Once Bitten, Twice Dead Page 12

  “What was his explanation?”

  “He said his delivery load wasn’t going to be ready until the next day, so he merely drove home.”

  “What time had you gone shopping?”

  “Around nine o’clock.”

  “And Don wasn’t home, you’re saying?”

  “That’s right—he said he got home about ten.”

  “Where was he before that?”

  “He didn’t say. He had left home to begin his delivery at five A.M. Then, three days later I read in the local paper that Ed had been murdered, and I did wonder about that time period. It’s hard, though, to think of your husband as a murderer.”

  “Did Don comment on the killing?”

  “Not at all. Of course I didn’t either. To this day, he’s never said a word about it.”

  “Is Don home now?”

  “He is. This is his four days off—usually he drives for ten days straight, mostly out west, and then he’s home for four straight. You’re not gonna talk to him about this are you? He’ll wonder why you’re bringing up the name of Ed Butcher. As I said, Ed’s not exactly a subject of conversation around our house.”

  This was a delicate matter. I did, however, check with Donald Reilly’s trucking company, and it was true that on that date a delivery was mishandled and sent to the wrong address, so Donald had nothing to haul. That part held up. They said Donald eventually clocked out at 6:55. The medical examiner had said that Ed Butcher was killed between 7 and 8 o’clock, just before the meat market opened. So Donald could have left the trucking company, driven to the market and killed Butcher. But now there was the problem of not alerting Donald to his wife’s unfaithfulness.

  Ann had told me that Donald had a drinking buddy he hung around with.

  “Maybe I could talk with him, Ann. I could make up some story, which wouldn’t include you.”

  “Please be careful, Detective—I don’t want Don catching on.”

  Donald’s buddy, Frank Frawley, drove a local beer truck, and was loading it when I walked up to him. I decided on a little inventing.

  “Mr. Frawley?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d like a confidential word with you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m with the FBI, and there’s a top secret probe we’re doing related to the trucking industry. Mainly we’re trying to clear the names of some of the long-distance drivers in this part of the country. We don’t think the problem is out here, but we have to make sure. Due to the hush-hush nature of our investigation, obviously we can’t ask the drivers themselves. So we’re contacting people who are close to them.”

  “Wait just a minute. What exactly is this investigation?”

  “That’s why it’s a secret. We can’t tell you. But we do know that you’re friends with Donald Reilly.”

  “I am.”

  “Can you tell me, for the last six months had Donald expressed any hostility toward anyone?”

  “Sometimes his wife, but everybody does that. I can’t think of anybody else.”

  “Has he said anything that might make you feel he was going to harm anyone?”

  “Donald does have a temper, and sometimes in a bar we almost get into a fight, but I can’t think of any particular people he’s said anything negative about except those rednecks we run across while we’re drinking.”

  “But you do say he’s upset at his wife from time to time? Has that increased the last few months?” I named dates near the time Butcher was killed.

  “Now that you mention it he did seem more pissed around that time.”

  “About what?”

  “He never said, but he did say he’d take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?”

  “One night when he was drinking with me, he said he suspected his wife was out ‘getting it’ with some guy.”

  “Did Donald know who it was?”

  “I don’t think so because he said if he found the guy the bastard would have hell to pay.”

  “Do you think he found the guy?”

  “I don’t know. He never brought it up again.”

  “One more question. This guy his wife was banging, could he have been a trucker Donald was working with?”

  “No. Don would have known if it had been one of those guys. He’s kind of their supervisor, sets up their schedules and all that. He’d know if something was out of kilter. In Don’s work the time frame is pretty tight. There isn’t much free time.”

  “What we wanted to know is connected to only the trucking industry. That clears Donald. Thanks for your help. Now, for sure don’t say anything to Donald about this, or it’ll blow our whole investigation. We can’t have any loose tongues about what we’re doing. Can I count on you to keep silent?”

  “Sure. I’m glad to help the country. I even voted for that black guy for President.”

  I thought my story was kind of lame, but Frank seemed to buy it. Donald Reilly seemed to have the motive, opportunity and means to do the deed. The problem was I didn’t know if Donald ever found out that it was Ed Butcher who was involved with his wife. Reilly, being away from his wife much of the time, could have already been fairly paranoid about Ann drifting away from him. Possibly he had been doing the same thing—I didn’t know what exactly Donald did during those ten days on the road when he wasn’t driving. So his “suspicions” didn’t have to be based on any facts he had learned.

  I still had to find something that would connect Donald directly to the crime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  My direction changed again when I got a call the next morning from the deputy mayor, Sean Merriman. I remembered that Merriman had been one of Randall Procopius’ lovers.

  “Detective Stolle, I may have a clue for you about Randall’s murder. You remember I helped him become an envoy to Russia. I looked back recently at some letters he had sent me when he was over there. It seemed that in his travels he had come across some kind of plot against our government. When he wrote me about it, I dismissed it as just his imagination. But when I went over those letters again yesterday, Randall seemed serious about it. If you want to check this out, look up Ivan Bulganin. He was Randall’s contact in Russia.

