Читать книгу Shock! - Donald Ph.D. Ladew - Страница 9

Lt. Ed Swinburne woke slowly, unwillingly. For most of his life he suffered mornings as unavoidable. However, he saw no reason to be cheerful about it. Then he met Suzanne. He still woke slowly, even reluctantly, but now with a smile.

The first thing he saw was a generous expanse of velvet hip, dipping into a delightful concave waist. He let his eyes follow the rise of her waist to a truly magnificent bosom. An ivory Amazon, and best of all, she was his wife.

They'd been married a year, and he still felt a rush of emotion as poignant as the first time they'd met.

Swinburne was a homicide detective. His business was death in all its pathetic and violent forms. Unlike most of the men in the division, there was more to his life than the streets. Besides a degree in police science, he was a better-than-average portrait painter.

That's where he'd first seen her, in life-class at UCLA. She was facing forward, holding a ceramic jar to her waist, a classical Greek pose, everything in perfect proportion; skin like heavy cream, hair to her waist, the color of burnished copper. When the hour was up, he hadn't drawn a line or put paint to canvas. At that moment he felt an overwhelming, even violent urge to cover her body, to allow no one else to see her. It was primitive, mad, and very real.

He measured existence from that moment and wondered how he'd gotten along without her.

She didn't like his work, but as a teenager her mother gave her some advice, which, unlike most children her age, she actually listened to.

"Suzy," her mother had said; "You find a man you really got a yen for, I mean a genuine day and night letch for, and you like him in between times to boot, you better take him the way he is. I don't give a good goddamn if he's a dogcatcher or the paperboy. Don't go tryin' to make him into something you think is presentable, ‘cause you for sure won't letch for him day and night, and you sure as hell won't like him in between times either. You don't want to spend the rest of your life wondering where the man you loved went."

Her mother was what some people call a diamond in the rough. She was salty, drank rye whiskey neat from a kitchen glass and knew a few curse words that weren't in the Dictionary of American Slang.

As he admired his wife's bosom and decided whether he would do something to demonstrate that admiration, he glanced at the alarm beside the bed and saw that it was five in the morning.

"Shit!" He looked out the window; still dark. Then the ringing registered. He had two phones, one for family and one for police business. It wasn't to be used unless there was trouble.

He thought for the hundredth time about mankind's propensity for shuffling off their coil in the small hours of night, and then picked it up. It was his partner, Detective Nick Akoichi.

Damn, no way he'd call at this hour unless there was trouble.

"Come on, boss, wake up. We've got a strange one. Someone with a lot of horsepower called Chief Rudderman and he called me, 'cause he couldn't raise you by the way."

Great, Swinburne thought, all we need is another political mess where everyone winds up looking like crap. You solve it, you get in trouble; you don't solve it, you get in trouble.

Swinburne cleared his throat and sat up. "What've you got, Nick?"

"Homicide, the Cabrillo Springs Psychiatric Clinic, off the 101 Freeway, in Woodland Hills," Nick said.

"That's Valley Division. How come their boys didn't get it?" Stupid, Swinburne thought. They'll be truly pissed.

"Like I said, boss, someone upstairs wants the best and you're it."

"That's a lot of bullshit. The boys in Valley Division are going to be uncooperative," Swinburne said.

"I know. It's weird, Lieutenant. I wish you'd come on out, get me off the hook. The area is secure; forensics is here, the coroner, a couple of our guys plus all the rest of the riff-raff. We got a cast of thousands out here."

"Okay. Who's the photographer?" Swinburne asked.

"Moran, sir."

"Danny, that's good. You know my ways, Nick. Make sure he gets everything, inside and out. See you in about an hour."

Suzanne was awake. She watched him, a sleepy frown making small furrows between her eyes. Swinburne reached over and ran his thumb across the frown.

She smiled winsomely. "I take it that's the lottery informing us of our good fortune. Now we're going to spend six weeks in the South of France drinking wine and making love." Her voice had the soft burr of sleep.

