Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  He sighed, in defeat or resignation. Or so Nick imagined.

  “But I know the truth now,” Crawford said. “There is no cure. They bided their time with me. It’s almost over and they no longer need my help. Only my silence. I’m an accomplice with a built-in expiration date. Untreated, I’ll die within the month.”

  “Who? Who are they?”

  He sighed again and exchanged his Mont Blanc for the computer keyboard.

  “It’s all in here,” he said, tapping away on his keyboard, a look of determination on his face.

  Nick glanced at the laser printer in the corner, expecting its motor to thrum into life and spew out a list of names. But after a few moments of uninterrupted sleep from the printer, Nick had a bad feeling.

  “You won’t find them,” Crawford said.

  “What—?” Confused, Hank looked to Nick.

  “What have you done?” Nick leaned forward and spun the LCD monitor around to see the display. A red progress bar had appeared in the middle of the screen with one word flashing below it: “SCRUBBING…”

  “He’s erasing the hard drive!” Hank exclaimed.

  “No ‘Cancel’ button,” Crawford said. “Once it starts, you can’t stop it.”

  Through the glass desktop, Nick saw the computer tower tucked under Crawford’s desk, and the cord cover concealing the wires sprouting from the back. The power cords exited the cover and ran to a wall outlet opposite the trashcan. Nick jumped up and pulled the power plugs from the wall. The LCD screen went dark, the tower’s fan fell silent, and the hard drive spun down.

  “He stopped it,” Hank said.

  “Whatever information your program erased,” Nick said. “You’ll tell us personally. Down at the precinct. I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “I have a family,” Crawford said, his gaze lingering on the framed portrait at the corner of his desk. A fleeting smile played across his face. “A healthy family.”

  He opened a side desk drawer in front of the monitor, the motion obstructed from Nick’s view.

  “That’s all that matters to me now.”

  “Gun!” Hank shouted.

  Reflexively, Nick’s hand dropped to his Glock 17 in its belt holster. He pulled the gun free and commanded, “Freeze!”

  But even as Nick spoke, Crawford shoved the barrel of his own automatic in his mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering the windows and vertical blinds behind him with blood and brain matter. The old man’s body slumped in his executive chair, tendrils of smoke rising from the crater in the back of his skull.

  Crawford’s gun hand fell in slow motion, the barrel of the automatic clicking against his upper teeth as it pulled free of his mouth. The weapon fell from his lifeless fingers and thumped on the floor beside him. Blood oozed down the leather chair and began to drip steadily onto the floor, spattering the rug.

  Nick shoved his Glock back into its holster.

  Hank stared in shock at the horrific tableau before them, looked away, shaking his head, then back again, unable to speak.

  Behind them, just beyond the office doorway, Nancy, the receptionist was screaming, “What have you done? Oh, God! What have you done?”

  Nick shouldered past her toward the front of the building, calling in the suicide and requesting a computer forensics expert as he walked. What secrets Crawford knew had died with him, but his semi-purged hard drive might provide clues to whoever had arranged for him to order the restaurant equipment.

  * * *

  Juliette glanced at the clock above her office door—not long before the Bremmers arrived—and then looked back down at the ACTH stimulation test results. She smiled to herself, then clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she intended to hold that expression in place until their appointment. She double-checked the numbers. Pre-cortisol and post-cortisol results. Both listed on the printout as < 0.7.

  The test confirmed the diagnosis she had anticipated—had hoped for—assuming Roxy had not experienced real kidney failure. Not an ideal situation, but not the worst outcome either.

  Her intercom buzzed.

  When she answered the phone, Zoe said in a solemn voice, “The Bremmers are here.”

  Juliette hadn’t had time to tell Zoe about the test results, so Zoe assumed the Bremmers had come to witness the euthanasia. And they had! But, the ACTH test results had altered the plan.

  “It’s fine, Zoe,” Juliette said, hoping her upbeat tone conveyed a new purpose for the visit. “Bring them to my office.”

  Without enough chairs for all three of them to sit, Juliette closed the folder with the test results inside and hurried around to the front of her desk to greet them standing up.

  “Here they are,” Zoe said, leading the way, an eyebrow arched curiously.

  Juliette smiled at her and nodded.

  Barry and Melinda Bremmer came first, holding hands that parted only as they stepped through the doorway then found each other again. Behind them, Logan walked with his head hanging, not willing to make eye contact. Barry appeared solemn, in control of his emotions, while Melinda’s eyes were bright with welling tears, a fragile but hopeful expression on her face. She knew Juliette had been grasping at straws, but Juliette sensed she hadn’t shared that information with her husband or son.

  “I have good news,” Juliette said, feeling the smile return to her face. “Roxy is not experiencing kidney failure.”

  “But you said—? The tests—?” Barry said.

  “Yes, I know,” Juliette said. “The tests appeared to indicate kidney failure. But I noticed some odd results with the second test. Something bothered me about them. I had an idea—actually, a good friend suggested an idea—that maybe Roxy had a condition that, on the surface, presented as kidney failure, while underneath was something else entirely.”

  “But she’s sick,” Logan said, finally looking up at Juliette. “Really sick.”

