Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  He had to do something. He didn’t need to see a doctor to know his blood pressure was rising. His hands shook. He sweated spontaneously, for no apparent reason. His heart was doing a tap dance inside his chest. And why shouldn’t it, for God’s sake? That maniac was killing them! All of them! One by one.

  Fred pushed away from his workstation. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to stay calm and think rationally and—

  “Fred?”

  He damn near hit the ceiling. A tiny shrieking sound emerged from his lips and his body bounced into the air.

  “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

  It was Stacey, his personnel supervisor. He hadn’t seen her since she’d turned down his vacation request. And threatened him with sexual harassment charges.

  “Oh—no,” Fred mumbled. “I was just thinking about something.”

  “No doubt.” She dropped a pink sheet of paper on his desk. “Your request has been denied. Sorry,” she added, although there was not much regret in her voice. She sashayed out of his office.

  Fred scooped up the paper and read. He had requested an early withdrawal from his pension fund. He didn’t care if he had to pay a penalty; he needed money and he needed it now. He wanted to get far, far away from this place, even if it did cost him his job. Money wouldn’t matter, not once the merchandise came into play. He just needed to get the merchandise to safety. Most important, he needed to get himself to safety.

  But his request was denied, DENIED—that’s what it said, stamped in big red letters. There was only one signature at the bottom of the form—Stacey’s. Goddamn that big-assed bitch, anyway. What was her problem? She was probably still carrying a grudge about their last meeting, still deluding herself into thinking he had propositioned her. She was striking a blow for herself and women everywhere. At his expense.

  What could he do now? He twitched onto his feet, ideas rushing through his head like quicksilver. He could just leave, hit the road, travel, go places his former friend wouldn’t think to look. Except how long could he afford to keep that up? Not long enough.

  He could at least move, get an apartment somewhere. Yes, he could definitely do that. But how long would it remain secret? Urban reality—if someone really wanted to find you, eventually they would. He could buy alarms and dogs and guards and the whole nine yards. But he would never be safe. He knew that, deep in his heart. Never. Not as long as his friend lived. And Fred had the merchandise.

  He stepped outside his cubicle, then froze. George Philby was in the hallway, talking to some executive. He hadn’t seen George since that day out on the jogging trail. He whirled around—and saw someone else. Someone who sent a cold chill racing down his spine.

  Fred ducked back into his cubicle, hyperventilating. Was it him? He thought it was; he was almost sure of it. But why was he here? What was he doing?

  He continued hyperventilating, gasping for air in short, ineffectual bursts. There were, of course, only two possible answers to that question. He was either looking for George—

  Or he was looking for Fred.

  One or the other of them was next on that bloodthirsty killer’s hit list.

  God—let it be George. It was George, wasn’t it? He’d been sure of it, when he’d seen the hidden figure skulking out in the brush while George was jogging. But now—

  He had to do something. He had to do something quick.

  But what? What?

  On his way up to his apartment, Ben made a preliminary visit at Mrs. Marmelstein’s. Joni answered the door.

  “Ben-a-rino. How go the lawyer wars?”

  “Poorly. But improving. Thanks again for taking double shifts with Mrs. Marmelstein. This case has been running me ragged.” He nodded toward the living room. “How’s she doing today?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Marmelstein’s having a good one. She’s relatively lucid, especially for this late in the day. She’s been in good spirits. Can’t pry her away from those pictures, though.”

  “Any improvement … healthwise?”

  The gleam faded from Joni’s eyes. “No. We saw the doctor this morning, but … the prognosis has not improved. And her eyes are still failing. Doc says soon she won’t be able to see at all.”

  Ben stepped into the living room of the apartment. The television was on. Vanna White was spinning letters, but Mrs. Marmelstein did not appear to be paying much attention. Her eyes were on the photo in her hand—the one of the two parents at the beach. With their son.

  “Paulie?” she said as Ben entered the room.

  “No.” He walked around in front so she could see him. “It’s just Ben.”

  “Oh.” Not that she was unhappy to see him, exactly. But it clearly wasn’t what she’d been hoping for. “Good to see you, Benjamin.”

  “Good to see you.” He stepped closer and crouched down beside her chair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh … about the same, I suppose.” The lines in her creased face seemed to sag. “I saw that doctor again today. I don’t much like the man, though. So many tests. Always something new. So tiring. And he wants to take me away from my home.”

  Ben was surprised—but delighted—to see how cogent she was. He was always thrown by the irrationality of Alzheimer’s—addlepated one day, lucid the next. “He does?”

  She made a sniffing sound, then drew her afghan closer. “Wants to put me in some kind of house.”

  “House? You’re already in a house.”

  Joni was standing behind them in the doorway. “In a home.”

  “Ah.” Ben laid his hand gently on her arm. “I don’t see any need for that.”

  “That’s what I keep telling the man. I like it here. This is my home. It’s all I—I—” Her eyes drifted down again to the photo.

  Ben seized his chance. “Mrs. Marmelstein, a friend of mine has been looking for your Paulie, but so far, he hasn’t had any luck. Is there anything else you could tell me about him?”