"'Fraid not, pussycat. I was contemplating your charms with the intent to commit lust when the Sergeant called," Swinburne said, stroking her cheek gently.

She smiled lasciviously and slowly lowered the sheet past one luscious breast.

"Oh, no, you mustn't attack me," she mimed in a quavering voice. "Of course you're too powerful and I'll probably have to submit to save my life. Don't worry, I can't testify against you, so you might just as well have your way with me." She threw her arms out wide and fell back on the pillows, breasts and belly undulating in a smorgasbord of erotica. The sheets barely covered her hips.

"Cruel, Suzanne. You'll pay when I get back."

"I'm counting on it," she grinned.

By the time Swinburne showered and dressed, he had filled her in on the situation. She slipped into a silk robe that would have debauched a regiment of Jesuits, and make a pot of coffee. She put a cup on the counter that divided the dining area from the kitchen and poured the rest into a thermos.

She gave him a sweet smile and told him to hurry back. Swinburne kissed her and reluctantly headed out into the early morning darkness.

Suzanne's father was chief drill man on one of those rigs that dot the Santa Barbara Channel. He was what is colloquially referred to as a redneck. Didn't matter, they got along fine.

Swinburne never understood how a five-foot five, bandy-legged Irishman managed to father such a colossal daughter. Anyhow, Red had made a lot of money over the years, and lived in a doublewide trailer on ten acres overlooking the beach north of Malibu.

Six months ago, on Swinburne's birthday, a brand new silver Porsche 911S Carerra Turbo appeared in Swinburne's parking spot beneath the Elmwood Arms, where he and Suzanne had their apartment.

Swinburne tried to get him to take the damn thing back, but he wouldn't. The two of them were in cahoots, and she got as much kick out of it as he did. It came with a cellular telephone and a stereo system every thief in the city lusted after.

Police officers, even lieutenants, don't pay seventy five thousand for a car unless they're on the take, so it surprised him when no one at the division made any smartass comments.

He discovered his clever, redneck; nice-guy father-in-law had sent an open letter to Chief Rudderman and asked him to pass the word.

It said, in essence, that he, William 'Red' Holloway, father-in-law to one Lieutenant Edward A. Swinburne, bought him a Porsche etc. etc., for his birthday 'cause he didn't consider him a total screw-up as a son-in-law. Anyone wants to make smart about it should meet him behind Snooky's Bar in Malibu and "I'll readjust both your face and your attitude." Signed, Red Holloway.

Swinburne realized he'd look like a real shit if he kept asking him to take it back. Besides, he loved the thing only slightly less than his wife.

Going up 101 North to the Ventura Freeway, the little darlin' grumbled with frustration at being held to seventy. Barely fast enough to get the oil warm. The stereo was locked on KKGO, and a Brazilian group, Azimuth, played a tune called Samba de Barra that went to the blood like vintage champagne.

Excellent! Swinburne thought. Hell, I might even be alive when I get there.

The clinic was just off the freeway on a small hill near Canoga Avenue. An access road ran up between the hills to a series of sprawling inter-connected buildings built in the California Mission Style.

The black and whites were sandwiched between State Police units, and several unmarked cars. Their lights flashed hypnotically. The officer at the entrance set aside a wooden barricade joined to several others with yellow scene-of-the-crime tape and waved Swinburne through. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle at the car.

Nick waited for Swinburne at the entrance to the clinic.

He's a wonder, Swinburne thought. It's six in the morning and he looks like a page out of Gentlemen's Quarterly.

Nick wore a pale yellow linen suit, wine-colored silk shirt with a matching square of silk tucked casually in the jacket pocket and dark maroon Nocona boots polished to a high gloss.

Nick was only an inch or so shorter than Swinburne and probably weighed around two-o-five. With his square, even features, short curly black hair and perfect smile; he'd been putting butterflies in the ladies pants since he was fifteen. More important, away from the division he wasn't pegged as a cop.

He started to open his mouth to make his report.

"Hold on a second, Nick." Swinburne steered him away from the front of the building out of earshot of all the traffic going in and out.