  Juliette nodded. “She does have a serious condition. It’s the reason why her kidney values resolved so quickly with IV fluids. She doesn’t have kidney failure. She has a condition that mimics kidney failure. It’s called Addison’s disease.”

  “What does this mean for her?” Barry asked.

  Melinda’s question overlapped her husband’s. “How serious is it?”

  “Addison’s is a deficiency of glucocorticoids and mineralocorticoids—that is, cortisol and aldosterone—caused by the destruction of the adrenal gland, which is located in the abdomen, near the kidneys.”

  “Oh, no!” Melinda said.

  “I don’t know what all that other stuff means,” Barry said. “But ‘destruction’ sounds bad.”

  “Can she live without it?” Logan asked. “The adrenal gland?”

  “Addison’s is very treatable,” Juliette said. “Roxy will need oral prednisone for the cortisol deficiency, and monthly injections of desoxycorticosterone pivalate—DOCP—for the mineralocorticoid deficiency. I know that’s a mouthful and a half, but the important thing is that her condition is treatable.”

  “How long will she need the oral stuff and the injections?” Barry asked.

  Juliette’s smile faltered a bit. “I’m afraid she’ll need both for as long as she lives. While Addison’s disease won’t shorten her life, treating it demands a dedication to daily medication and monthly injections.”

  All three family members stared at her, absorbing the information.

  Melinda came forward first, wrapping Juliette in a grateful hug, her body wracked with quiet sobs of joy. After a few moments, she said, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  When she stepped back, Barry offered his hand in a more formal thank you. Logan gave a flip of his tousled hair, smiled, and said, “Yeah, thanks, Doc.”

  “I’m so happy for you guys,” Juliette said, absently placing the somewhat crumpled test results folder behind her on her desk. “And Roxy, of course!”

  Melinda looked around, as if expecting the dog to pop out of some hiding place in Juliette’s office. “Where is she?”
<
br />   “I’ll take you to her,” Juliette said. “I need to show you how to administer the daily meds and the monthly injections. Then I’ll write up the scripts, and you can take her home today.”

  As she took them to see Roxy, Juliette thought that the day had certainly taken a turn for the better. And she’d have to thank Rosalee again, for reminding Juliette to look beneath surface impressions for the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “What happened here?” Renard demanded.

  Captain Renard showed up at LC Leasing, Inc. after the crime scene techs had taken their measurements and photographs, while someone from the coroner’s office removed Lamar Crawford’s body. One of the computer forensic techs had bagged Crawford’s computer tower for examination and data retrieval, while another checked the computers in each office—after Nancy provided employee login and password information—to determine if they needed to confiscate more than just Crawford’s PC.

  Sergeant Wu glanced at the blood-splattered windows and blinds and shook his head.

  “Not often a suspect eats a gun right in front of you,” he said.

  Nick had already provided Renard with the sequence of events leading to Crawford’s suicide, so he assumed the captain was after some context and speculation at this point.

  “Crawford is connected to the bare bones murders somehow,” he began. “His direct actions triggered the disappearance of a delivery truck driver right before missing persons cases in this area spiked. Plus, I found another copy of this flyer”—he indicated the bagged flyer on Crawford’s desk, which Nick had already photographed with his cell phone—“at the vacant lot where the first murder victims were found.”

  “Crawford got them started,” Hank said. “They promised him a miracle cure for his illness in exchange for his help and silence.”

  “And he believed it?” Renard asked.

  “He was convinced.” Nick glanced at Wu, who was unaware of the Wesen aspect of many of their cases. “He was desperate, his illness was fatal, so he wanted to believe in a miracle cure. They took advantage of that.”

  “And yet he killed himself anyway,” Renard said.

  “No miracle cure for a bullet through the brain,” Wu commented.

  “We got the impression he killed himself to protect his family,” Nick said. “If we took him into custody, they would be targets to ensure his silence.”

  “Or killed if he talked,” Hank added.

  “Let’s hope forensics can pull something useful off his computer,” Renard said.

  “We want to talk to the wife,” Hank said. “See how much she knew about the restaurant and the hijacked shipment.”

  “Get to her before the press,” Renard said. “She needs to be notified of his death.”

  “I want to see where this flyer leads,” Nick said. “Crawford said he picked it up at the library, but that’s a different address.”

  “You believe it’s a message?” Renard asked. “Some kind of code?”

  Nick displayed the photo of the flyer on his cell phone and showed it to Renard.

  “Anything seem familiar about it?” he asked pointedly.

  Renard understood: Did the symbols ring any Wesen bells with him? He peered carefully at the photo, then met Nick’s gaze.

  “Nothing I’ve seen before,” he said.

  Hank agreed to talk to the widow, while Nick followed the trail of the flyers, which might require running around to multiple locations, starting with the library flyer table to confirm Crawford’s story.

  Nick pulled Wu aside and asked him to take the receptionist in for questioning, after getting a copy of any restaurant-related purchase orders. Depending on the nature of her relationship with Crawford, she might have valuable information about the restaurant cover. In addition, Nick wanted her out of circulation while Hank visited the widow and son. If Nancy talked to the press or called the family, the police would lose control of the information and Crawford’s co-conspirators might have time to erase evidence to cover their tracks or interfere with the investigation.

