Of Half a Mind Page 18

  So far, no one had witnessed any of his abductions. Maybe his subjects had been kidnapped…or maybe they just moved away. The Experimenter liked the uncertainty he had created and decided to take his prey on the street to maintain it.

  The camera on the second landing had no view of the outside. It was focused on the doors to the two residences on that level. The camera in the entry hall, however, might catch a figure coming up the sidewalk to the steps. He would need to avoid that spot. But once he or his prey reached the door, they would be hidden from the camera by the frosted glass.

  He put the binoculars back in the bag and started the van, driving it around the block until he returned to the street, facing the building from about 20 yards away. He studied the ebb and flow of traffic. He observed the people strolling by on the sidewalks. He watched the windows of the nearby buildings. After an hour, he had the pulse of the neighborhood. It was drowsy. It was complacent.

  Taking a pair of latex gloves from the bag, he put them on. Then, he donned a small shoulder pack that contained the Taser, the Blocker cap, and the restraints. He exited the van, crossed the street, and started slowly walking toward the building. There was no one on the sidewalks, no cars on the street, no movement at the windows. Just before he reached his destination, he slipped across the lawn.

  The Experimenter pushed between the shrubs and the building, then reached up to the top of the portico’s stone railing. He pulled himself a few inches off the ground. The railing was solid, stable. He lowered himself back down. The shrubs were shorter than he would have liked. He would have to lay down to be fully covered, but it was a minor sacrifice to obtain Subject 5.

  He waited. He heard footsteps. As the sound got closer, he realized it was a couple. If his prey wasn’t alone, he’d have to abort. But as they came abreast of his hiding position, he could see it was someone else. The couple turned into the building across the street. He gave them no more thought, because even as they entered, their hands had been all over each other. They wouldn’t be looking out the window.

  He settled deeper into the shadows of the shrubs and waited. Again, the sound of footsteps came to his ears. Peering carefully through the leaves, he saw his prey. He checked the street and windows. All was clear.

  The man came up the sidewalk, then stumbled mounting the steps. Perhaps he had imbibed a bit too much? He stuck his hand in a pocket, fumbling for his keys.

  The Experimenter raised to a crouching position, aiming the Taser between the gaps in the balusters of the railing. At this distance, he couldn’t miss. He quickly scanned the area, and seeing no one, he squeezed the trigger. The barbed projectiles pierced the man’s thigh, the electrical charge sending his muscles into spasms.

  The man fell. But even as he started to drop, the Experimenter foresaw disaster; he was falling toward the railing. His head hit the top of the stone with a sickening crack.

  The Experimenter looked on in horror, momentarily frozen in disbelief. When awareness returned, he checked his surroundings. All was still quiet. He pulled himself up on the railing until his foot obtained purchase on the edge of the portico, then he swung himself over the railing. He dropped down to the floor. Even in the gloom from the feeble porch lights, the growing pool of blood and the impossible angle of the man’s head and neck were obvious.

  The Experimenter removed the man’s wallet and watch, trusting the theft would help disguise his intentions. Then, he climbed over the railing and dropped to the ground. He walked quickly back to the van, started it, and drove away.

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself, as he rounded the corner at the end of the block. Then a smile broke out on his features and he laughed. “Probably not the way he thought the night would end, when he invited a few of his customers to the ball game. But at least he won’t be machining any more out-of-spec parts.”

  Nils Jurgensen was dead.

  Monday, August 24, 9:32 AM

  I set the cup of coffee on my desk and sat down, dropping my head into my hands in exhaustion. The exact time my workday starts depends in part on how long of a run I take. The length of my runs, in turn, depends on how much I have on my mind. The longer the list of issues, the longer the route. Since I had spent much of the weekend building a list of problems, I really shouldn’t have been in the office before noon, but my legs had given out.

  I raised my head, catching the blinking light on my phone out of the corner of my eye. I replayed the message.

  “Hey, Sam. Gone already, huh?” It was Nicole’s voice. “I was hoping to talk, and I’m pretty sure I could stay away from means, motive, and opportunity.” She laughed. I liked the sound and smiled to myself.

  “Actually, my management is asking about the project,” she said, her tone turning serious. My mood dimmed a bit, but at least I had a reason to call. “I know how bleak it looks, but I wanted your thoughts. Anyway, we can talk next week. Bye.”

  I booted my computer, found her number, and was about to dial when my phone rang. Nicole’s boss must be in a hurry for information.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” I said, picking up the handset.

  There was a delay, but someone was on the line. I could hear sounds in the background. “Well, you asked me to,” came the reply in a male’s voice.

  “I’m sorry. I was expecting someone else. I’m Sam Price. May I help you?”

  “Hi, Sam. I’m Detective Larry Ahern, St. Louis Police Department. I’m returning your call, but frankly, you were already on my list of people to contact. So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to cover my questions first.”

  The detective hadn’t said ‘his list of suspects,’ only his list of people to contact, but I felt my heart rate go up.

  “Sure, detective. How can I help you?”

  “Is it OK if I record this conversation?”

