by David Archer
“My prints, my bloody prints, were on the knife they found in his chest,” Maggie said. “I don’t have any idea how they got there, but it seems to me that I must’ve been the one who stabbed him to death. Are you honestly saying there’s a chance that, even if I did it, I might not be considered guilty after all?”
Dixon shrugged. “It is possible,” he said. “It’s also possible that you’ve been framed, that your hand could have been smeared in the victim’s blood after he was dead, and then wrapped around the handle of the knife, so that it would leave your prints there. I’m personally leaning toward the brainwashing theory, however, because it fits all of the information we have, in both cases.”
“Mr. Dixon, everything the police have says I did it. The fact that I can’t remember that whole month, that’s what makes me think you might be onto something with this whole brainwashing bit. My only problem is that I can’t think of anything that I could have done that might have made that possible. I haven’t used any kind of drugs in over two years, and I’ve just never really been a drinker.”
Dixon suddenly perked up. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You just said you haven’t used drugs in two years. That means you used to have a drug problem, right?”
Maggie nodded. “Yes, just like a lot of people,” she said. “I got clean, though, and I’m proud to say that I stayed clean. I got my two-year chip not long ago—well, not long ago to my memory, anyway.”
“Ms. Bingham,” Dixon said, “how did you get clean? Did you do it yourself, or go to rehab?”
Maggie frowned. “I tried to do it on my own,” she said, “but I wasn’t able. My boss called me in one day and told me about this place called the Rivers Center, and that he knew somebody who could get me in. The company insurance would pay for it, so I agreed.” She rolled her eyes. “If I had known how hard it was going to be, I might not have been so willing, but I’m certainly glad I did it. The last two years, free of that stuff, they’ve been wonderful.”
Dixon looked over at Chance, and saw that Chance had also recognized the name of the place. He turned back to Maggie.
“Rivers Center,” he said. “That’s a boot camp style rehab, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Maggie said. “They get extremely serious about it, too. Six months I was in there, but by the time I came out I was drug-free and able to stay that way. I came out of there in the best shape I’ve ever been in.”
“And you were there about two years ago?”
“Yes, just a little over. Why?”
“Because, Ms. Bingham,” Dixon said, “my client, Ms. Martinez, was also there about two years ago. Could that be where you remember her name from?”
Maggie frowned and scrunched up her face again. “Small Hispanic girl? Long black hair, kind of pretty but maybe her nose has been broken or something?”
Dixon grinned. “Bingo,” he said. “Did you know her while you were there?”
Maggie shook her head. “You don’t get to know anybody in there,” she said. “You’re not allowed to talk much at all, and there’s absolutely no free time for socializing. No, I just vaguely remember a girl who looked like that who might be associated with that name. I seem to remember that she got yelled at a lot, so maybe that’s why she stuck in my memory.”
Dixon nodded. “That may be it,” he said. “I’ve got one more question for you.” He took out the photograph that Jack had printed for him, showing Yolanda and the other man. “Does this man look familiar to you at all?”
Maggie leaned forward and looked closely. “No,” she said slowly. “I can’t remember ever seeing him before.” She looked up at Dixon, and her eyes suddenly widened. “Wait a minute. You said something about if you knew anything about where I was, that might help? I ran into a man the day I was arrested, and he told me that he knew me when I was up here in Reno, during that missing time. He even showed me a picture of me and him together, and we were,” she blushed, “having a really good time, you might say. His name is Jim Wilson, and he gave me his business card in case I ever wanted to talk about—about anything. I don’t know why, but his number stuck in my memory. Let me give it to you.”
Chance took out his phone and opened a notepad app. “Okay,” he said, “go ahead.” She rattled off the number and he typed it into the notepad, then saved it.
“Before we finish up here,” Dixon said, “tell me about the last couple of days before the day you went missing. Was there anything strange going on in your life that last couple of days?”
Maggie looked him in the eye again. “Not much, nothing out of the ordinary. I went to a party at my boss’s house the night before, some kind of celebration for his wife getting her degree, but that was it. I had one glass of champagne at the party, I remember that, but that was all. I remember going home and getting in bed, and then I remember waking up to what I thought was the next morning and going to work. The only unusual thing about that was that I had a headache, and I thought the champagne had left me with a hangover.”
“A headache,” Dixon said. “Alright, then. I may have more questions, but I can probably arrange to send them through your attorney after this. I appreciate you giving us the time, and being honest with us.”
Maggie gave him a sardonic grin. “You mean you actually believe me? I appreciate that, because nobody else seems to.”
“I really do,” Dixon said. “And just so you know, the jailer who brought us in here said she believes you, too. Don’t give up hope, because if we can prove your case is related to our client’s case, then there’s a good possibility you’re going to see freedom again, and hopefully soon.”
He turned and motioned to Chance, who knocked for the jailer, and the man came to take Maggie back to her cell. A moment later, the woman returned to escort Dixon and Chance out of the secure areas of the detention center.
