Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  Lacarter turned and greeted the reporters to enter and join him.

  “He’s awake, but groggy. The nurse just closed his curtain. He was...ah...getting agitated.”

  “Did his face display any red markings?”

  “Not that I could see; he just got...ah...mad,” Lacarter said, looking sullen. “I must get out of this place and...ah...go back to work.” Lacarter glanced toward the curtain, and walked out the observation room.

  “What was that all about?” Porter asked.

  “Do not know, but the man was obviously loaded with anxiety.”

  Dingman gained the nurse’s attention and waved her to approach the observation window.

  “How is Montagno doing? Showing signs of recovery?” Dingman asked, lowering his voice.

  The nurse pushed a switch on the wall next to the glass.

  “We can talk through this headset without disturbing Mr. Montagno,” the nurse said, as she lifted a small wireless headset with a microphone attached and slipped it over her head. “Can you hear me?” she whispered. Dingman nodded and repeated his questions. Porter prepared to take notes.

  “He’s doing okay, no signs of the infection. His neck is healing, but he won’t be able to speak for several weeks. The presence of Mr. Lacarter behind the glass seemed to overwhelm and disturb him, though. He insisted I pull the curtain forward for privacy.”

  “Has he written anything to describe how he feels?”

  “He wrote something for the police earlier today. They investigated his neck injuries. Apparently, there is suspicion of foul play. No one was allowed in the room at the time, so I don’t know the outcome.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A man visited late yesterday. I think he was his boss from work. They seemed to get along okay. I only saw a few words he wrote in his notepad by the bed. Something about the numbers not adding up, and he knows who did it.”

  “Hmm, I remember Montagno being upset when he thought Katie and I were auditors the day we visited with Hermanski,” Porter said.

  “That’s the man who was here. His wife is in the room across the hall,” the nurse said.

  “Okay, thanks. Let us give Mr. Montagno his privacy,” Dingman said.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mr. Hermanski, how is your wife today?” Dingman said, as he approached Jack Hermanski in the observation area attached to his wife’s room.

  “She’s doing quite well, actually. Good color and her attitude is very positive,” Hermanski said, shaking hands. Mandi Hermanski waved from her bed with the curtain drawn back. “I heard on the news this morning that a visitor of one of the patients was shot, and the patient committed suicide. That scared the hell out me. Thank God, Mandi didn’t know about it. The TV stations were crawling all over the pavement near the building this morning. What was that about?”

  “Per the Times, all I can tell you is that a man by the name of Moses Carpenter, who worked at the church parish run by the deceased Father Fellorday, apparently tried to shoot a patient who also worked at the church. She was a nun and a friend of the Father’s. We are not sure how the infection plays into this, but the newspaper said Moses Carpenter was infected as well. Mr. Carpenter also apparently hit and killed a pedestrian and carried the body underneath his car for several city blocks. Quite a complicated mess for the police, eh?”

  “That’s all? I would think you’d know more than what is printed in your paper,” Hermanski said, frowning.

  “That is all I can tell you for now. Do you mind if we turn the microphone off for a couple of minutes?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  Dingman flipped a switch on the wall.

  “We just observed Mr. Montagno. According to the nurse, he seemed upset at Mr. Lacarter’s presence earlier today, and expressed that he knew who tried to kill him. Is there a possible connection?”

  Porter’s eyes widened as Dingman finished his statement. It was not exactly what the nurse told them. She did not say anything about who tried to kill him. Dingman gave him a look-and-learn glance. Porter nodded slightly.

  “What? Why would she say that? She was out of range from the conversation. Frankly, I don’t know, but I obviously need to look through a few accounts.”

  “How do you know Mr. Montagno and Mr. Lacarter?”

  “Both men are partners in my business. George is an old high-school friend, and Dillon is an ex-Marine we met while attending a conference in Las Vegas several years ago. Both are stand-up guys, who would do anything for each other. I can’t believe this is happening; business was going so well. Why...why would he...” Hermanski hesitated, then stopped talking.