  Recording a phone call was probably standard procedure, but my heart rate increased again. I could hear the drumming in my ears. I needed to calm down or I’d be telling him about the baseball I took out of lost-and-found in third grade.

  “Yeah, sure, that’s fine.”

  In the background, I heard, “Dr. Sam Price phone interview, August 24, 9:40 AM.” Then, directed to me, he said, “For the record, you had contact with Dr. Ned Worthington of WHT on the afternoon of August 10th and the morning of the 11th and a phone call that Dr. Worthington made to you on the evening of August 11th. Do you recall these events?”

  After I said I did, the detective launched into a series of questions, most of which revolved around Worthington’s behavior and emotional state during our encounters. Ahern appeared to be building a case that Worthington had been under tremendous stress – long hours, extreme mental demands, lack of job security, issues at home – all of which seemed indisputable. But given that Scott had said her husband died of asphyxiation, I wasn’t sure why this was important.

  He finished his interview with a few questions about the possibility that Worthington had used the Blocker to tinker with his own mental wiring. The detective seemed unfazed by the fact that I only had a statement from Worthington that might or might not have been a firsthand account. When he finished, he said, “I understand from your message that you have some information for me.”

  I was still digesting his queries, but one thing was clear – there had been no questions about threats on Worthington’s life. Perhaps the detective didn’t expect me to have information on that topic, since I had only known him briefly. But I did.

  “Before we get to that, there was one other thing on the phone call I wanted to mention. At one point, Dr. Worthington said his life was in danger. And the lives of those around him.”

  “Hmm, I see,” said Ahern. I expected a long delay while he pondered that fact. Instead, he almost immediately asked, “Did he say who was threatening him and his friends?”

  “No. No name.”

  “You think it’s possible he was talking about himself? That he felt out of control and might hurt himself or those near him?
”

  I was amazed how quickly and easily Ahern had turned that around. Worthington’s statement merely reflected the stress he had been under. “Yeah, I guess he could have meant that,” I admitted. I drummed two fingers on my lips, wondering if I should continue down this road.

  What have I got to lose?

  “I heard that Dr. Worthington died from asphyxiation. Maybe you can’t tell me, but what do all the questions about stress have to do with his death?”

  I could hear Ahern sigh, but at least it was not one of those dramatic exhales that say, ‘Great. Another television-educated forensic scientist.’

  “I can’t say much because this is an open case,” Ahern said. “But if the lack of air is the condition, there are many possible causes.” He put emphasis on the words condition and cause, which made sense when I thought about it. I’d thought strangulation, but the cause could have been anything from drugs to drowning.

  “Several causes of asphyxiation are related to stress and brain trauma. I hope that answers your question, because I can’t say more.”

  “Sure. I understand. And thanks. Anyway, the reason I called was because I ran across a name going through some notes that Dr. Worthington wrote, mostly from March through July. The name was Allen Trimmel and the entry is from June.” I read it to him.

  When I finished, he said, “You’re telling me this because Allen Trimmel may be A.T., the person in Dr. Worthington’s research?”

  “Right.”

  “Is Allen Trimmel mentioned elsewhere in these notes?”

  “No, only the one entry as far as I know.”

  “You said this was June…more than five months after he left the study?” asked Ahern.

  “Yes, that’s right.” The detective was quiet. I wondered if he was going to dismiss this information outright, so I added, “With Dr. Worthington’s death being suspicious, I thought you’d be interested in talking to Trimmel. Especially if he was still hanging around the lab.”

  I believed that would arouse his curiosity, but he focused on something else. “Suspicious?” he said. “There’s been nothing suspicious so far. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. No unexplained fingerprints. All those facts have been released to the public.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t been following that closely. But…,” I started.

  “Sam, don’t misunderstand. A.T. is a person of interest. We’d like to know who he is, so I’ll follow up.”

  “Thanks. But you don’t think he had anything to do with Worthington’s death, do you?”

  “We’re still looking at a variety of possibilities,” Ahern replied, using what was clearly a standard response for the public. After a moment, he said, “But I’m curious. Why do you think A.T. might be involved?”

  ‘Because Ms. Scott said as much’ didn’t sound like a very convincing answer, so I gave what I suspected was her reason. “He realized how valuable the technology would be when it’s perfected. It could be a theft gone wrong.”

  “It could be,” said Ahern. “How close is this device to being done?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted.

  “Any idea what it cost to get to where it is now?”

  “Not really, but tens of thousands of dollars at least.”

  “How about over $275,000 last year alone?”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I saw his point. Picking up that kind of development cost was not something just anyone could do.

  “Look, this Blocker may be the best thing since sliced bread, but it’s worthless to anyone who doesn’t have the background and the money to work on it.”

  “But A.T. has the background.”

  “What?” said Ahern, his voice showing some surprise for the first time during this call.

  “Both Dr. Worthington and Dr. Huston said A.T. suggested ways to change the Blocker. At least, that’s what we have in our notes from the meetings with Dr. Worthington. I can send you a copy of them, if you want.”