"What's this business about the Chief telling you this is special? Exactly what did he say?"

"What's the difference, Lieutenant, it's no big deal," Nick said.

"You weren't listening, Nick. I asked you a question. I didn't ask for an evaluation of circumstances. Exactly what did the Chief say?"

Nick got a funny look on his face and came to attention. "The watch officer called, said he had a homicide at this location, and that a patrol car was at the scene."

He hesitated before going on, mentally checking the events. "Interesting; the watch officer said he had a call from the Commissioner's assistant, a Claude Fishman; that he would be watching this one, wanted it handled quickly. I got the call at home, dressed and headed to the scene. Wait, before I left, the Chief called and told me, don't screw this up, Akoichi, the Commissioner and the Mayor are very interested. Then as he was hanging up he said something else, as if he was talking to himself. Those fuckin Feebs pissin... I didn't hear the last words, but I bet it was, pissing in the soup. That's a favorite of his."

"I wonder why he didn't call me first?" Swinburne said. "Alright. Thanks, Nick. Is there anyone here from the Mayor's office, anyone who wouldn't normally be on hand?" Swinburne asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know, sir?"

"Just a hunch, Sergeant, just a hunch. Let's go see what's going on."

The reception area was small and plush as only a private clinic can be. One of the state police officers had taken over the receptionist's desk.

"This is Officer Weise. He and his partner were first on the scene." Nick spoke appreciatively. "He did a good job getting the area clear; made sure no one left the building. Jennings from Valley Division has been taking preliminary statements."

"Good job, Weise. The day staff will probably begin to arrive soon. Tell them to go about their jobs. No one leaves until I've seen them," Swinburne said. “I’ll handle the over-time with your Sergeant.”

Nick pointed to a double swinging door with metal kick plates in back of the reception area. It led through a hallway painted hard institutional white into the other buildings. Over everything was the smell of disinfectant, medicines, anesthetics and something else.

Probably just my imagination, Swinburne thought, but as they moved past doors marked X-ray, serology, administrative offices, the sense got stronger: Fear, rank and hot

Swinburne couldn't see them, but he knew there were patients beyond some of those doors, and they weren't asleep. It was palpable, a presence he'd known before, both in the States and in the Republic of Viet Nam.

Once in the Highlands he remembered passing through a battalion of young marines just in from the States waiting to go on the line. He smelled it then, and knew what it was. When they came back two days later, the smell was gone. In its place was something else, something less definite.

They reached another set of double doors at the end of the hall, a small space with a couple of empty gurneys and an entrance into another hall. Halfway down the hall a door opened and Moran, the photographer, came out festooned with equipment.

"Hi, Lieutenant. I'm all done inside the buildings. There's a great hulk inside who looks like the missing link. He followed me around, wouldn't let me go in a lot of areas."

"Oh, really? Take me to this person," Swinburne said.

They went in a door marked 'Therapy'. A couple of men from the crime lab were taking care of business and didn't look up. They'd been there too many times and took each other's presence for granted.

In a small office to one side, a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit looked through some folders in a metal filing cabinet. He wasn't one of the Lieutenant's people; as a matter of fact, Swinburne had never seen him before. Swinburne realized he must be the one Nick mentioned earlier.

Swinburne moved up behind him quick, put his hand around under the man's arm and patted him down. He whipped around, the edge of his hand horizontal to the ground. Swinburne stepped back easily and took out his badge.

"I'm Swinburne, in charge of this investigation, and who might you be? Bruce Lee?" The Lieutenant didn't raise his voice.

When he saw Nick and Swinburne, the man dropped his arm self-consciously. He had a smooth, confident voice. Well, maybe not quite so confident anymore.

"You startled me, Swinburne." He looked at Swinburne blandly.

"I know that. I asked you who you were. I've got a lot to do, my dance card is full, so if you wouldn't mind, don't waltz me around, just answer my question."

"Don't get tense, Swinburne. I was sent here to observe." Three-piece just gave more bland contempt.

"Nick, acquire this person's I.D. right now, please..."