  I was eager for any kind of lead. I talked with Chief Brown, my commander, about my possible trip to Russia. He was not overly encouraging.

  “Listen, Stolle, the reason you’re working alone is because of our decreased budget this year. So this department can’t finance you, but if you can find the money somewhere, I’ll give you two weeks of travel time to track down this lead.”

  As I said, my dad had left me a bountiful inheritance—I thought I’d dig into that. I had to solve at least one of these cases.

  I flew from Philadelphia to London, and then on to Moscow from there. As usual Heathrow Airport was backed up. I and about 150 others were transported by three shuttle buses to wait on a plane sitting near the runway access. When we were all nestled inside the plane, the pilot told us it would be a 50 minute wait, which turned into twice that much, but we were at last in the air bound for Russia.

  I was sitting next to a rotund foreign boy who seemed to speak no English. His mother was paying no attention to the kid, who in the space of the first two hours spilled his grape soda and peanut cup into my lap, and then tried to do a headstand on his seat before his mother finally said, “Dimitri—that’s enough!!” The mother did speak some English but I was in no mood for conversation, and finally I fell asleep. When I woke up it felt like I had been traveling for days, but a look at my watch showed my slumber time to have been about twenty minutes. Something was poking at my leg, and upon inspection I found one of Dimitri’s suckers stuck to my slacks. Thankfully a half hour later, Dimitri nodded off. Perhaps his mother had injected him with some kind of drug because the nuisance slept through two full length movies that I watched on the screen attached to the seat in front of me. His mother then showed him the headphones, and he, too, became occupied with the available
films—he probably would have delighted with “Saw VI,” where people continuously got their limbs chopped off. Mercifully before Dimitri could come out of his movie trance, the pilot was announcing in three languages that we would be landing in twenty five minutes. As I rose from my seat to deplane, I turned to Dimitri and said, “Adios, amigo,” which wasn’t very Russian, but it made me feel good.

  In the airport Ivan Bulganin had my name on a sign that said, “Raver Stolen.” That was close enough. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a white tie. He was short with a bald head and a well-trimmed black beard. He looked ready for a Moscow prom.

  “I am glad to meet you, meez Raver.”

  I wanted to say, “Zank you,” but I merely nodded. Actually Ivan spoke pretty good English as he told me we were to drive to a small Russian hamlet 70 miles away by the name of Borgrov.

  “What’s in Borgrov?” I inquired.

  “Aha, you will zee.”

  And I did see. In the middle of nowhere, rising out of some brush and bushes was a five story glass building.

  “Dis is our zience lab.”

  “What kind of science?

  “Mainly germs.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Ve feel that future wars vill be conducted by total chemical means. Ve’re getting prepared.”

  “Is this legal?”

  “It’s authorized by our government. Ve are not allowed to take the knowledge of our experiments outside this building. So far everything ve are doing is theoretical, with one eggsception.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Smolsky.”

  “What’s a smolsky?”

  “Professor Boris Smolsky began the germ program ten years ago here at ‘The Villa.’ That’s what ve call it here. However about a year ago he fled. One day he zimply valked out. The only problem was that he took a vial of Z-9 vith him.”

  “Z-9?? Is this some kind of science fiction story?”

  “I vish it vas. Z-9 is the deadliest strain of bacteria that Boris Smolsky ever developed in our lab. As I zaid, he took only one vial vith him, but if it were put into any big city’s vater system, a million people could die. What’s verse is that we’re pretty sure Boris can replicate this strain. Four or five vials could wipe out half of Europe.”

  “So where is Boris Smolsky?”

  “Ve don’t know. Ve haven’t seen him in ten months.”

  “And you’re sure he took a vial of Z-9 with him?”

  “One is mizzing from the lab. And ve don’t know what Boris was developing on his own.”

  “So where does Randall Procopius enter into all this?”

  “He vas here only one month interviewing our government officials and generally snooping. Ve know he vas sent by your government to spy on us, but ve didn’t mind. Ve have become a much more open society—ve have nothing to hide. That is, nothing to hide except Boris Smolsky.

  “Before Randall returned back to American he told me he knew vhere Professor Smolsky was. Of course I vanted to know more, but Randall in his mystery voice said that the American government would handle it. Two veeks later he vas dead.”

  “So you think Smolsky had Randall killed?”

  “Or somevon protecting Smolsky. If some country, like Iran for instance, could get hold of Z-9, the verld vould be in beeg trouble.”

  “So how do you suggest I go about finding who killed Mr. Procopius?”

  “Let me put you in touch vith Heidi Vendt.”

  Heidi Wendt was very thin with red spiked hair, and a skimpy skirt and halter. I guess she was what I would picture as a world-weary spy. And maybe that was the point—she was so noticeable that no one would notice her.

  She spoke better English than most Americans I knew. But after my effort to come out to her country, what she said didn’t please me. “If you’re looking for Smolsky, you’ll find him in American and not here.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Our latest intelligence has him headed for your country. In his papers that I have studied he had real animosity for the USA. He always felt that America was responsible for the downfall of Russia the last twenty years. He felt that for Russia to make a comeback, America had to be destroyed.”

  “Why was he never put in jail here in Russia?”