  Nick dropped Hank off at the precinct so he could take his own car to Crawford’s residence, then he returned to the business district and located the closest library to LC Leasing, Inc. He parked out front, walked through the library’s lobby and found the community table with small business tri-fold brochures, computer printed and photocopied flyers, and at least two-dozen business cards. After less than a minute scanning the table, Nick found a small stack of flyers—seven, by his quick count—that matched the one he’d found crumpled in a ball on Crawford’s office floor.

  He took one of the flyers to the front desk and asked the librarian on duty if anyone could leave flyers on the table or if they had a submission and approval process with written records of who left what.

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” the rail-thin woman said. “We have no records for that sort of thing. Anyone can leave a flyer or a business card there as long as the content is not obscene. We don’t even check if they’re members of the library.”

  He placed the flyer on the counter, face up, and asked, “Do you recognize this one?”

  She glanced down and nodded. “I’ve seen it before, in passing.”

  “Do you know who left it? Or what it means?”

  She frowned, staring at the paper, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, she shook her head.

  “I don’t know who left it, or what it means. Maybe it’s some kind of math club.”

  “How long do items usually stay on the table?”

  She shrugged. “Until they’re gone,” she said. “Every couple weeks, if the table gets too cluttered, we’ll get rid of some stuff, sometimes sweep it clean.”

  “When was the last time that happened?”

  She glanced over at the table, estimating the amount of accumulated clutter, he imagined.

  “At least a week. Maybe two. No more than that.”

  Nick glanced around the upper walls of the library, but saw no cameras mounted anywhere.

  “Don’t suppose you have any security footage?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Nick returned to his Land Cruiser. The library was a dead end, but he had another obvious lead: the address on the flyer itself. He recognized the street name. The destination was several miles from the library and, with luck, might provide some answers.

  * * *

  Monroe had prepared his dining room for meditation. He had moved the table and chairs aside, put down the two foam mats he’d taken to the Pilates class, dimmed the lights, prepared a candle for their focus, and turned his stereo on, playing a CD of soothing electronic music without the hint of a beat and set it on repeat. Get Decker in the right frame of mind from the start, Monroe thought, and maybe this will work.

  His own anxiety stayed manageable because, as he kept reminding himself, the meditation session had no downside. Either it worked and Decker found the key to his own reformed path, or it failed as miserably as the Pilates and t’ai chi classes. Either way, Monroe was off the hook. He would have legitimately tried to help Decker—three times—with nothing to show for his efforts.

  Decker himself seemed tired of the effort involved in reforming—and he hadn’t taken more than a single step. The drive to change was the key to success or failure. Without Decker’s willingness to work for the change, nothing would change. They could part as old friends, part of a shared past. Monroe wouldn’t look back fondly on those memories, but he had enjoyed himself at the time… for a time. Everything in context. He was a changed Blutbad now. Decker had, until now, remained constant, and might continue unmoved by anything Monroe had to offer. And Monroe could accept that now. If this last attempt failed, it was just that, a last attempt.

  Everything ready, he checked the time and heard the rumble of a car engine, followed by the sudden stillness as the engine cut off, then the thunk of a car door slamming.

  “At least he’s on time,” Monroe said to himself. “Good start. Now the f
un begins. Or the not-fun.”

  Monroe met Decker at the front door, momentarily seeing the other man’s image distorted through the stained glass window as he navigated the front walk. When Decker raised a fist to rap on the glass, Monroe pulled the door open and said, “Good to see you again.”

  Decker’s left hand clasped Monroe’s shoulder in a powerful grip while offering his right hand to shake, and subsequently applied enough pressure for the gesture to serve as a show of dominance in addition to a greeting. Monroe refused to play the game, matching pressure for pressure, without attempting to win the exchange. Decker’s attention had already moved on.

  “Once more into the breach, brother!”

  “Unto,” Monroe said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Monroe said, shaking his head. “Come in. I’ve prepared everything so we can get started.”

  “Just the two of us this time.”

  “As promised,” Monroe said. “No instructor or classmates. No judgments.”

  Decker cocked his head. “What’s that noise?”

  “What noise—oh, the music,” Monroe said. “I chose something conducive to meditating.”

  “Got any Skynyrd?”

  “I don’t know. Probably, but—”

  “Allman Brothers? Hell, Creedence?”

  “Trust me,” Monroe said. “For meditation, you want this kind of music. Or silence, really. But as a beginner, I thought you might need some aids. Just to get started.”

  “By meditating, I pictured us sitting on a deck, drinking some brews, blasting some old school tunes, talking about the good old days.”

  “Actually, meditation is kind of the opposite of everything you just said,” Monroe replied. “Except for the sitting part. That’s in there.”

  “You’re the pro, bro,” Decker said, performing a slight bow and a sweep of his arm. “Lead the way, Maharishi.”

  “I’m no expert at this,” Monroe admitted as he led Decker to the cleared dining room. “I’ve studied a few techniques. Enough for you to try and see if it works for you.”