  Her eyes wandered from side to side. “He was always a good boy. Not like some of those little monsters. Always tried to do the right thing.”

  No doubt, Ben thought, but that wasn’t going to help them track him down. “What’s his full name?”

  “His name?” She tilted her head to one side, as if she hadn’t heard properly. “His name is Paulie.”

  “Is that a nickname? Is his real name Paul? Does he have a middle name?”

  “We called him Paulie. Always did. Even as an adult. I don’t think he minded.”

  Ben sighed. “When was he born?”

  “Oh, my, that was a happy day. We had worried that … well, that the Good Lord wasn’t going to bless us with any children. And just about the time we had resigned ourselves to that—here comes Paulie. He was a miracle, that’s all. A miracle boy.”

  Ben glanced again at the photo. Judging by the clothing styles and haircuts, Paulie was a little boy in the Fifties. Was he born, then, in the late Forties? “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

  Her head trembled a bit. “Hasn’t … really … kept up with us the way he used to. He was a great letter writer. But not anymore.”

  Ben became concerned. “Mrs. Marmelstein … did something happen to Paulie?”

  “Happen? No. Not like that. It happened to … all of us.”

  Ben pushed himself to his feet. He was getting nowhere fast.

  He leaned close to Joni. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

  Joni shook her head. “Clueless. Except that she seems certain this boy—former boy—is alive. And she’s desperate to see him.”

  “Why now? When she hasn’t seen him for years?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, Ben.”

  He did, of course. She was desperate to see him now because, even in her troubled mind, she realized that her time was growing short.

  “Mrs. Marmelstein,” he said quietly, “did something happen? Between you and Paulie?”

  “It all seems so foolish now. So much fuss about s
o little. But you know how men are. Always butting antlers. Paulie never got along with his father. Never, never. They were both good men. Just very different.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Paulie had disagreements with your late husband?”

  “All the time. You can’t imagine what it’s like when a father and son are so … angry with one another.”

  “I can imagine,” Ben said quietly. “What did they argue about?”

  “They didn’t see eye to eye on anything. Clothes, hair, lifestyle. Nothing. Albert wanted Paulie to follow him into business. Paulie had his own plans. That was bad. But the worst came when he brought home that woman. That shiksa.”

  Ben blinked. “She … she wasn’t Jewish?”

  “She wasn’t anything. Except pretty. Very, very pretty. Had what they called "It," in my day. Lots of It. Totally turned his head.”

  “You didn’t approve of the relationship?”

  “Oh, I didn’t care so much. Let the boy make his own mistakes. He’ll learn, that’s what I said. But Albert didn’t see it that way. He was a very … controlling person. He threatened …”

  Ben was beginning to get the drift, even if he did have to piece the story together like letters in a cryptogram. “Did you try to intervene?”

  Her head fell. “No. I supported my husband. That’s the way I was raised. What I thought I was supposed to do. It all seemed very important at the time. But now …”

  Ben could see her eyes filling. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Now …” she continued, “I just want to see my Paulie.”

  “I’ll find him,” Ben said. “I promise. I’ll find him and bring him back here.”

  Wordlessly, Mrs. Marmelstein threw her arms around Ben and hugged him tighter than he thought he had ever been hugged before.

  Chapter 24

  THE LAST TIME BEN had been out on a golf course, he’d managed to run up a score somewhere in the high three digits. And that was just on the first hole. This time, he decided to leave the playing to others.

  He was invading the third cubicle in a South Tulsa driving range, watching in respectable silence as the man in the matching Polo shirt and shorts knocked another one well past the two-hundred marker.

  “How did you find me, anyway?” the man asked. He was Dr. Abbott K. Rimland, Ph.D., specialist in hematology—the expert witness he and Jones had been trying for weeks to persuade to testify for the plaintiffs in their class action suit.

  “My office manager called your office,” Ben answered. He was being circumspect, careful not to talk when the man was swinging. He knew from prior experience how much golfers hated that.

  “Who? Karen?” The man shook his head. He was in his late fifties, but still quite handsome, graying at the temples. “I can’t imagine. She’s under strict instructions. I don’t get that much time off, and I don’t like to be bothered when I finally manage to escape.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “I believe your secretary was under the impression that she was speaking to your wife.”

  “What? Karen knows what my wife’s voice sounds like.”

  Ben’s eyes darted toward the ground. “So does my office manager. He’s a very talented mimic.”

  Dr. Rimland shook his head, then set another ball on the tee. “I suppose I have to give you points for determination. But the answer is still no.”

  Ben grabbed an available driver, just to have something in his hands. “Doctor, if you’d just let me explain—”

  “I explained my position in detail to your man on the phone. And I told him the matter was closed.”

  “Which is why I came to see you in person. Your participation is absolutely vital to this case.”

  Rimland glanced up, adjusting his sun visor. “Then you’re in big trouble, my friend.” He brought his club around and knocked another one high into the sky.

  “With respect, sir, this is not just any lawsuit. This is important. We’re talking about parents who have lost their children for no good reason—”

  “Spare me the soft-soap routine. I know all about the case. I read the papers.”