He didn't get to finish saying, please before Nick went by in a blur, grabbed three-piece by the lapels, lifted him clear off the floor, flipped him one hundred and eighty degrees and propelled him face first into the nearest wall so hard someone's diploma fell to the floor.

"Feet back and spread 'em, please," Nick said.

When the man didn't comply, Nick reached out with his left hand and grabbed the back of the man's neck, reached down with his right, grasped his pants legs, shoved forward with his left hand and pulled with his right. He stood quickly and kicked the man's legs apart, grabbed his arms and hands and slammed them against the wall over his head. It all happened quicker than two finger snaps.

He frisked the guy quickly and efficiently: First the pistol; a .357 short-barrel Colt in a shoulder rig; then his wallet and a small leather case similar to Swinburne's.

Very interesting.

The man started to turn and Nick cuffed him sharply on the back of the head.

"Stand still, please." Akoichi was very polite, probably would continue to be right up until he removed the man's head from his shoulders.

Swinburne looked at his I.D. "FBI; right, thought so."

Swinburne carried a long-duration recorder with a lapel mike for scene-of-the-crime.

"Make note for the record. Detained at the scene one Morris J. Petulski, FBI I.D. number 414-618, California license number E045139," Swinburne read all the personal data aloud.

"Found at crime scene going through file cabinet drawers in one of the offices. The victim is still on the premises. As will be noted in this recording and per witnesses, subject would not identify himself when asked repeatedly. Sergeant Akoichi detained subject for questioning."

"Danny, take pictures of everything in his wallet; take a picture of him, too. These assholes have a way of disappearing. Nick, take a thorough written inventory. Call FBI main office in Washington, D.C. See if they know this man, he might be an impostor. Be sure to take the names of everyone you talk to."

"Wait," he started to turn away from the wall, "umpphh," he grunted as Nick shoved him back against the wall.

"Will you please listen, some very important people sent me here. You're in a lot of trouble, Swinburne."

"That's the third time you've failed to address me properly. Don't they teach you boys any interdepartmental etiquette back there in Feeble-land? Make note the alleged agent threatened an officer of the law with influence of superiors during the performance of his duties. Make note also this is interference in the investigation of a capital crime, to wit, murder most foul."

"Will you please listen, Lieutenant Swinburne, this is all wrong." He was getting desperate.

"All right, Mister Petulski, turn around, keep still and make sure I can see your hands."

When he had faced the Lieutenant, Swinburne went on. "Now, Mister Petulski, you tell me exactly what you're doing here; who sent you, what brief you were given, why you were rifling those cabinets, the works, sport. You give me any bullshit story and I'm going to cuff you and send you to the station. Are we communicating yet, Mister Petulski?"

"Yeah, yeah. Christ, whatever happened to cooperation? We're on the same side, you know." He saw something in Swinburne's eyes and shut up quick.

"Don't give me any of that 'we're on the same side' bullshit; you assholes from foolish-but-ignorant aren't on anyone's side but your own. Talk to me, dipshit, before I have the Sergeant squeeze that pimple you call a head!" Swinburne snarled.

"Okay, okay, take it easy. I was told by the Head of the Los Angeles Office to get on out here on the double..."

What's this all about? Is this an FBI thing; if so, how come they don't have eight or ten of their people here, grabbing all the glory and screwing things up?

"The name of your Chief, please?" Swinburne asked.

"Special Agent David McCoy: Anyway, he said he got word from Washington that we should stay apprised of everything going on here," the FBI agent said.

"Did he say who called from Washington?" Swinburne asked.

"Yeah, it was someone named, Williamson."

"You're doing fine. Now tell me why you were going through the files here. Were you ordered to do that?" Swinburne asked.

He hesitated just a second too long. "No, nothing like that, just curious, you know, standing around doing nothing. Idle hands, devil's workshop..." Petulski laughed nervously.

"Uh huh, sure, sport. Well, you go outside to the reception area. There's a State Police officer there. You report to him. We'll have another little chat later. If there's anything your superiors want to know, tell them to go through channels. I don't like free-lancers sticking their grubby fingers in my operations."

