Dominion (92 page)

“If it was insulin shock, it was an incredible stroke of bad luck for you and good luck for Gracie and whoever else wanted to take you out on the abuse charge. I’m not a big believer in luck. They knew you were going to be out of commission on a remote part of a bike trail on a dark rainy day. If they didn’t know, they wouldn’t have had your impostor posing with Gracie.”

“But I still don’t see how they could have knocked me out like that.”

“I’ve done my homework.” Ollie flipped his yellow pad furiously, finally landing on a page full of pen scratchings. “Called an anesthesiologist, Dr. Randy Martin. I described what happened. He said if this was a knock-out drug, he’d go with one of three candidates. First, fentynl.” Ollie looked at his notes. “High potency narcotic, puts you to sleep for two hours, maybe more. Used in hospitals for surgery.”

“Hospitals? You think I was drugged by a doctor?”

“No. Stuff gets stolen from anesthesiology carts. I’ve got a call in to see if we can find out what’s been stolen lately, in case there’s a connection. Second drug is ketamine. Primary use is anesthesia. Dr. Martin says it induces a zombie-like effect for two or three hours. There’s a teenager lives next door to me. I figure he must be on ketamme.”

“Zombie? I was out cold.”

“Third candidate is sufentynl. Most potent narcotic around. He told me about a cousin of this drug called…” Ollie looked down. “Carfentynl. It’s used as a military weapon. Dr. Martin says a Q-Tip of this stuff touched to the nostril of a moose will knock it to the ground, out cold.”

“Why would anyone want to do that to a moose?”

“Don’t know,” Ollie said. “Seems like if you got close enough to put a Q-Tip to the moose’s nostril, you’d just shoot the sucker and save yourself some trouble. Anyway, obviously it isn’t the carfentynl you got or you would have been knocked out right when you ingested it. Technically, you may be slightly bigger than a moose, but still. Now with this sufentynl, Dr. Martin said the right dosage could put you out four hours.”

“You said the tests showed my insulin was clean. But even if something was mixed in my food, wouldn’t I have tasted it?”

“Depends on what the something was and how strong the food or drink it was mixed in. Dr. Martin said the only other possibility that fits the symptoms is a street drug, an opiate.”

“Opiate?”

“Yeah, specifically morphine or heroin. I wish we’d gotten you in for a test earlier so we’d know what was in you, but it seemed like an insulin reaction then. All right, let’s go over it again, from the top. Wednesday. You left the
Trib
a little after two?”

“Right. Parked by the bike trail maybe around three. We’ve been over this, Ollie. Too many times.”

“But we’re still missing something.” Ollie sighed and tossed his notes in his briefcase. “Okay. You up for some male bonding, big guy? I think it’s time you and I went for a bike ride.”

Clarence sat uncomfortably in his cubicle on Monday, noticing all the stares, including some that weren’t there. Those who didn’t come talk to him he felt certain believed he was guilty. Those who did come to him he assumed were putting on a cloak of civility when inside they despised him for what they thought he was.

He tried to push these distractions aside and focus on the column he had to deliver to Winston in a little over two hours.

If the grand imperial wizard of the KKK was determined to destroy black America, he couldn’t have come up with a better plan than the welfare system that offered financial rewards (including housing) for not working and for having children outside of marriage.

Welfare to give temporary aid to get someone back on his feet or help him acquire job skills, that’s reasonable. (But whatever happened to help from family and church and neighbors, instead of government?)

For thirty years, Uncle Sam has been a surrogate father, and everybody, including real fathers, started asking, ‘Who needs Daddy after all?’ Every day the moral chaos of our culture screams the answer to that question.

Around two o’clock, he walked out of the
Trib
to meet Ollie and drive to Gresham to reenact his Wednesday bike ride when his life had come unraveled.

Clarence parked the Bonneville in his favorite little patch of roadside grass and gravel near the Springwater Corridor bike trail. He took two bikes off the rack, his eighteen-speed Cannondale mountain bike and Ollie’s Sears three-speed beater from the Eisenhower era. Clarence put the rack in the trunk, and he and Ollie mounted their bikes.

