by John Oakes
“So you’ve heard?”
“It’s a small town,” Jansen said. “My phone’s been blowing up with questions but few answers. I could do with more details.”
Jansen leaned back. “Your associate Doctor Kerala was shot and killed tonight at your clinic.”
“This much I gathered.” Jansen did a serviceable job of playing the shocked and aggrieved friend. “But who did it?”
“We don’t know at this time.”
“Where was he killed?” Jansen uncrossed his legs and leaned a little forward.
“In a back room. Three men, patients we think, were found locked in the room with him.”
“Three men?” Jansen asked. “Are you sure it was three?”
“Yes. We were hoping you could help us ID them.”
“The patients attacked him?”
Plimpton stared at Jansen, hesitating a second before answering. “It’s possible. We’ll need to inquire how one of them was able to access a pistol.”
“No, no. Of course. A full investigation.” Jansen swallowed.
Plimpton laid his phone on the table, turned it toward Jansen and scrolled through photos of the men found in the locked room with Kerala.
“Yes, actually,” Jansen said. “Those patients were under Doctor Kerala’s care. I didn’t know much about them.”
“You do keep files?” Plimpton asked.
“Well…” Jansen reddened a bit. “Well, yes. But… uhh… I’d have to look through Doctor Kerala’s office to get you their information.”
“Very well. You wouldn’t mind doing that as soon as possible?”
“Oh,” Jansen nodded fast, chin wobbling. “Certainly. If that’s all you need, I can go right now.”
“Thank you,” Plimpton said. “Mighty kind. Just a couple more things.”
Jansen tried to smile as he nodded along, looking edgy like a horse at the starting gate.
“Do you know of anyone else who could have been responsible for Doctor Kerala’s death? Any enemies, any outstanding debts, angry husbands…”
“None that I’m aware of.” Jansen put a knuckle to his chin and dipped his head in thought. “Although, I had noticed a suspicious fellow coming around after Ryan Spencer’s suicide.”
“You knew Ryan Spencer?”
Jansen seemed caught off guard by the question by the tilt of his head, then nodded. “Ryan was a patient. Off and on over the years.”
“What did he see you for?”
“I suppose in broad strokes I can ethically tell you he suffered from depression and anxiety. Sometimes severe.”
“And who was this suspicious person?”
“Some friend of the Spencer family. A very small fellow. A little person I believe is the appropriate terminology. His family has a place a few doors down from the Spencer house. He seemed to have an interest in us. I wondered if it had any connection.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Winton Chevalier. He has an African-American associate who’s normal sized.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not as such.” Jansen seemingly felt the need to up the ante. He shifted his weight in the chair. “There was something menacing about him, though. He seemed very angry, like he could snap at any time.”
“Well, thanks for the lead.” Plimpton finished taking a note and arranged the papers in front of him. “We’ll check into it.”
“May I go then?”
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
Plimpton steadied himself. “How long were you sleeping with Beatrice Spencer before her death?”
Jansen blanched, and his breathing stopped. “Excuse me?” he said in a whisper.
“Beatrice Spencer. Did you know her?” Plimpton annunciated each word in the question as if speaking to a child.
“I really don’t know precisely what you mean. I… I—”
Plimpton splayed his fingers up from the table. “Was she a patient?”
“Yes. She was a patient.”
“And Ryan Spencer. Was he a patient?”
Jansen stammered. “Well, well yes. I’ve already said—”
“How long did you see them?” Plimpton interjected.
“I’d have to check my records.”
“Gimme your best guess.” Plimpton’s eyelids drew down a fraction of an inch, giving him his most tired and put-upon expression.
“Ryan, I’d been seeing for going on four years. Beatrice, only five or six months.”
“Do you know why Ryan Spencer committed suicide?”
Jansen shook his head. “I cannot reveal patient information.”
“Your patient is dead.”
“Still, I…I… I can only offer general theories about why people resort to such a terrible thing.”
“Like what?”
“Severe depression, anxiety, substance abuse, grief.” Jansen smiled casually. “Surely you’ve encountered a suicide before.”
Plimpton cocked an eyebrow. “What about despair?” Plimpton asked. “What about a broken heart?”
Jansen adjusted his posture. “Certainly, it’s possible.”
“Then what specifically made Ryan decide to end it?”
“I can only speculate that it was his severe depression. He wasn’t seeing me for some time before his death. So I didn’t have intimate details.”
“You were better positioned than anyone in his life and better trained at spotting psychological degradation. If anyone can muster a specific guess for me, it’s you.”
“That’s just not how it works.” Jansen set his jaw.
“Did you offer Beatrice drugs for sex?”
“How dare you?”
“Well, did you?”
“I’m not going to be spoken to this way.”
“How long were you sleeping with Ryan Spencer before you started dipping your wick in his sister too?”
“That’s…” Jansen held up a finger. “That’s just not fair. How dare you?” He stood from his chair and backed into the wall. “If this is some police trick, I will have a lawyer.”
“Sit down, Doctor Jansen.”
“No, I don’t think I want to. Am I free to go?”
“Sit down.”