  “Excuse me; you were saying?”

  “I’ve said too much already. The last thing I need right now is a couple of reporters snooping around.”

  Dingman placed his right hand on Hermanski’s shoulder. “No worry here. We would not want you to lose confidence in the Detroit Times. Your wife appears to be over the infection and probably can come home in a couple of days. We will stop by in a week or so and see how she is doing.” Dingman shook Hermanski’s hand, waved at Mandi Hermanski, and escorted Porter out of the observation area.

  ~ ~ ~

  “That was below the belt,” Porter said, as they walked the hallway toward Lopez’ room.

  “Perhaps, but I got the response I needed. I am having my friend at the crime lab do a search on Dillon Lacarter. I bet we will find smoke and fire in his background,” Dingman said, typing a text message on his cellphone.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Hey, it’s the Detroit Times’ reporters coming to get my story,” Lopez said, setting up in bed.

  “Mr. Lopez, you are looking well. How are you feeling,” Dingman said, following Porter into Lopez’ observation booth.

  “I’m doing great; can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “Could you please explain your new theory of how gravity works? I would like to capture the essence of your ideas for a news article we are doing related to how the infection influences the mind and creative thinking,” Porter said.

  “Theory of gravity? What theory? Einstein pretty much set the standard for that, years ago.”

  “I overheard you explain to two gentlemen yesterday that gravity doesn’t work the way we think. It doesn’t pull us, it pushes us to the Earth.”

  “Hah, that’s a good one. That wouldn’t make sense. String theory would make that child’s play. Whom did you say I talked to yesterday? I don’t remember talking to anyone but my wife.”

  “They were two professors from Wayne State. You had them mesmerized for about an hour. You were quoting from an old journal and showed us a page of formulas and notes,” Dingman said.

  “This?” Lopez said, holding up a tattered magazine-sized book with notepaper interlaced within several pages. “This is a book and notes I used in high school. It’s somewhat like a security blanket for me. I take it everywhere. Some people have rabbit’s feet or dice; I have my book. Get it?”

  “Sure, I carry around my lucky coin,” Dingman said, taking a quarter out of his pocket and flipping it in the air. “Heads, you win.” Lopez laughed. Porter rolled his eyes. “You get well, eh? We will visit again when you are back safely in Port Huron.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. If you see my wife out there, would you send here in? I need to ask her about yesterday...in fact, I have little memory of the last week. Everything’s fuzzy.”

  Dingman and Porter waved and departed into the hallway.

  ~ ~ ~

  “At the rate we are going, we won’t have much of a story to tell. I was really hoping Lopez’s wild theories would have some merit. It would add a real buzz to our story,” Porter said.

  “I hear you, but let us not give up yet. He did talk to several smart people. We need to track them down and see what they think.”

  “This is actually giving me a better feeling about Katie. If she doesn’t remember, it might be better for both of us.”

  “Maybe. Let us go see ho
w she is doing.”

  “Where is Dr. Grace? He should be done with the autopsy by now.”

  “Good question.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “The room is completely dark, I can’t see anything,” Porter said upon entering the observation booth in Kottle’s room. He looked closely at the glass. “The glass has been switched to opaque. I hope Katie’s okay.”

  “She is probably sleeping and does not want to be disturbed,” Dingman said.

  At that moment, the glass reverted to see-through. Kottle's face appeared on the other side of the glass.

  “Eehah!” Porter said, jerking his head back.

  “Jeb, is that you? I heard voices. Can you get me out of here? I want to go home,” Kottle said, grimacing.

  “Miss Kottle, please return to your bed,” a nurse said, entering her room.

  “You feel okay? Ah...any more weird dreams about...ah...” Porter stammered.

  “Rachel? No. I feel so depressed. She’s out there somewhere and needs help. Jeb, you’ll have to help me find her. I can’t live with myself knowing that I have a twin. Why didn’t my mother tell me? Why…why?” Kottle shook her head and slowly walked back to the bed.