  “You’re naïve, Detective. Many people in our country share Smolsky’s view of America. Your country is not that popular here in Russia. Also Boris is a brilliant scientist: he has developed three medicines that last ten years that have saved many lives. He’s really one of the heroes of our country.”

  I told her about my case. “Could Smolsky have killed Randall?”

  “Boris could be vicious. Sometimes in fits of anger, he would destroy half a dozen lab rats and other lab equipment. Once he even broke a plate glass window.. Boris was not a stable person. If Procopius somehow found out where Smolsky was hiding, then yes the Professor could have disposed of him like you would throw away a paper cup. Setting him on fire would have especially delighted our mad scientist.”

  Heidi gave me Smolsky’s lab notes for his last year of work. Most of it made no sense to me, but on the last page written the day before he disappeared, Smolsky wrote: “Z-9 will be used. It will shift the world’s balance of power.” Quite ominous.

  When I looked over the report that Procopius had left with the American Embassy, most of it was mumbo jumbo except for one section where Randall was petitioning our government to allow him to conduct “research” in the Florida Everglades and Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans. I couldn’t imagine what kind of government work would take Randall to those places. The only thing I could think of was that Procopius wanted to pursue Professor Smolsky in those places. Our State Department was considering Procopius’ request when he was murdered.

  My next stop was the Florida Everglades.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  On the plane back to America, I had no little Dimitri to aggravate me, so I could concentrate on copies of Smolsky’s notes, most of which I still didn’t understand. However I was able to decipher the conditions under which the deadly germs he had created could be bred. When I arrived in Miami, I went to a computer café and plugged in the atmospheric facts necessary for microbe growth, and you guessed it, the two areas of our country where those conditions prevailed were the Everglades and the Lake Pontchartrain areas.

  For three days I boated around the Everglades, where I saw many drifters but none of them looked like the photo Heidi had given me of Professor Smolsky. So I was off to New Orleans which I found was still recovering from Hurricane Katrina five years earlier. After two more days of searching, about a mile from the Lake itself I found a fairly sophisticated lab constructed inside a shack. It looked to be abandoned. I asked around, and many of the residents in the area verified that, yes, there had been an odd individual nicknamed, “The Professor,” who from time to time would come out of that shack and lecture anyone who would listen, telling them that the world was going to end soon. Some people made fun of him, but others were scared by his words. As one person said, “The guy really meant what he was saying.”

  And then I got a break. One of the locals told me that “The Professor” said he was going to Dallas, where “Armageddon” would occur. “He said, ‘Your President was assassinated there, and soon the destruction of your entire country will begin in the same city.’”

  I headed for Dallas and that city’s water supply. At first the police chief there would not listen to me, but I persisted and showed him Smolsky’s lab notes. The Chief relented and gave me five men. We headed for the city’s reservoir system.

  When we arrived at the tanks the worst was already happening. Two guards at the entrance had been shot dead. At the top of the largest tank was a lone figure. I yelled up at him, “Come down Professor Smolsky—don’t do this!”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Never mind. Think of the disgrace to your country.” In truth many of his countrymen might applaud him for doing this.


  The Dallas police chief had sent a sniper with us. He had hid behind another tank, and when it looked like Smolsky was not going to heed our pleas, he took aim. One shot tumbled Smolsky off the platform.

  We ran to the writhing body on the ground. I saw one of his hands clutching a vial. “Don’t touch what’s in his hand!” I shouted to the police.

  Strangely enough, Smolsky didn’t look like a wild-eyed fanatic: a plain face, average build, and no tattoos. I could have sat next to him on a bus and never thought twice about it.

  He looked at me with his deep-set eyes. “You have allowed the evil people to live.” Spittle form on his lips—he gave a shudder, and died.

  Later, four more vials of liquid were discovered in his pockets. The material was carefully handled and destroyed. When I checked back with Heidi she said that this much deadly chemistry could have killed up to two million people. Armageddon had nearly come to Texas.

  Heidi also said that all of Smolsky’s notes were being destroyed, and I shredded my copy. Over the phone I conversed with relatives of Smolsky back in Russia and also with two cousins he had living in Baton Rouge. Talking with all these people I could find no connection of Smolsky to Procopius. I did have Procopius’ words that he knew where Smolsky was, but I found no corroboration in Smolsky’s life that he had ever acknowledged Randall’s existence. It seemed that Professor Boris Smolsky had been too intent on destroying the USA to notice that anyone was pursuing him.

  Thus, the murder of Randall Procopius was still an open case. A terrorist had been stopped, but my three cases remained unsolved.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “Detective Stolle, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Leila Bederston calling—Principal at John Adams High School.”

  “Sure, Mrs. Bederston. I remember you.”

  “I know you’re very busy, and I’ll just take a minute of your time. One of our counselors—not Claire Jones whom you talked to—was working with one of our senior students, Manny Trieda. Manny said he wanted to clear his conscience and told the counselor that the radical group he belonged to, called the Crusaders, had once planned a murder. I thought you might be interested because the intended victim was Ed Butcher. Supposedly they never carried it through, at least so he says. I thought you’d want to talk with him.”