“No. I’m not under arrest here.” He seemed to be talking to himself as much as Plimpton, kneading his hands together. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t want to be questioned like this.”
Jansen edged around the corner of the table, seeing if Plimpton would get up to stop him leaving. Plimpton just spun in his chair and leaned an elbow on the plain metal table. “I know two things you’ll wanna hear before you slip out that door.” Plimpton held up two thick fingers. “First off, I know about Maryvale.”
“You what?” Jansen placed both his palms flat on the cinder block to either side of him. “What about Maryvale?” He tried to ask the question nonchalantly.
Plimpton pointed to the chair. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
“I won’t.”
“Fine.” Plimpton waved a hand. The door opened from the outside where Detective Weischel stood next to Cletus, who was handcuffed.
“Oh, hello Doctor Jansen.” Cletus took a step inside like a tentative deer, twitching here and there as if about to bolt. “I was just so torn up about what I did to you.” Cletus gave a wan smile. “Thought it was high time I turned myself in and made amends.” Cletus offered out his cuffed wrists like a gift.
Jansen backed up along the wall. “I don’t know this man,” Jansen said, plainly recoiling in fear of him. “I’d like to go. Get him out of the way.”
“You gotta come through me,” Cletus said. “I’d like to show you how sorry I am. Maybe a hug for old time’s sake.”
Jansen was practically huffing smoke out his nostrils.
“I know two things,” Plimpton said again. “I know about Maryvale. He extended a second finger. “I know Beatrice Spencer was pregnant when she died.”
Jansen had been peppered with subtl
e accusations, but at this he looked utterly defeated.
“I didn’t know.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not.” Plimpton held up a third finger. “And there’s a third thing I’m about to find out.” He paused, letting Jansen die a little on the inside waiting. “I’ll know the paternity of the father in the next two hours.”
The prosecutor next to Winton let out a wicked chuckle. “Plimpton is evil when he wants to be. That’s my cue.” She left the viewing room and barged through the doorway acting angry. “Detective Plimpton. The gentleman has asked numerous times if he can leave.”
“Oh, has he?” Plimpton turned his palms up.
“I don’t want to give him any ammunition going forward,” the prosecutor said. “Please, Doctor Jansen. You are free to go.”
Jansen glowered at Plimpton before stalking out. He gave the Prosecutor a nod on his way out.
“Doctor Jansen,” she said. “Remember my face. You’re going to be seeing a lot of it.”
Jansen’s reddening face turned away and he walked stoop-shouldered to the exit. Winton, Julius and Plimpton all huddled near the prosecutor in the hall. “Well, gentlemen, I don’t think that could have gone any better.”
“You were brutal,” Winton said to Plimpton.
“Just doing my job.” He turned his unlit cigar in his mouth.
Weischel removed Cletus’ handcuffs, and he rubbed his wrists. “Thanks for your help,” she said.
“Yeah, I tell you what,” Cletus said. “In all these years, trying to just not think about Maryvale, even in my wildest fantasies — and I get some wild ideas sometimes — I never imagined the po-lice helping to get that devil.”
“Well, if this works out, we’re indebted to you,” the prosecutor said.
“Like a couple million dollars?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” the prosecutor said.
Cletus scratched at his neck. “Get me a shrimp Po Boy down by the seawall, then, and take me to my lady friend.”
“Done,” Winton said. “Julius, let’s get your car outta the shop.”
The three of them walked down the road to get Julius’ car, while Winton listened to the police scanner on his phone.
“Cletus, sure am glad you trusted Detective Weischel to bring you down here,” Julius said.
“She was all right. Showed me that video you made on her phone. Figured only thirty-five percent chance it was a trap to harvest my organs. What can I say? I’m a gambler.”
Not only had the shop fixed Julius’ car, one of his guys had detailed the inside. Julius offered to pay extra for the work, but the mechanic waved him off. “We do sometime if no other car,” he said in a thick accent, holding up two thumbs. “Please tell friends about excellent service.”
As they got in the car, Winton said, “Reminds you there are good people in the world.”
Julius fished out a pair of sunglasses and ran his hands over the Armor-all on the dash. “Woo, yeah, baby. The nice man gave you a little pampering. You deserve it.”
“I know guys talk to their cars sometimes,” Winton said. “But usually it’s not to reasonably priced four-door sedans.”
“You just keep hating,” Julius said. “Now let’s get this man his Po Boy. Doesn’t sound half bad to me either.”
It was still morning, so not many seafood joints were open yet. Julius parked at a curb and put the car in park. “Sorry, my man. Looks a little early for lunch fare.”
“Well, ain’t that just life kicking me in the shins again,” Cletus said. “Don’t know what’s more disappointing, this or that time I got turned away from American Idol.”
Julius turned as if about to ask for clarification, opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
“Cletus,” Winton said. “You said something funny when we were in your digs in San Antonio.”
“What?”
“Something about Galveston being a place where people sell their dreams?”
“Oh, that. I read it in a book once. To be honest, I ain’t never been down here. I want a Po Boy because that’s what they ate in the book.”
“What was the book called?” Winton asked.
