by David Archer
“What happened to him?” Chance asked. “What made him like this?”
“You don’t know? I figured anybody who went looking for Pistol Pete would’ve already heard the story.”
“I’m new in town,” Chance said. “A friend of mine is in trouble and the lawyer told me I need a private eye. He said if I can get him to sober up long enough, Pete Dixon would be the best I can get.”
“He’s probably right,” the bartender said. “Trouble is, Pete don’t like to sober up. See, Pete used to be the PI everybody went to around here, whenever they were in trouble. Half the rich people in the city probably have him to thank for saving their butts more than once, but when you’re always helping people get out of trouble, then you’re bound to make some enemies. Pete made his share, and one day it all came home to roost. He was out working on a case, and somebody stopped by his house. Killed his wife and kid, and he’s been like this pretty much ever since.”
Chance looked down at the drunken man across the table. “Did he find out who did it?”
“Nah. Pete says he knows, but they’re untouchable. All the cops said there were no clues, like it was a real professional hit. Pete, he was in shock for a while, and then he just started drinking. I haven’t seen him sober more than twice in the last three years, and that was only because he ran out of money before he ran out of month.”
“How is he making any money if he isn’t working?” Chance asked.
“Oh, Pete was retired from the military before he ever got into the PI game. He was a major, I think, so he gets a decent pension. Lives in a flophouse somewhere, and drinks up most of his money. I think the only reason he doesn’t starve to death is because of peanuts and pickled eggs.” He looked down at Dixon with an expression of sympathy. “If I ever made him pay off his tab, he’d probably go broke.”
“You let him drink on credit?” Chance asked, incredulous. “Isn’t that just asking for trouble?”
The bartender looked at him. “Know why I call him Pistol Pete? Nah, of course you don’t. It’s because he was here the night somebody tried to rob me place, and the guy was so strung out that I was sure he was gonna kill me. Old Pete, he was sprawled on the bar kinda like he is now on the table, but he pulled out his gun and shot the guy dead just as he was about to blow my head off. I owe Pete, and he can drink here all he wants.”
Chance looked at the old drunk again. “Okay, then,” he said. “You probably know him fairly well. How do I sober him up?”
The bartender looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “The only thing Pete wants is the people that killed his family, but he can’t touch them for some reason. I don’t think anything else would get him to let go of the bottle.”
The bartender turned and walked away, and Chance looked down at Dixon. After a moment, he reached over and shook the man awake again.
“What, are you still here? Go away.” Dixon started to lay his head down again.
Chance leaned down until his face was level with Dixon’s. “If you help me,” he said softly, “I’ll help you. You tell me who hurt your family, and I will kill them for you.”
Dixon slowly raised his head again and looked at Chance. “Why would you do that?” he asked.
“Because I believe in justice, and they deserve it,” Chance said. “But I need your help now, so that’s the deal. You help me, I help you.”
Dixon stared at him for a long moment. “The city,” he said, “it’s like some kind of living thing. It’s got a heart, and it’s got a soul, but it also has a dark side just like everybody else. I stepped on too many toes, made too many people look bad. Half the cases I dealt with ended up involving organized crime, and after a while they get tired of somebody poking around in their business. My wife, Jill, and my son Robbie, they were the ones who had to pay the price for my success. I don’t know who actually pulled the trigger, but I know who ordered it. Trouble is, he’s always got plenty of bodyguards around him. How would you get to him?”
“I don’t know yet,” Chance said. “I’m very good with a rifle, so maybe a long shot. Or maybe I’d find a way to get close to him, because he doesn’t know who I am any more than I know who he is. Might not be impossible for me to actually let him know that it was you who was reaching out and touching him.”
The older man’s eyes searched Chance’s, looking for any sign that the youngster was trying to set him up. He knew the bastards wouldn’t come to kill him, because he was broken, down and out. They were the kind who would simply gloat over his misery, rather than end it.
“You ever killed anyone, kid?” he asked after a long moment.
Chance looked directly into his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “You see, I had a little sister, and she was murdered by a drug cartel. It took me a little while to figure out what I needed to do, but then I did it. The men who killed her, I took them down, and when the cartel sent people after me for it, I took them down as well. It left me with a hate for people who hurt innocent folks, and I’ve taken care of a few more since then. You tell me who it is, I’ll find a way to handle it.”
Dixon’s eyes were boring into Chance’s eyes, and neither one of them would blink. After a minute, Dixon finally sat up straight. “And what do you want from me?”
“There is a young woman in the jail right now,” Chance said, “charged with the murder of Robert Fredericks. She says she can’t remember the last month, and I know there’s been another case like that recently. I hired a lawyer, Alvin Kramer, and he says I need you to find out what could have happened to her, what could cause this. I’ll pay you, on top of taking care of that other situation.”
Dixon looked at him for a few more seconds, then looked at the empty bottle. Very slowly, very deliberately, he reached out and pushed it away. He turned and looked at the bartender, then called out, “Hey, Jamie,” he said. “Got any coffee?”
