughed.
I gave my partner a shake of my head; he wasn’t being helpful.
“It can’t be helped, Doctor. Now tell me, in which building and in what cell is this Elijah Turner housed,” I asked.
“Spill it, Doc!” Fats growled. He was loosin
g patience.
Doctor Willard sighed, said, “Follow me, he’s in Special D Block. I’ll take you to him.”
Willard led us to an ultra white building set away from the others in the complex. It was made of cinder blocks, not standard red bricks like all the other buildings. There was a billy-club-wearing member of the staff seated at a desk at the entrance. He was a big one; over six feet and he jumped up in surprise when he saw us.
Willard took us over to the desk, said, “Albert, these are police detectives. I’ve brought them to see Elijah Turner. Please unlock the door for us.”
“Ah, Doctor Willard, I don’t know… I don’t think that’s such a good idea now. You know what I mean? Turner’s acting very strange lately. Violent. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you…”
“Albert, the keys, please!” Willard said sternly, annoyed at having staff question his actions.
“But Doctor…” Albert stiffened.
“Keys, Albert!” Fats barked. Then to me he said, “Something smells awful peculiar here, Griff.”
Willard blanched, looked at Albert with alarm. “Give me the keys!”
When Willard opened the door that led into the corridor he ran to cell #1. And we were right behind him. He looked through the little eye-level window in the door, gasped, said, “Oh my God!” and quickly threw open the door to the cell. Fats and I drew our revolvers and bulled our way through. The Doctor came in afterwards, Albert followed nervously.
Fats and I looked at each other, then at Willard. We all looked at Albert.
“Son of a bitch!” Fats growled.
I said, “Doc, you and your boy Albert here better have a damn good explanation why Turner’s missing!”
We were back in Willard’s Office in the main administration building. Fats had called Smitty to come by to take Albert into custody. I told them to sweat him for all he was worth but the worm seemed to be holding mum about the entire affair. Sacred to death more likely. Didn’t want to end up like Ronald Meyer trussed up in a warehouse like a side of beef. We had an immediate search of the hospital and the grounds but Turner didn’t show up. Somehow, Fats and I didn’t think he would.
I said, “We’ve got to tell Captain Landis; get an APB out on Turner. We can’t have that psycho running loose, God knows what he’ll do!”
Fats nodded and took care of it.
I turned to Willard, “I think you better tell me now if you know anything about this. You did let Meyer out. Why? His rich father pay you off with cash under the table or did he just promise to buy you a new wing for your fancy hospital?”
Doctor Willard held his anger and stalled for time. He saw the way things were going. We smelled a rat. Bribery, professional ethics violated, scandal, and murder! I noticed a transformation come over him then. He was cornered and he knew it. Maybe we didn’t have the whole story yet, but I sure had my suspicions and it was just a matter of time. Willard knew that too but we didn’t realize how dangerous that would make him.
Fats came back and we stood in front of the doctor waiting for him to spill the beans. He was seated behind his big fancy desk, nervous, bug-eyes, telling us about the great strides a facility like Willow Grove made for his patients. I wasn’t much interested. I got more interested when I felt the unmistakable cold steel of the business end of a revolver pressed into the back of my neck. I froze. I saw Fats had a gun to his head too. A voice from behind us said, “Don’t move. Don’t turn around. Go for your guns and you’re both dead men.”
We looked at Willard. We saw him nod to a man or men behind us. Then Fats and I were slugged from behind and fell into unconsciousness.
When I woke up I found we were in adjoining locked cells. Fats was slumped in a chair just coming back from his vacation in sleepy-land.
“Wha-happened?” he said drowsy, feeling the big lump on the back of his head. “Jesus, Griff, that guy sapped me good. Knocked me right into tomorrow!”
Fats was right, it probably was tomorrow, or the next day. I wasn’t certain how long we’d been out but I noticed now that we were locked in separate iron bar cells, adjacent to each other.
“You okay?” I asked, smiling at his obvious chagrin and discomfort. The Fatman had a hard head and for someone to give him a bump like that; he had been hit hard.
“You know, that wasn’t nice. Totally uncalled for. I got a real beef with the guy that slugged me and when we meet—and we will—he’ll damn well regret it!”
“Fine, I’m all for revenge,” I said, “but right now let’s figure a way to get out of here.”
“Yeah, and get our hardware back,” he said, feeling his empty shoulder holster.
I nodded, there was that. We were unarmed and locked up while one of Willard’s little psycho freaks was running around his nut house with our weapons. Or maybe even out in public. Now we were locked up and not able to do a damn thing about any of it. Not a good sign of things to come.