“The things I do to keep this city safe,” Ollie said.

“Just don’t fall,” Clarence said. “Don’t want you to squash the wildlife.”

“Very funny. Catch me if you can.” Ollie’s big legs churned, and he took off in a flash of spitting gravel. Clarence stared at Ollie, amazed again at the deceptive strength of this cop who looked like a giant marshmallow in pants but could head butt you into tomorrow.

Clarence rode up next to Ollie. It seemed strange to have company. He’d gotten used to traveling this path alone. He slowed to a stop after a quarter of a mile and pointed to a bench on the right. “That’s where I conked out.”

“We’ll check it out on the way back,” Ollie said. “I want to do everything just like you did on Wednesday. Talk to me as we go. Tell me what you saw.”

They passed by the Rottweiler on the left, who barked like crazy. “See you on the way back, Hugo,” Clarence called. They crossed under Hogan Road, close up against the gently flowing creek. The next few minutes both men admired the sounds and sights and smells. Clarence took strange pride in it, as if it were his turf. It felt like showing off his clubhouse to a friend.

“Okay. I’m starting to get winded,” Ollie admitted when they got past Main Street Park. They pulled over at the cemetery, its plush green grass and ordered tombstones suggesting death was less senseless and traumatic than it seemed.

“You didn’t get any Kool-Aid or anything from somebody on the trail, right?”

Clarence shook his head.

“Okay. Let’s go back and look at that bench.”

When they reappeared twelve minutes later, Hugo did a double take, looking surprised to see Clarence again so soon. When he saw Ollie he started barking. Clarence pulled over and petted him, then removed a milk bone from some foil in his bike bag and gave it to him through the cyclone fence.

“Did you know dogs are color blind?” Clarence asked. “Maybe you and I don’t look all that different to him.”

“Two handsome studly men, that’s all he sees?” Ollie said. They rode just a little farther before coming to the bench. “Okay. Show me exactly what you did.”

“Put my bike over here on this side, just like always.” Clarence pulled over to the right, parking his bike beside the trail.

“What do you mean, just like always? I thought you stopped because you weren’t feeling well.”

“I
wasn’t
feeling well. I could hardly wait to get here. But it’s where I always stop. It’s part of my routine.”

“You really
are
predictable, aren’t you?”

“Sue me,” Clarence said. “I like things to be orderly. I always pull over here to stretch out and rest a few minutes, soak in the smells of the outdoors. Spend a few extra minutes before I head back to the cold cruel world.”

Ollie leaned down next to the bench. He inspected it closely. He pointed his right index finger down into the gravel and pushed it around. “It was raining Wednesday, right?”

“Yeah. Rained almost the whole ride. The weather was getting worse all the time, dark gray clouds. Too bad, because as remote as this part of the trail is, even in November you’d still have a dozen people easy come by on a decent afternoon. Somebody would have seen me on the bench.”

“Maybe somebody did.”

“I doubt it. It’s a fair-weather trail. When I ride in the rain I rarely see anybody this far out.”

“I called your doctor about insulin reactions,” Ollie said. “He told me sometimes after hard exercise they can come on pretty fast.”

“Yeah, they can. That’s why I always stop for a mocha. That keeps my blood sugar up and—”

“What did you say? A mocha? What mocha?”

“At Coffee’s On—espresso place on Eastman. Oops. Guess I didn’t mention that, did I? I always swing up there before I head back toward Main Street Park. It’s so routine I don’t even think about it.”

“Oops? I ask you to tell me everything you do, list everything you ingested, and you leave out a stop and a beverage consumption, and all you can say is oops?”

“Okay, sorry. Don’t get cranky on me. So, what do we do now?”

Ollie smiled. “We go get a mocha.”

They pedaled the remaining quarter of a mile to Clarence’s car, strapped on the bikes, and headed to Coffee’s On. They pulled up to a space right in front of the door.

“Where do you park your bike?” Ollie asked.

“Right here.” He pointed to a wooden bench anchored into the concrete. “I lock it up. Used to be you didn’t have to lock things up in Gresham. Times have changed.”

“All right. Now do exactly what you did Wednesday.”