  “We’ll discuss Rachel when you get out. The police in Reno have some leads, and—”

  “And, we will find out soon enough,” Dingman said. He held a finger to his mouth.

  “Good morning, Miss Kottle; how are you feeling?” Dr. Grace said, entering Kottle’s room. “I see your reporter friends are here. Are you ready to go home tomorrow?”

  “Really? Can Rachel come with me?”

  The doctor flinched. Porter’s eyes widened as he turned to see Dingman shrug.

  “Ah...sure,” the doctor said.

  “Gotchya,” Kottle said, and began laughing. “Gave you a scare, right? Trust me, I’m back to normal. Maybe a little depressed over this experience, but ready to get back to work.”

  “She is back,” Porter said, reacting. “Hah, had me going, though.”

  Dingman held a thumb up. “Work starts at seven AM. We have a story to write.”

  “I don’t think we can let her go before noon. How about: work starts at one PM tomorrow,” the doctor said.

  “That works.”

  Kottle blew a kiss toward Porter. He returned the gesture and waved.

  Chapter 60

  “Are you excited? You look excited,” Dingman said, as Porter shoved a piece of toast into his mouth followed by a slosh of coffee.

  “Hell yes, I’m excited. Katie gets out of the hospital today, and we don’t have to stay in this hotel another night. My underwear couldn’t make it through another day.”

  Dingman smiled and nodded. “A new message coming in from downtown,” he said, pushing buttons on his cellphone. “It is about Dillon Lacarter.” He intently paged through four text screens. “My boy, we may have helped solve another mystery. It appears our friend Lacarter has a long history of sports betting and not paying his debts. His real name is Dillon Draken. He’s a real ex-Marine; served in Desert Storm as a special-forces sniper; has two purple hearts.”

  “Do you think he’s involved in Montagno’s pencil accident?”

  “We can only guess. I need to call Hermanski and let him know what we know.”

  “Shouldn’t you call the police first? Are we crossing the line here?”

  “If Lacarter did something, then we might be able to stop him from committing another crime.”

  “Okay, but I think you should let the police handle it.”

  “My boy, how are you going to become a good reporter if you refuse to participate in what could be a front-page story.”

  “We’re here to report the news, not to create it.” Porter stopped chewing, swallowed, and sat back into the restaurant chair. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Dingman pointed at his eyes, then tapped his brain.

  “Pillbock gave us a rental car. Let us take a trip to Troy and visit Hermanski’s place of business.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  Porter stood up and reluctantly followed Dingman to the rental car.

  ~ ~ ~

  A Troy-police vehicle, blue and red lights flashing, drove out the driveway of the HMM Design Company as Dingman maneuvered his rental car into the parking lot.

  “I saw a woman in the back seat,” Porter said.

  “This should be fun,” Dingman said, exiting the rental car.

  Jack Hermanski met the reporters at the building entrance.

  “Gentlemen, what’s up?” Hermanski said.

  “Perhaps we should ask a similar question,” Dingman said.

  “I’m not sure I want to share any information. This is not something I want in the papers just yet. And where is that asshole?” Hermanski said, glancing at his watch.

  “Excuse us, we were just following up on the condition of your wife,” Porter said.

  Dingman raised his eyebrows at Porter. “Really? I thought we were here to tell Mr. Hermanski that his partner, Dillon Lacarter, might not be who he says he is. And, I bet Mr. Hermanski has the same suspicion. Right?”

  “What?”

  “Let me guess. Your books came up short and you just had your accounting clerk arrested.”

  “Not quite, it was my secretary, Nora.”

  “And, Mr. Lacarter has not shown up for work since your encounter at the Disease Control Center yesterday. Right?”

  “Yes, now tell me what’s going on. Please step into my office. I’ve got a couple of auditors in the back room, and—”

  “Got it,” Dingman interrupted. “We have knowledge that your partner, Dillon Lacarter, is really Dillon Draken from New Orleans. He left there after hurricane Katrina, leaving behind a ton of gambling debt. Apparently, he started a new life in Michigan.”