  “Then you must know how important it is that—”

  Rimland cut him off. “I already gave you my answer. No.” For the first time, a trace of annoyance crossed his face. “Look, you don’t need me. There are any number of doctors around who will take the witness stand and say whatever the hell you want, if you pay them what they ask.”

  “I don’t want just any doctor,” Ben said firmly. “I want someone who is knowledgeable, someone who’s worked and researched in this field for years. I want you.”

  Rimland lined up another shot. “I’m not the only scientist doing research on leukemogenesis.” He paused, smiling slightly. “Close, though.”

  “I’m familiar with your work.”

  “Then you must know how inconclusive it is.”

  “I didn’t think so. I read the chapter you wrote in Coswell’s Case Studies in Hematology. You said that the existence of leukemia clusters was too prevalent to be coincidental. You wrote that the existence of such clusters was an undeniable medical fact.”

  Rimland’s eyes stayed on the golf ball. “I was young. I may have been wrong.” The club whipped around faster than the eye could see. “But even if it’s so, what does it get you? So you’ve got a leukemia cluster. So what?”

  “If clusters do occur, and it isn’t just coincidence, then something must be causing them.”

  “Ay, but there’s the rub. Something must be causing them—but what?”

  “That’s what I need you to explain to the jury. You’ve done the research.”

  Rimland took the last golf ball out of his bucket and placed it on the tee. “Really? And suppose I tell them that TCE and perc have nothing to do with it. That they can’t possibly cause cancer.”

  Ben’s lips parted. “You are up to date on my case.”

  Rimland shrugged. “It’s my field.”

  “I’ve read the results of the studies you did on the East Coast. You proved that both TCE and perc instigated leukemic diseases.”

  “In laboratory animals. White mice developed cancers of the lymph system. But mice have decidedly different chromosomal structures, as defense counsel will undoubtedly point out. Different metabolisms. Those results don’t necessarily mean it happens that way in homo sapiens.”

  “Common sense tells me—”

  “But common sense won’t get you far in the courtroom, will it? You need proof.”

  “I need an expert opinion. So what’s yours? Do you believe that TCE and perc are harmless to human beings?”

  “No—”

  “Then you have to testify—”

  Rimland raised a hand. “Stop right there. Sure, I think chemically tainted water can cause leukemia. In fact, there’s not the slightest doubt in my mind. It may not be the only cause of cancer. But I find the reticence of my colleagues on this issue embarrassing. Why do we go on pretending we don’t know what causes cancer when, in some cases at least, the causes are evident? Why do we deny as scientists what is obvious to common sense?”

  Ben was barely able to contain himself. “If you’ll just take the stand and say that, sir. That’s all we need. That’s all I would want you to—”

  “But it wouldn’t be all you’d ask, would it?” He paused. “You’d ask me if these chemicals could cause cancer, and I’d say they could. But eventually, either you or the man on the other side would ask if the chemicals did in fact cause the leukemias suffered by the children of the plaintiffs. That is the ultimate question after all, isn’t it? And I would hem and haw. I’d say, it could’ve. Might’ve. Perhaps even, probably did. But I can’t say with absolute certainty that it in fact did.”

  “All of the children were exposed to the tainted water—”

  “A compelling fact, I agree. But it is still possible that their leukemia was caused by some other instigating factor. We just don’t know enough about it to trace the disease back to
a single cause with certainty. After all, there were presumably dozens of other children who drank the water and did not die of leukemia.”

  “My parents" kids may have had a genetic predisposition to the disease. I can live with that. It’s the eggshell skull principle. The law permits recovery, so long as I can show the defendants caused the inception of the disease.”

  “Which you’ll never get from me. All I can do is affirm the possibility.”

  Ben bit down on his lower lip. “Fine. I can live with that.”

  The bucket of balls was exhausted. Rimland set down his club. “Mr. Kincaid, I don’t think you’ve been listening to me. I do not wish to be your witness. I’ve testified in lawsuits before, and I found it unpleasant in the extreme. It’s a dirty process. And cross-examination—”

  “I’ll be in the courtroom,” Ben said. “I’ll protect you during cross.”

  “That’s what they all say. But when the opposition attorney starts in, there’ll be little or nothing you can do. He’ll use everything in his power to paint me as a lunatic, a fringe scientist, a paid mouthpiece. He’ll drag out every little secret he can find. And frankly, I have a few stones I don’t want turned over.”

  “Lots of major scientists have served as expert witnesses.”

  “Yes, and lots have regretted it, too. I have an academic reputation to protect. I won’t endanger it. My work is too important.”

  Ben realized it was time to play his trump card. “Really? I thought your work was coming to an end.”

  Rimland’s eyes dimmed. “What have you heard?”

  “That your project is being discontinued.”

  “That’s nonsense. Just … delayed, that’s all. A momentary funding snag.”

  “Then let me unsnag it. Take this job, and use the fee to revive your project.”

  Rimland shook his head. “It wouldn’t be enough. Even at my hourly rate.”

  “Are you sure? Think about it. You’ll have to meet with all the parents. Do medical workups on them. Review the victims" medical records. Perhaps run some tests of your own.”