The bartender looked up, surprised, then headed toward them with a coffeepot and a cup. He poured the steaming black liquid and walked away again, while Dixon picked it up and drank half of it in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned his attention to Chance again.
“Now, just who the hell are you?” he asked.
Chance looked at him for a moment, then grinned. “I’m the Angel of Justice,” he said, “but you can call me Bill.”
FOUR
Chance spent an hour bringing Dixon up to speed on Yolanda’s case, and then took him across the road to a restaurant and bought him a decent meal. From the way the old detective shoved the food into his mouth, Chance suspected he hadn’t eaten in several days.
It wasn’t wasted time, however. Dixon seemed to be sobering up in a hurry as he guzzled coffee and ate the porterhouse Chance had bought him, and his mind began working.
“First thing we need to do,” he said, “is to start looking at the similarities between your friend’s case and the other one. If both of them are telling the truth, then somebody is manipulating people. You know anything about mind control?”
Chance shook his head. “You mean like hypnotism? Is that even a real thing?”
“Not hypnotism,” Dixon said. “I’m talking about mind control. Brainwashing, making somebody think the way you want them to think, so they do the things you want them to do. The government had a program about it for many, many years, it was called MK Ultra. Lots of stories around about it, but the truth is that they really did develop drugs that could make people do what they wanted. The idea was to program people to commit certain acts when they heard a pre-defined keyword or phrase. That person might go along for years not knowing anything about the programming, and then they get a phone call and hear that phrase. Next thing they know, they’re pulling out a gun and shooting somebody, and they don’t even know why.”
Chance’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And you think that’s what happened to these women? The government programmed them?”
Dixon shook his head. “Not the government, neces
sarily,” he said. “But somebody. If they’re both telling the truth, then somebody, somehow, turned them into other people for a while and sent them out to commit these murders. If that’s the case, then your friend isn’t guilty; the person who brainwashed her into doing this would be, and that’s who we have to find.”
Chance nodded slowly. “I guess I can see your point,” he said. “But how would we find out who did it?”
“First, we start with their backgrounds. Somewhere in the past, these two women would have something in common. If we find that, then we get a lead on how they were chosen for the brainwashing, and that can give us an idea of who was behind it.”
“Okay, but wouldn’t the cops already be looking into that? They got two women both making the same claim, and both accused of murders. Wouldn’t they be checking into any connection between them?”
“On a TV show, they would be,” Dixon said. “We ain’t on TV, this is the real world. Cops in the real world don’t have the time or the resources you see on a TV show, so they happily grab whoever they can hang a case on and move on to something else. These women are on their way to prison, even though they might be perfectly innocent.”
“Okay, but how could you program somebody to commit murder? According to both of these women, they’ve each got several weeks missing out of their lives. How could they be programmed to go somewhere and leave their lives behind, then murder someone and go home, thinking no time had passed?”
“Drugs,” Dixon said. “That MK Ultra program, they found out that certain combinations of drugs, combined with repeatedly telling the subject the same thing over and over, could make people do all sorts of things they normally wouldn’t do. Officially, they claim the program was never really successful, but they also claim Area 51 has nothing to do with UFOs. I happen to know they’re lying about that, and don’t ask me to explain that at the moment, so they’re almost certainly lying about MK Ultra. And if you want to read something really interesting, take a good look at most of the school shootings that happened in the nineties and early two thousands. Seems like a lot of the shooters had parents or relatives who were somehow connected to MK Ultra, and just about all of them seem to have been on the kinds of medications the program used to control their subjects. You honestly gonna tell me that could only be coincidence?”
Chance shook his head. “Okay, let’s back up. I’m not worried about government conspiracies at the moment, I’m concerned about Yolanda Martinez. You’re saying that somebody could choose an average person, somebody off the street, and program them to commit murder like this?”
“I’m saying that if these women are telling the truth, that has to be what happened. Now, at this point, we don’t know if either or both of them is telling the truth or not. You said you don’t mind spending money on this? That’s good, because we’re going to be spending it. We start with your girl here, but then we go to Reno and talk to the first one. We need to find every possible connection between the two of them, and that ain’t something you’re going to find on Facebook.”
“Okay, then,” Chance said. “Where do we start, and when?”
“Well, they ain’t gonna let me in the jail looking like this. Most of my clothes are down to rags, so I need you to spot me a wardrobe. Don’t worry, I do my shopping at Walmart, so it won’t be that much money. Then I need a decent place to shower, clean up and sleep for tonight. If you’re game, we’ll start first thing in the morning.”
Chance watched him for a moment as he used a biscuit to clean his plate. “Okay,” he said. “But you and I are like Siamese twins. You’re not getting out of my sight while we work on this, okay?”
“Fine by me,” Dixon said. “Because I want to talk about that other thing, but not in a public place like this.”
He shoved his plate aside and Chance signaled the waitress for the check. He paid it and added a tip, then the two of them walked out the door. Dixon grabbed a handful of toothpicks from the dispenser by the register, then stuck one into his mouth and followed Chance to his pickup truck. His eyebrows rose when he saw it, and he looked at his benefactor. “You sure you can afford all this?”
