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Authors: Gary Braver

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BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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“I know that,” she snapped. “We’ll talk about it when I get back.”
“Well, I’m just saying. He’s pressed for time.”
“Look, stop pressuring me. This isn’t something I’m going to rush into.”
“We’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I mean, how much more time do we need?”
Her voice tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve got enough on my mind.”
Shit!
“Well, think fast because he’s leaving the country in a couple weeks.”
He looked across the room at the sleeping figure of his son. It struck Martin just how much he looked like him when he was young. In fact, he could have passed for seven-year-old Martin on a pony in the photograph sitting on the fireplace mantel.
“Then if we do it, it’ll have to be when he gets back.”
Martin did not say anything more about it.
According to Malenko there would be a three-to-four-week recovery period, which meant that if they waited too long, Dylan would miss the first weeks of school in the fall. But if they did it soon, he could stabilize and miss nothing. Then over the next few months, he would begin to show signs of improved cognition. It would be subtle and progressive, which meant that by next year at this time, Dylan would have begun to plateau. Then by the fall of that year, they could enroll him in a different school where nobody would know his academic history, which, in this state, was confidential—a fancy private school whose entrance exam he’d ace. Not like what he did on the Beaver Hill qualifiers.
As Malenko had said, he would by then have grown into his own new mind.
And what happens when he’s suddenly brilliant and Uncle Jack, Aunt Alice, and Granny come to visit? How are you going explain the fact that Dylan’s a little whip? How he’s reading Dr. Seuss on his own when just last year he couldn’t get through the
alphabet? Whatcha gonna tell them, huh? That his new tutor is something else? Or that the school he’s attending has some great new breakthrough strategies on learning? Or that they put him on an all-ginkgo biloba diet?
None of that.
Well, you see, we found out about this secret little brain operation that jacks up IQs?
Not that either, because Dylan was still young. And because Jack and Aunt Alice and Granny knew little about his cognitive status. Rachel had mentioned how Dylan hadn’t passed the Beaver Hill entrance exams, but she hadn’t gone into detail. She had not told anyone his IQ. It wasn’t anybody else’s business, even family. So all they knew was that Dylan was a sweet, handsome little boy who hit a mean T-ball and who sang like a bird. Sure, he had some language problems, but many kids do. And he just grew out of them like millions of other slow starters, that’s all. Like his old man, for instance.
After they hung up, Martin walked over to the couch and looked at his sleeping son for a long moment. Even his profile resembled Martin’s. Like father, like son.
Yep, just grew into his own mind.
I
t was almost too easy how Greg found the Nova Children’s Center.
He got the name from information and discovered that it was located in Myrtle, Massachusetts, just twenty minutes northwest of Hawthorne.
Around noon on Monday, he drove to the place, which was a grand old Gothic Revival building with turrets, a dunce-cap roof, and fish-scale slate shingles. He wouldn’t have known that from Disney, except that Lindsay had been interested in architecture.
He went inside, uncertain what he was looking for, uncertain if he was pursuing a bona fide lead or more white rabbits. His only certainty was his suspension if Lieutenant Gelford learned he was here. And that was the reason he didn’t contact the local police. If he asked the investigator on the Watts case to keep their exchange quiet, that would make the officer suspicious of Greg’s credibility.
The receptionist said the person to speak to was Dr. Denise Samson. However, she wouldn’t be back until after lunch, about one. That was cutting it close, since it would take him almost two hours to get back to the office, and for this week he’d been rescheduled to start at three because of vacation absentees. Unfortunately, he’d be about half an hour late.
So he sat in the waiting room and thumbed through magazines. At onethirty, Dr. Samson called the secretary to say she’d be late. That made Greg’s stomach leak acid. With the traffic, he wouldn’t get to the department until after four. That would not look good.
At two-fifteen, Dr. Samson came up the stairs. She was a tall stately
woman with short reddish hair and dressed in a moss-green dress. He asked to speak with her in private, and she led him to her office.
He did not tell her about the skulls. Instead, he mentioned how one of his cases involved a child who had been evaluated on a SchoolSmart test, and wanted to know about that.
“Well, in addition to offering tailored learning programs, we have a diagnostic service that designs, administers, and evaluates tests used in different school systems nationally. SchoolSmart is one of them and is sponsored by private benefactor organizations as well as some colleges and universities that offer scholarship incentives to extremely gifted children from low-income families.”
Greg noted that on his pad.
“As you can imagine, many such kids either quit school at sixteen to work or, if they graduate, they take the first job that comes along and almost never go on. What SchoolSmart offers is full-tuition scholarships for select students if they remain in school through the twelfth grade. And we administer the tests as early as the first grade.”
“An incentive to remain in school.”
“Exactly, and a just reward.”
“And the only qualifications are smart and poor.”