“Couldn’t tell ya for the life of me.” Cletus shook his head. “Hey, look. There’s a roller coaster.” He pointed to the Pleasure Pier.
“Maybe that’s what we’ve been missing this whole time,” Julius said.
“Save me the indignity.” Winton held a flat hand two inches above his head.
“What exactly’s gonna happen now with Doctor Jansen?” Cletus asked.
Winton held up his phone. “I’ve been listening to the scanner, but either nothing’s happening, or they’re not using it for communication.”
“They’re watching his house and the clinic to see if he moves, right?”
“I don’t like just sitting here waiting to hear if they catch him,” Winton said.
“Can you imagine how pissed Plimpton will be if we stick our noses in this? Even Weischel would probably take a piece out of our asses.”
“Maybe we’re just citizens in a small town driving along when we happen to see something suspicious.”
“Like how?”
“Like we figure out his most likely avenue of escape and happen to be there waiting.”
“Only two bridges off the island,” Julius said.
“And the Goat Island ferry. But that seems slow. Timing would have to be just right.”
Winton sent a text to Weischel, asking how things were going. He got no response for five long minutes, leaving him pinching the bridge of his nose and jiggling a leg up and down. “I’d give anything to be on their radio frequency.”
“This is the hard part of leaving things in the hands of the professionals, I guess.” Julius shrugged.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Cletus said.
“That’s not the appropriate metaphor here,” Winton said.
“Metaphor?” Cletus asked.
Winton turned to get a look at his face and caught sight of a gray-black plume of smoke rising from the center of town.
TWENTY-SIX
“My apologies, Cletus.” Winton tapped Julius on the arm. “Get a load of this.”
Julius pulled away from the curb and turned back toward the smoke. By the time they located its source, a fire truck had arrived along with two Galveston PD cruisers.
Julius sniffed. “Man, that’s a raunchy fire.”
“I’ve smelled worse,” Cletus said.
“I thought you said you couldn’t smell,” Winton said.
Cletus furrowed his brow. “And that’s probably why, dummy.”
“God, you can taste it. Yuck.” Julius and Winton pulled their shirts up over their noses. “You think it’s some sort of chemical fire?”
“Dunno,” Winton said.
An unmarked police vehicle parked on the other side of the fire truck, and Weischel stepped out shouting orders at the firemen to get the blaze controlled as fast as possible. She yanked a silver tank off the side of the truck and helped out, spraying a foamy liquid at the burning structure.
“Got it,” a male voice called out.
Winton and Julius stepped out, creeping along a fence covered in running plants to get a view of the smoldering shack. Next to the shack was the footprint of a mobile home that had long since been removed from the plot.
“Pretty ideal little set up for a small-time drug factory.” Winton waved the remaining fire stink away from his face.
The shack groaned and listed to one side. Weischel and a firefighter ducked out in case it was about to fall.
“Nobody go back in,” a firefighter called out.
Weischel tossed the contents of her cupped hands onto the grass and knelt next to them. Winton ran forward and knelt down next to her. In a mess of ash and fire retardant foam, the remains of the stash were clear. Little scorched pink pills and packaging.
Weischel looked up, but before she could get a word out in surprise at seeing him, Winton sai
d, “Was the equipment in there too?”
Weischel’s face looked pained. She nodded.
“That’s great!” Winton said. “This was it.”
“Oh, no, no,” Weischel said. “Either he had an accomplice come do this, or he slipped us.”
“At the clinic or at his home?”
“Not sure. Probably the clinic. More people coming and going. He left his car there, though.”
“He could’ve been disguised. He could have made it here running in five or ten minutes.”
Weischel launched herself up and ran for the unmarked vehicle. She got on the radio. “Be advised: Suspect is traveling on foot, possibly in disguise. All units be on the lookout.”
Weischel cursed and ran a hand through her hair.
“We’ll help you find him. He can’t be far.” Winton ran back to the car with Julius in tow.
“Where we gonna find him?”
Winton hopped in the passenger seat. “I’m not sure. But he’ll be trying to get off the island.”
“Fastest way from here is the main bridge.”
“He might have accounted for that, especially if he’s on foot.”
“So we go to the west end?”
“Might as well, especially if we’re covering ground the police aren’t already on.”
“My uncle taught me to hunt,” Cletus said, leaning forward between the seats. “He said that if you wanna track a deer, you gotta think like a deer.”
“How does that apply here?” Julius asked.
“We gotta think like an asshole.”
“The man has a point.” Winton nodded.
“Now, the way I figure,” Cletus said, “an asshole would have a boat to make his getaway.”
“There’s a thousand boats on this island,” Julius said.
“Yeah, and most of ‘em are on the bay side,” Winton said. “They’d have to motor all the way around the island to hit open water. Then it’s however many miles into international waters.”
“If he comes around the west end in a boat, we’d see him going past, under the bridge.”
“But then what?” Winton asked.
“You fellas got a sniper rifle in the back?” Cletus asked. “I forgot to bring mine.”
Julius looked at Cletus in the rearview a second. “Nah, man. I don’t got a sniper rifle.”