“See what I mean?” she asked. “When you talk to her, you just can't quite believe she did this, can you?”
Dixon didn’t respond, so Chance shrugged his shoulders. “You just don't know what people can do, sometimes,” he said, “but in this case, I have to agree. Something just doesn't fit, and we’re gonna do our best to find out what it is.”
She looked at him. “We're afraid she's going to hurt herself. They got her on suicide watch, already, because the shrink says there’s a possibility her memories may come back, and that she’ll suddenly find herself too depressed to cope with it.”
Dixon looked at her and smiled sadly. “I don’t think she will,” he said, “because I don’t think she really believes she’s guilty, either.”
They left the jail and got back into the pickup truck, and Chance turned to Dixon. “Both of them went to the Rivers Center,” he said. “I’m assuming we found our connection between them?”
Dixon already had a toothpick in his mouth. “I’d almost be willing to bet on it,” he said. “You know what kind of people know about brainwashing? Shrinks and psychologists, and both of them can be found in any drug rehab center. I can’t help wondering if there are a lot more victims of this thing out there.”
“I’m thinking along the same lines,” Chance said. “It’ll take us most of the day to get back to Vegas, but I think maybe we ought to go check out that place.”
Dixon grinned at him. “You’re learning, kid,” he said. “Let’s get back to fantasyland, shall we?”
Chance started up the truck and put it in gear, then headed back to the highway. He stopped and gassed up the truck, went inside to pick up bottles of water and buy a box of toothpicks for Dixon, and then they were back on the road once again.
“Okay, so we’re almost certainly looking at some kind of brainwashing, right?” Chance asked. “How much do you actually know about the subject? I mean, do you know what kind of questions to ask?”
“I’m pretty well up on it,” Dixon said. “This isn’t actually the first time I ever heard about a case that made me think it might be happening. It was a few years ago, back before I developed a blood al
cohol content that could be flammable, but there was this guy who killed his whole family and then swore up and down he didn’t have any memory of it. He was a good enough liar to have me convinced that he was either brainwashed or framed, but then he screwed up by telling one of his cellmates about what happened to his family and revealing a little detail that had never been released. The only way he could have known it was by being the one who did it, and his cellmate snitched him out in return for a lighter sentence on his own case.”
Dixon shook his head. “Anyway, while I was working on that case I did a lot of research. From reported uses of scopolamine as a mind control drug to the thousand stories, both real and out of conspiracy theories, about the government and the MK Ultra program, I found more than enough evidence to believe that it would be possible to completely reprogram someone into committing a heinous crime. Hypnosis alone would not do it, I learned, but a combination of suggestion and certain drugs had been known to have verifiable effects. There are even prescription drugs on the market that can cause people to do things, even terrible things, and not remember anything about it later.”
“You mean, there are actually drugs that doctors prescribe that can do that?”
“Yep. In every case, scopolamine or something like it seems to be the primary ingredient, and the Russians found out that there were other drugs that could be used along with it to make it last longer and be more effective, most notably benzodiazepines. Our own government came up with theories about using scopolamine and benzodiazepines, and sometimes certain other drugs, in a time-released implant in order to maintain control over a person for a lengthy period of time. Another theory said it would be possible to achieve the same effect using medicinal patches impregnated with these drugs.”
“Holy crap,” Chance said. “So, you think somebody figured out how to do this and is using it to turn everyday people into killers, right?”
“I do,” Dixon said. “I mean, think about it. Vegas is not only a major entertainment mecca, it’s also home to God knows how many different factions of organized crime. How much do you think it would be worth if you could tell all of the different mobs that you could arrange for someone to be killed, but in a way where it can’t possibly lead back to them? I think we’ve stumbled across the latest incarnation of Murder, Inc.”
NINE
Chance figured there was no point in getting there in a hurry, so they stopped twice along the way, once for lunch and once for dinner. They finally made it back to Vegas at shortly before 8 o’clock, and went back to the hotel they had stayed in two nights earlier. Dixon looked longingly at the hotel bar as they walked past it, but simply stuck another toothpick in his mouth as he got into the elevator.
“Are you having a problem?” Chance asked.
“I told you, I’m an alcoholic,” Dixon said. “For as long as I stay sober, whether it’s for a week or the rest of my life, I’m going to have a problem passing up a drink. Don’t worry, though, all of this is too important for me to throw away over a shot of whiskey.”
Chance nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Do we need to use the handcuffs again tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” Dixon said, “but if it’ll make you feel better, we can.”
Chance looked at him for a moment as the elevator rose. “I don’t think we’ll need them,” he said. “But bear in mind, if you sneak out in the middle of the night and get drunk, all bets are off. You won’t be any help to me, so I won’t be any help to you. Understood?”
Dixon grinned at him and nodded. “Perfectly.”