The sergeant came back. "The Bureau identifies him as one of theirs, assigned as an agent to the L.A. Office. Something really smells here, sir."

"Too right! It'll have to wait, though. Moran, are you ready?" Swinburne asked.

"Yes, sir. I sure like working with you, Ed. You know how to stir the pot," Moran said.

"Okay, show me this incredible hulk," Swinburne told him.

They went through another set of metal-capped swinging doors into a larger room like a hospital ward. There were about a dozen hospital beds there, none of them occupied. Toward the end of the room, one of the men from forensics was dusting a doorway, muttering. Something about all murderers being assholes, and why couldn't they do their business during the day like normal people.

Standing to one side was a huge man with shoulders like a rhino and the marks of a permanent scowl on his face.

"That's him, Lieutenant," Moran said.

Swinburne walked over to him and stuck his I.D. in front of his eyes.

"Read it if you can."

"Big deal, you kissed a lot of ass, made lieutenant." He had a high nasal voice.

"Make note of hostility on first contact." Swinburne spoke into the lapel mike so the man would know what he was doing.

"State your name, please?"

"Barber, Joseph Barber," he sneered.

What is it today? Swinburne thought, everybody hates being up at this hour? I can understand that; so do I, for Christ's sake. I'm not making a big deal. Lighten up world, the days hardly begun.

"Note, possible obstruction of justice. Mr. Barber, Mr. Moran is the authorized police photographer. On my orders he is to take pictures of the crime scene and all surrounding areas. Why have you prevented him from doing that?"

"This is a hospital, a psyche...ateric hospital: Lots of nuts wandering around here. Wouldn't want him to get hurt, would I?" Barber said.

If this guy was worried about Moran or anyone else, Swinburne didn't see it.

Great, yesterday I couldn't spell Psychiatrist. Today I are one.

"If that were true it would be very commendable, Mr. Barber. However, something tells me letting these so-called nuts walk around isn't a problem, unless you count yourself among them. You escort Mr. Moran wherever he wants to go. You be sure to assist him to get any and all pictures he wants. This is a homicide, as in murder. Got it? You wouldn't want to impede us from doing our job, would you?"

He mumbled something unintelligible that Swinburne translated as agreement, and left with Moran.

Further along through the area with the beds was another smaller room. It smelled...of death.

Walker Preston of the city coroner's office closed his bag and made some notes on a form attached to a clipboard. Swinburne had worked with him on more than fifty cases. He was thin and sour.

For some inexplicable reason he had taken a shine to Swinburne when he'd first made detective, and this morning he actually seemed interested.

He reached out a hand with yellow, nicotine-stained fingers to shake the Lieutenant's. He always did it, as though it was the first time they'd met. He had bad teeth and a little rim of scruffy brown hair.

"Lieutenant, welcome to, 'This Was Your Life'. You're going to love this one." He turned and pointed to an operating table behind him. "Looks like the shocker became the shockee." He snickered at his joke. Swinburne knew he'd have to listen to Preston's wit before he got down to cases.

"I saw this interview on TV where this famous shock-doc was being interviewed opposite a leader of one of the psychiatric abuse groups. Anyhow, the silver-haired asshole, fresh from the salon and half a quart of Grecian Formula is weaseling on about how wonderful electro-convulsive treatment is for his poor deee-pressed patients.

"Personally, I'd be pretty damned depressed too if some demented dipshit wanted to fry my brain and turn me into an epileptic. Anyhow the other fella says, if it's so safe, and there's no fear of brain damage or memory loss, then you wouldn't mind having it done to you, would you?

"The oily shrink says, of course not, if I needed it. Then he gives this nice patronizing chuckle to the stupid layman.

"The other guy isn't upset at all. He's real serious. So he says to the shrink, Fine, tell you what I'll do, I'll pay you five thousand dollars; all you have to do is have one 'therapeutic' treatment. Just think about it, you can make five thousand dollars and prove to the world how safe this modern-day miracle is," Preston snickered.