  “That son of a bitch. Then Nora was telling the truth; it was Dillon who shorted the books, not her.”

  “Also, it appears that Mr. Lacarter was a trained sniper for a special Marines operations unit during Desert Storm. His specialty, based on the enemy’s use of chest armor and head gear was the silent kill—two shots to the neck, here and here—he even invented the shot.” Dingman pointed to his neck, and waited for a conclusive reaction.

  Porter looked puzzled; Dingman had not shared that last bit of information at breakfast.

  “And...” Hermanski said. “What are you saying?”

  “Here...and...here,” Dingman said again, slowly pointing to his neck.

  “No, can’t be. Dillon’s my friend; he was George’s buddy too. We practically lived together at work and went hunting together. I never saw an ounce of anger in the man.”

  “Delayed reaction from the war perhaps? These men were called upon to be brutal one minute and perfect gentlemen the next.”

  Hermanski sat into his leather desk chair. “Fuck. Now what do I do when he comes back? Have him arrested? What if he didn’t do it? What if—”

  “But what if he did?” Dingman said, starring.

  Hermanski picked up his desk phone, dialed the Troy-police investor’s number he kept nearby and related information that Dingman provided.

  “They’re putting out an all-points bulletin on him, and coming over to give me protection. I don’t feel good gentlemen. I suggest you leave now. This has been one ugly week in my life.”

  “I understand,” Dingman said. “Let us bug out.” He jabbed his elbow into Porter’s side and followed him out the building.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Was that necessary? Where did you get the information that Lacarter was a trained assassin, and what’s this bullshit about a silent kill?” Porter asked, as the two reporters entered the rental car.

  “I stretched a bit. Well actually, I found it on the Internet. Does not matter; we did our job and probably saved Hermanski’s life.”

  “Or, destroyed an innocent man in the process.”

  “Then it is my bad, eh?”

  ~ ~ ~

  “What are you working on?” Dingman sa
id, turning onto the freeway toward Detroit.

  “Just trying to make sense out of our discussion at the hotel bar yesterday afternoon. My notes are a little lacking,” Porter said.

  “You were a bit whacked after four martinis, eh?”

  “I needed them; it’s been one stressful week.”

  “Let us give Bob Sanguini a call and see what is cooking in West Branch?” Dingman took out his cellphone. He put the conversation on speaker.

  “Hello, Louis. I recognized your caller ID,” Sanguini said.

  “Hi, Bob. I have Jeb with me. We have had a challenging week here. Let me fill you in...” Dingman said and explained the events since leaving West Branch on the helicopter.

  “Unbelievable. The bizarre deaths in Detroit and West Branch are creating quite a local buzz. Everyone’s suspicious of anyone with red eyes. The DNR halted hunting in this area through the end of the season and have the deer herd isolated and confiscated the one at the restaurant. Turns out Miss Kottle was the only one that had meat from it. West Branch has become a ghost town—just locals, no tourists. It will get interesting when Sulkin returns, especially if he still has amnesia. The sheriff is talking about a warrant for his arrest over the Lickshill incident.”

  “Yes, we heard that Lickshill’s body is missing. Sulkin said some crazy things on the helicopter about making sure the government could not find his experiments. Perhaps those statements are related to the missing body.”

  “Maybe. They did find the body, though. It was stuffed in the bottom of a casket in the showroom at the funeral home. The bedding was placed over the body so no one noticed it until a foul stench in the room led one of the sales associates to search the caskets. The sheriff is not sure he can charge Sulkin with any crime, but the family is threatening to sue the funeral home. The body was not embalmed completely and starting to decompose. Due to the possibility of further infection, it was confiscated by police and is being transported to the Michigan Disease Control Center in Detroit.”

  “Whew, glad we weren’t there to see that,” Porter said.

  “We have a lot of work to do to get this story out by year’s end. We need to dig into every historical reference to Ergot poisoning and see if we can make a connection.”