“Don’t let the truck fool you,” Chance said. “I built it myself, so it’s got some sentimental value, but it runs just like a new one. Climb in, let’s go find that Walmart.”
Dixon gave him directions, and they pulled up to a super Walmart a half-hour later. They grabbed a cart and Dixon started tossing clothes into it, selecting slacks, polo shirts, a jacket, socks and underwear, then Chance looked down at his ratty shoes and dragged him to the shoe department. Dixon quickly selected a pair of black slip-ons, and then they went to the toiletries section. A razor, shaving cream, soap and shampoo joined the other contents of the cart, and they headed for the checkout counter.
The total came to just over three hundred dollars, but Chance didn’t complain. They left the store and Chance drove them to one of the many hotels that were nearby and booked a double room.
“Listen, buddy,” Dixon said when they were in the room. “Tonight’s not going to be pretty. I haven’t been sober in God knows how long, so it’s gonna be rough for me tonight. I’m going to go take a shower, and then you’re gonna handcuff me to the bed.” He tossed a pair of handcuffs to Chance. “Don’t listen to anything I say, because I’m a drunk. When I’m going through this, I’ll say or do anything to get another drink, but you can’t let me go. If you do, I might not be able to come back again.”
Chance nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever we got to do.”
Dixon went into the bathroom and Chance heard the shower running a few moments later. He took out his phone and called home, and Gabriella answered quickly.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s it going down there?”
“I met with Yolanda,” Chance said. “To be perfectly honest, I believe her story. Unfortunately, it seems like the cops are only concerned with getting a conviction, and they’ve got enough evidence to do just that. They’re not interested in trying to find out what really happened, so I hired a lawyer for her and he told me to find a private investigator. He gave me the name of the guy, and I’m with him now.”
“Okay. Do you think he’s any good?”
Chance looked up toward the bathroom door and decided not to tell her the condition he found Dixon in. “He seems pretty sharp,” he said. “We’re going to get some rest tonight, then start on this fresh in the morning. How is everything back home?”
“Well, the boys are mad you were gone when they got home,” Gabriella said, “but they’ll get over it. Carmelita is staying here with us tonight, just to try to keep her mind off of things. I’ll let her know that you’re working on it, and I think that will help.” She lowered her voice. “Chance? Do you really think there’s any hope?”
“Mr. Dixon, the private investigator, says that if we can prove they were somehow brainwashed or drugged into doing this, then Yolanda isn’t guilty even if she was the one who stabbed the guy. I’m hoping he’s right, but we have to start figuring out how it all happened. Somebody is apparently manipulating people into committing these murders, and we need to find out how they’re doing it, and who’s behind it. That’s the only real hope she’s got.”
“Well, if anybody can do that, it’s you.”
Chance grinned. “You know, it’s probably not a good idea to put me on a high pedestal,” he said. “People have a tendency to fall off of those.”
She chuckled. “If you fall off,” she said, “I’ll help you climb back up on it. You’ve already proven yourself to me, remember?”
They talked for a few more minutes, and then Chance hung up the phone and listened to the shower that was still running. It seemed to go on quite a while, but Chance had gotten a whiff of the man, so he understood. Dixon probably hadn’t taken a real shower in days, maybe weeks.
When he came out of the bathroom, he was wearing a new pair of boxer shorts and holding a plastic bag. “I stole the trash bag to put my old clothes
in,” he said. “We can toss them in a dumpster tomorrow.” He dropped the bag beside the door and then went to the bed that was closest to the windows.
Both of the beds had artistic metal headboards with brass rails. Dixon got into bed and pulled the covers up, then looked expectantly at Chance. “Come on, let’s get it over with.” He held his left hand up so that the Chance could put on the handcuffs, and then the other end went around the brass rail. Chance shook it a couple of times to make sure it was secure, then sat down on the other bed.
“You going to be in shape for what we got to do tomorrow?” he asked.
“I think so,” Dixon said. “I’ve been through this a few times, and I can usually focus by the next morning. Of course, those other times, I just focused enough to scrape up the money to get drunk again.” He bit his bottom lip for a second, then looked Chance in the eye. “Alright, it won’t get much more private than this. Tell me who you really are. Why would you offer to do what you said you would do for me?”
Chance grinned at him. “My grandmother,” he said. “She’s a little on the fanatically religious side, you might say. She thinks I am the earthly incarnation of Raguel, the Angel of Justice. What happened was that after I killed the men who murdered my sister, I felt a rush. At first, I thought I just got off on killing people, and I almost became a professional killer. Lucky for me, the first job I get sent on turned out to be one I couldn’t do. Instead, I figured out that what gave me that rush, what gave me that feeling of power, was the fact that I was the instrument of justice.”
Dixon grinned at him and nodded his head. “And now you need that rush,” he said. “Am I right?”
Chance looked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded back. “I don’t exactly go looking for situations where justice is needed, but I don’t run away from them, either. I’ve already taken care of a couple things, and your situation is one I would’ve taken on, anyway. You want to tell me what happened?”