It got worse when Willard and two of his goons, both holding guns—our guns by the looks of them—appeared outside our cells. Another man was with them, he was held in straight-jacket, chains and mask. Obviously the missing Elijah Turner had been found.
Somehow I didn’t think they brought him to our cell to lock him up and let us out.
I recognized one of the guys holding the guns and gave Fats the nod. It was Louie the Butcher, a rape-killer from years back we’d arrested. He was supposed to have gotten the death penalty but instead got off on an insanity plea and had been placed here with the other criminally insane. Now he was working for Willard and held my own gun on us. I could see the gleam of sweet revenge in his eyes.
“The evil forces are at their zenith tonight, detectives,” Willard said suddenly in an eerie monotone.
Fats looked at me as if to say, “I told you so.”
“The forces of Darkness require a sacrifice, a blood sacrifice, for their hunger. Who shall it be? Which one of you will brave the beast of Hell tonight, and in doing so find the answers to all your questions?” Willard said boldly.
Fats and I didn’t say a word.
“You are investigating a murder, actually, many murders, done through the darkness of lycanthrophy. You do not believe? That is to be understood, even I did not believe at first, but you shall see. It is true. And when you see, it shall transform you, as it did me. You shall see and judge. Lieutenant Griffin, watch your partner tonight, observe what transpires, understand the true horror, and we shall talk in the morning.”
I shook my head, not knowing what the blamed fool was talking about.
“Look, you better release us both right now!” I demanded.
Fats barked defiantly, “Let me outta here!”
However, Willard seemed beyond reason now. I could see he was gone from reality, a change had come over him. Something had pushed him over into the land of the mad. There was no reasoning with him.
Willard ordered his goons to take the chains and straightjacket off Turner. Next they took off the mask and the muzzle, unlocked and removed the handcuffs, and then they pushed him into the cell with Fats and locked the door!
Fats stepped back, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and warned, “You even come near me, boyo, and I’ll knock you into next week.”
I stood alone in the next cell watching with concern. I said, “Fats, be careful. See if he’s got any weapons, pat him down, then knock him out and tie him up with your shirt and clothes.”
A brief scuffle and then Fats had Turner down and out and was in the process of tying him up tight and fast.
“He’s immobile now, Griff.”
“Good, just keep an eye on him,” I added.
Willard, who had been watching the entire event with his henchmen laughed and said, “It won’t do you any good. For when the power of darkness is exhaulted and the transformation takes place, nothing you have done can stop him. Your precautions are useless. Sleep with one eye open, I warn you. Pleasant dreams…” he laughed mockingly.
Then Willard and hi
s thugs were gone leaving Fats and I alone. Me in my own separate cell and Fats in his cell with the maniac Elijah Turner who thought he was a were-wolf. So far, Turner had not been a problem for Fats to handle. In fact, it had been almost too easy, but I felt things weren’t what they seemed and I wondered what Willard had in store for us.
I was thinking what we were going to do about it all. I knew there was very little we could do. Maybe bribe or capture a guard? If one ever came by with food or water. But I had a feeling it was going to be a long night and that no one was coming here until morning.
“I know what I gotta do, Griff. Make a Cross and then wait for the transformation,” Fats said gruffly, watching Turner’s still form where it lay tied up quietly on the floor of his cell.
“Transformation?” I asked.
“Zelda told me about him. When she mentioned to me about the evil forces, she told me there’s always a transformation. She said it was called extreme personality disorder in them fancy doctor books, but to the untrained eye it can be seen to be indistinguishable from magic.”
I looked at Fats with surprise and a new respect. I didn’t think he had it in him to understand these complex medical syndromes, but I still wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about.
“Griff, Zelda told me that evil forces emanate from a man who was made into a monster. It began from when he was a child, an infant. There had been horrendous abuse, torture, that had harmed the body and twisted the mind into something…something else. Something not exactly human. Something that we could never understand. But that incredible pain and torture upon a mind can change a body too, transform it. Evil forces, Griff, the ultimate rage of pain unbearable and unbelievable. The werewolf.”
I shook my head.
Turner groaned and moved slightly just to remind us he was still there.
It was quite now, getting dark.
“I don’t believe in werewolves, Fats.”
“Neither do I, Griff, but no one told Turner that.”
“Hah!”
Turner suddenly opened his eyes. They had a weird glow to them; the pupils were yellow.
“Jesus, Griff!” Fats whispered, “Now that’s weird.”
I nodded. I’d never seen anything like it before. It was supposed to be a full moon tonight. I knew we were in for a rough night.
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