“That’s easy. It’s always the same. I walk in and order a double caramel mocha.” Clarence opened the door and stood behind the six people in line.

“Double shot of coffee plus a flavor?” Ollie thought about it. “That might be strong enough to cover the taste of a knock-out chemical. Go ahead and order.”

“You want anything?”

“When we’re done,” Ollie said, the consummate professional.

“Double caramel mocha,” Clarence said to the smiling girl whose name tag read Jessica. She obviously recognized him. “Usually just see you on Wednesdays, don’t we?” she asked.

Clarence smiled and nodded, relieved she hadn’t been reading the newspaper or watching the news. He did feel the stares of several others sitting around the tables. He paid for his mocha and took a seat, Ollie following him every step.

“Is this exactly where you sat?” Ollie asked.

“No. It was busy. All the tables were full. I sat over there at the counter, by the window.”

“Then sit there now.” Clarence did. “Okay,” Ollie said, “so you just drink your mocha?”

“And read the newspaper. After I go to the restroom.”

“What?”

“The restroom’s back there.” Clarence pointed to the far end of the coffee shop. “I always drink a lot of water before I bike. Don’t want to get dehydrated.”

Ollie looked at him skeptically.

“What? It’s no longer a crime for a black man to use the restroom, remember?”

“You’re saying you go to the bathroom
after
you buy your coffee?”

“The coffee’s hot. I like to give it a couple minutes to cool down.”

“You’re telling me you just leave it out here on a table?”

“Yeah, with a newspaper so nobody takes my spot.”

“Lid on or off?”

“Off, so it cools faster.”

“How long are you in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“Go to the bathroom. Take the usual amount of time.”

Clarence rolled his eyes self-consciously and headed to the back. Ollie clicked on the lap timer on his wristwatch. He clicked it off when Clarence reappeared.

“Three and a half minutes,” Ollie said. “Do you always take that long?”

“I guess so. Didn’t seem long to me.”

“While you were in the bathroom,” Ollie said, “I could have put strychnine in this thing, changed my mind, dumped it, ordered a new one, sat it back down, and filled it with rat poison. And still have time to read the sports page.”

“You really think somebody tampered with it?”

“If it wasn’t an insulin reaction, it was a chemical, right? We checked your water bottle, we tested your insulin. Clean. This was the last place you drank anything, right? Unless you’ve also forgotten to tell me you make another stop for a Chablis. Anybody who follows you just a few times sees this incredible routine. Precisely the same. Every Wednesday you come out and park your car in that same place and go for your bike ride and even lie down and rest in the same place? How hard would it be to follow you on a bike, see exactly where you go, and make a plan?”

“Isn’t this a bit elaborate? And all pretty iffy too? What if someone had seen me on the bench? If it hadn’t rained, they probably would have.”

“Ever hear of a weather forecast? Criminals can watch them too. ‘It’s going to rain tomorrow, so nobody’s going to be out on that trail—hey, what do you say we drug the big guy at the espresso bar where he leaves his drink out for anybody to contaminate it?’ You’re usually at the
Trib
surrounded by people or at home with your family, right? If they tailed you, they probably saw this as their best chance. The only time you’re off the beaten path, away from people long enough where you could be put out for hours and not have an alibi. And even if their plan didn’t work, they could just sit on it and do it again another day.”

Clarence finally took a drink of his mocha. He looked surprised. “It’s really sweet.”

“That’s because I mixed in three packets of sugar.”

“Why’d you do that? It’s plenty sweet as it is.”

“To see if anybody noticed. Nobody did, of course. I put in sugar, but I could have just as easily put in crushed up sleeping pills, poison, you name it.”

Ollie went up to the side of the front counter, showed Jessica his ID, and asked her if she’d noticed anyone hanging around Clarence’s coffee the other day. She hadn’t. It was a long shot.

“Look, Jessica,” Ollie said, “could you give me a triple mocha with a double shot of almond and a single shot of coconut?” Clarence raised his eyebrows. “It’s a suped-up Almond Joy. I usually get two shots of coconut, but I’m on a diet. Come to think of it though, I’ve been riding a bike. Jessica? Make that two shots of coconut, would you?”