"Well, the weasel pats his hundred-dollar hairdo, gives his Hollywood chains a nervous twitch or two with those lovely, manicured hands and says, ex cathedra, One shouldn't make jokes about the tragedy of mental illness. Gave it a nice lecture tour ring, he did.

"This other fellow comes back straight as can be; pulls out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and says, 'I wasn't joking. How about it? We'll make it a small dose, say a half an amp for a second. Pimple dick mumbled something nonsensical and the interview went downhill from there.

"Believe it, Lieutenant, I've studied the field and these boys," he nodded towards the corpse on the table, "are right out of your worst nightmare. I can't abide what these people do in the name of “treatment.” It's fuckin' primitive. Well, fair's fair, looks like someone administered a little dose of his own therapy."

"So it's primitive. Tell me what you know," Swinburne said.

"Right, well the subject has been dead between two and three hours. An educated guess would put his death at around two A.M. Cause of death is a tough one. I won't be able to say for sure until the autopsy's done. His temples are burned so he may have died of brain dysfunction, or it could have been heart failure, maybe even a broken spine. Note the arch to his back.

"There's pronounced blanching." The dead man's face had a pale, waxy look.

"That will have occurred when the grand mal seizures induced by the ECT machine shut off the blood supply to the brain. There’s something else," he moved over next to the body, "come have a look." He pointed to a small puncture wound near the man's collarbone. "It’s too big to be a needle." He looked at Swinburne slyly. "What do you think, Lieutenant?"

"Is there going to be a written test after the quiz?" Swinburne asked.

"C'mon, don't be a wimp, what do you think?" Preston grinned slyly.

Swinburne bent over and looked closely. "Animal control dart, maybe? I've seen something like this before."

"Like I told the boss, you're good. You pay attention and you don't forget. I won't be sure until the autopsy and chemistry's done their thing, but I'd put money on it. The perpetrator got the other guard the same way; only he didn't fry his ass."

"Okay, Walker, thanks. Get me the results on this as fast as you can. For some reason the bench warmers downtown are all a' twitter over this one."

Animal darts, in and out without a trace. Either a professional or a gifted amateur, Swinburne thought.

Nick came into the room and waited for the Lieutenant to finish with Walker.

"Lieutenant, a couple of interesting things here: One of the men found where the alarm system has been tampered with. It looks like some kind of 'by-pass' was used. Also, Jennings says whoever did it had his own keys. He's found oil in some of the locks into and out of the building. The guard who was shot says it was a tall guy wearing a Navy watch cap, a dark coat and a ski mask; says he only saw him for a second."

"Yeah, Nick, it fits. Whoever did this didn't just walk in off the street, and I don't think he came from the wards. This isn't the work of one of the patients; that is, one of the patients who are currently on the premises. This took planning, what we call preee-meditation. I have a feeling we aren't going to lack for motive.

"Excuse me a second, Nick. Walker, will you do something for me? If you have anything in your library on ECT, I want it. This whole operation", he pointed around the area, "there's too much I don't know about this business."

"Sure, Ed. I'll come by this afternoon. Plan on some late nights, there's a lot. You'll get to read Thomas Szasz, which is a treat under any circumstances," Walker said.

They were there until ten in the morning. A Doctor Cedros came in at eight. He was less than cooperative. Odd; he went on about how willing he was to help, but when Swinburne tried to get something concrete, like medical records, names of people who had been committed over the past few years, the man didn't want to give them anything. Swinburne had to threaten to subpoena every record since day one. He'd been particularly difficult when the lieutenant asked for information on the clinic itself. For instance, who owned it, board of directors, things like that?

Swinburne was familiar with the right of confidentiality, privileged communications, but, as he told him, he wasn't interested in the personal difficulties of any of the patients; he needed background data, and why all the fuss about the corporate history.

The man's objections seemed reasonable, legally, but something didn't ring true.

Well, we'll see. I'm not an unreasonable guy. All you got to do is give me exactly what I want and we'll get along just fine, Swinburne thought.