  “Yes, please. I’ll talk to Dr. Huston to get his statement.” Ahern read off his fax number and I promised to send that page of our report.

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but after I revealed this small nugget of information, he seemed to become more interested in the conversation. His voice brightened and the pace of his speech picked up. “The other thing that’s new in what you’ve said are these notes that Worthington wrote. Where did you get those?”

  “Ms. Scott gave them to us. I guess it’s papers Dr. Worthington had at his home. We were looking through them to see if we could find some of the study data that’s gone missing. But no luck.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember that stuff now,” he said, the energy in his voice now gone. “All the trivialities of his daily life, right?”

  “Yes, that’s them,” I replied. “He seemed to be having trouble remembering things. People, in particular.”

  “Stress and depression are known causes of extreme forgetfulness,” Ahern replied. He either knew a lot about stress or he had done his homework, but in either case, the notes also fit his theory about Worthington’s death.

  “He had a lot of paper, as I recall,” Ahern said. “Like thousands of pages.”

  “Yeah, quite a bit.”

  There was a pause and when Ahern spoke again, there was an undertone of amusement. “It’s amazing you happened to notice this one reference to Allen Trimmel in that mountain of paper.”

  I could have come clean, told him that we were asked to watch for it, but I suspected he knew. So, I said, “Yeah, we do a thorough job.”

  As we finished the call, he thanked me for being a responsible citizen and for doing my civic duty. But somehow, I knew what he was really thinking was, ‘just what I need. Another dead end to chase down.’

  Monday, August 24, 10:13 AM

  The Experimenter knew he shouldn’t be sitting in his work area, staring at Subject 4 through the one-way mirror. He had set up the software to control the equipment, freeing him to attend to the humdrum of his daily life. And yet, he couldn’t pull himself from the drama that was playing out inside the experimental chamber.

  Subject 4 had refused to eat since arriving at the residence. And after a few snarled questions to establish that he was a captive, he had refused to talk as well. His recalcitrance hadn’t bothered the Experimenter; in fact, he appreciated the quiet. But now, the man was sitting motionless, receiving shock after painful shock. And since the Blocker was turned off and he had full use of both sides of his brain and full command of his body, his inaction was driven solely by defiance.

  How long could the man hold out against the pain, fatigue, and starvation? He had been in the chamber nearly five hours already. Would he die before he raised a hand to push a button when it was so easy? The Experimenter slowly released a long breath, shaking his head in a combination of frustration and admiration.

  Having grown concerned that the man’s leg might become insensitive after so many shocks, the Experimenter had started moving the electrode each hour. He checked his notes, then the clock. It was that time again, so he placed the Blocker into a mode that would paralyze. He rose from the desk and quickly stepped into the chamber. Even with the room’s ventilation system running at full power, the mixture of urine, sweat, and excrement had created an odor that brought tears to his eyes.

  First, he checked the restraint around the forehead. After installing the feeding tubes, the Experimenter started leaving about an inch of slack in it so subjects could get their own food and water. The allowance, however, was unnecessary for Subject 4. Access to sustenance depended on trying, and so far, he wasn’t. But his head banging between the strap and the padded headrest made the Experimenter wary. His check confirmed that the restraint was still solid.

  “Not feeling the need to act yet, are we?” the Experimenter asked the paralyzed man. He released the tension on the strap that held the electrode in place and let it slide down so he could see the skin that had been under it. It was red and raw, with small blisters that gl
istened in the light. Not wanting the sores to rupture, he moved the electrode another inch. Then, he tugged on the binding, cinching the electrode so tight that it cut into the man’s leg.

  “Perhaps you think I’ll relent,” said the Experimenter. “And maybe I would…if I were running the equipment. But I’m not. It’s all in the hands of the computer. So, the question you have to ask yourself is, what are the chances I run out of electricity?” The Experimenter shrugged, then turned and walked from the chamber.

  Sitting back down in the work area, he restarted the equipment, then rolled his chair to the mirror. The light sequence played, the interval when the subject could make an entry passed without movement, and the shock was delivered. The man’s mouth opened in a scream, his entire body tensing in agony. After a moment, the jolt ended, but the man’s body continued to quiver, as if he was freezing in the stuffy room.

  After a few moments, a new sequence of lights was presented, with the same result. And another. And another. But after the light sequence for the fifth trial, Subject 4 reached up with his right hand and quickly tapped the buttons in the correct order. An amber light showed that the feeding tubes were active, and Subject 4 leaned forward and drank greedily for the few seconds of access that were granted.

  “And his resistance dies,” the Experimenter muttered to himself.

  He let the equipment run for another two-dozen trials, each ending with a few seconds of water or liquid nourishment. That would be sufficient to maintain the man until the next session. He shut the Blocker down.

  The Experimenter glanced at the clock again, then at his notes. He looked back into the chamber, where Subject 4 waited, eyes closed in exhaustion. A glare formed on his face. “Five hours, all wasted,” he yelled at the walls. “And now, I give him time to rest?” He slammed his left hand down on the desk, wincing with pain.