Dixon got the first shower while Chance called home. He told Gabriella about their visit with Maggie Bingham, and the possible connection between the two women.
“Well, there’s another one, now,” Gabriella said. “Came over the news this evening, another woman has been charged with a murder she swears she can’t remember committing. This woman’s only been missing for a few days, though.”
“Oh, great,” Chance said. “Where was this at?”
“Right there in Las Vegas. I wrote it down, just a second. Okay, her name was Betty Winston, and they say she killed a guy named Vinnie Fratello last night. According to the news anchor, Fratello was actually in the mob. There were witnesses and I guess they got her fingerprints, so she was arrested this morning when she tried to go to work.”
Chance shook his head. “Somebody is behind all this,” he said. “Pete thinks it’s someone who’s taking contracts on people and then sending brainwashed robots to do the jobs.”
“I hate to say it, honey,” Gabriella said, “but it sounds like he could be right.”
Chance talked with the boys for a few moments, and even said hello to his grandmother before he and Gabriella took a couple of minutes for themselves. They finally said goodbye, and Chance plugged his phone in as Dixon came out of the bathroom.
“My turn,” he said. Twenty minutes later, showered and relaxed, he and Dixon sat down to watch a movie on the television but they were both asleep before it was halfway over.
Chance had set an alarm on his phone, and was awakened when it went off at 6 AM. Dixon was still snoring, but a gentle shake from Chance was all it took to get him to open his eyes.
“Get up and get dressed,” Chance said. “I want a real breakfast this morning, and there’s a decent restaurant across the road.”
Dixon nodded, then threw off the covers and started pulling on his pants. Fifteen minutes later, the two of them walked out the front door of the hotel and crossed the street to get to a place called Julie’s Diner. They found the booth and sat down across from each other, and that’s when Chance noticed that Dixon had two toothpicks in his mouth, and they were working their way from one side to the other.
“Do you ever get splinters in your tongue?” Chance asked.
Dixon grinned. “Now and then,” he said. “Hurts, too. Of course, that just reminds me how important it is not to go get a drink.”
Chance nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood. A waitress came over and brought coffee, and they ordered eggs with sausage, biscuits and hash browns.
Neither of them really felt like talking, so they got through breakfast fairly quickly. When they did, they left the place and walked back to the hotel and got their bags, then checked out. A moment later, they got into the pickup and drove out toward the Rivers Center.
The Rivers Center was a widely advertised program, with actual clinics in six different states. It was founded by a man who had himself been an addict, hooked on heroin in the 1980s. Unable to kick the habit himself, he had agreed to let his Marine Corps drill sergeant father put him through an intensive boot camp experience, and had come out of it feeling so much better that the two of them worked together to create the program. What had started in an old motel on an abandoned stretch of highway in Arizona had evolved into a seven hundred million dollar a year business. The program was so successful that even most health insurance would cover it, with a doctor’s recommendation.
The one that was situated near Las Vegas was only accessible down a seven mile long dirt road across the desert. When they arrived, Chance was surprised to see that the facility was surrounded by a sixteen-foot chain-link fence that was topped with concertina wire. Apparently, they didn’t depend on your signature on the contract to keep you there; stricter measures were employed to guarantee that you didn’t leave before the program was finished.
“Hello,” said the security guard at the gate. “Are you gentlemen here for the program?”
Dixon held out his ID, and Chance passed it to the guard. “No,” Dixon said. “My name is Pete Dixon, and I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find an effective rehab program for a very wealthy businessman, something he can offer to his many employees who have developed dependence on drugs of one kind or another. A number of people suggested that we come out and talk with you folks, just to see how successful your program is.”
“Okay, you want to speak with Dr. Loftin,” the
guard said. “Hang on just a moment and let me see if he’s available.” He stepped into the guard shack and made a phone call, then came out a moment later and leaned into Chance’s window again. “When I open the gate, just go straight ahead until you see the blue building on the right. That’s the administrative office, and that’s where you’ll find Dr. Loftin. He’ll be waiting out front for you.”
The gate opened and Chance drove through as he was instructed to do. The facility was very large, and they passed four different groups of people who were all jogging in step, each with a “drill sergeant” jogging along beside them and calling out the cadence.
“Sure looks like a boot camp,” Dixon said. “Blue building, right up there. That must be Dr. Loftin standing in the doorway.”
“I see him,” Chance said. He pulled the truck up in front of the building and stopped.
“Dr. Loftin?” Dixon asked as he approached the man who stepped outside. He held out his ID. “I’m Pete Dixon, a private investigator. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
“No problem, Mr. Dixon,” the doctor said. “And this gentleman is…”
“This is Bill Simmons, he’s sort of my apprentice.”
Loftin shook hands with Chance. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Won’t you gentlemen come to my office?” He led the way without waiting for a response, and the two of them followed him through a beautifully decorated lobby and down the hallway.