Dr. Samson smiled. “That’s putting it bluntly, but yes. And that they complete their schooling,” she said. “But I should add that our tests are not the standardized group intelligence tests, but ones specially designed as individualized evaluations for young children identified by their teachers as gifted. They’re more accurate, and we make certain they’re administered by licensed psychologists.”
She would have gone on, but Greg cut to the chase. “I’m wondering if you could check your database for a Grady Dixon.”
Her fingers flew across the keys. “Grady Dixon … Yes, from Cold Spring, Tennessee.” And she gave the date of his evaluation.
Greg felt a little electric thrill run through him. He was tested just three months before he was kidnapped. “Can you tell me where exactly he was tested and who administered the test?”
The woman looked a little flustered. “Well, I can tell you he was tested at his school, the Michael Lowry Regional, and the local psychometrician was Dr. Maxwell Barnard from Signal Mountain, Tennessee.”
That did not seem helpful. “Can you run a database cross-reference to
see if this Dr. Maxwell Barnard conducted tests on any other SchoolSmart candidates?”
Dr. Samson started the search when she suddenly stopped. “I can do that, Officer, but I’d like to know why you’re asking. I’m concerned that we’re going to violate a contractual agreement with our clients.”
He saw that coming. “Dr. Samson, I’m looking into a possible connection between some past kidnappings and children who might have been tested by your organization.”
Dr. Samson looked worried all of a sudden. “You mean a criminal investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sure you understand, but I would have to consult with the directors before I can divulge any more information—unless, of course, you have a court order.”
He didn’t, and he had her against a wall. Without a warrant, any more nudges could push her behind a legal blind. “Of course, but maybe you can tell me if his files contain any record of neurosurgery?”
She seemed tentative. “Well …” she began.
“Doctor, Grady Dixon has been dead for three years and it’s presumed he was kidnapped and murdered.” He was hoping the drama of that would override protocol.
“I see. Neurosurgery?” She glanced at the screen. “Well, no, nor would we have any record of that sort unless he had been a patient of ours. That’s a completely separate entity from what we do on site. Besides, I’d imagine the parents would have consulted neurospecialists in Tennessee.”
“Of course. And just who are the neurosurgeons here?”
“Actually, we have two: Dr. Stephen Kane and Dr. John Lubeck.”
He took down the names. “Is there a Julian Watts in your database?”
“Julian Watts. Why is that name familiar?” she asked. Then her expression contorted. “He wasn’t the boy murdered by his mother last week, was he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, how horrible. I read about that.”
“Can you check if he had taken a SchoolSmart test?”
She slowly turned to the computer again and tapped a few more keys. “Oh, my! He’s in the database … but he was not a SchoolSmart candidate.”
She hit a few more keys. Then she sat back and stared at the screen, a look of surprise on her face. “He’s listed as a patient of Dr. Malenko.”
“Dr. Malenko?”
“Yes, he’s one of our neurologists. Dr. Lucius Malenko.”
“Do you have any idea why Julian was seeing Dr. Malenko?”
“I don’t, but even if I knew I couldn’t give you that information. Besides, Julian was one of his private patients.”
“Private patients?”
“From his private practice.” Then she glanced back at the screen. “I’m just surprised he didn’t mention the boy’s … what happened.”
Greg filed that away. Then he pulled out the schematic and showed her. “Any idea what kind of neurological procedure would have produced these holes?” He briefly explained the origin of the drawing.
She shook her head. “I’m a psychologist, not a neurologist.”
“Could they have been the results of some surgical treatment of epilepsy?”
“I suppose.”
The woman looked as is she were becoming uncomfortable with the interrogation, knowing full well that she didn’t have to proceed without a warrant. “One more question, if you don’t mind,” he said, without giving her a chance to respond. “How many people here have access to your database?”
“The entire professional staff.”
“I see.” He thanked her and left.
On the way out, he stopped at the reception desk again. “I’m wondering if I could speak to Dr. Malenko.”
“I’m afraid he’ll be out of town for a few days. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Do you have a number I can reach him at?”
“I can give you his other office. You can leave a voice message.”
“That’ll be fine.”
She jotted down the address and number on the back of the center’s card and handed it to him.
As he returned to his car, he noticed the slot for L. Malenko. Greg wasn’t sure what he had: two dead six-year-olds—one from Tennessee, the other
from parts unknown. Two teenagers—one dead known teenager, one alive unknown teenager—both from the North Shore of Massachusetts. Except for the live one, they were all murder victims, one by his mother. The only commonality was their gender and the fact that each had neurosurgical bore holes in the skull. Two were connected to Nova Children’s Center. And two points determine a straight line.
He looked at the little white reserved parking sign. L. MALENKO.
Greg didn’t know why, but he had the prowling suspicion that this L. Malenko might connect a couple more points.
“
G
oing back up there is outright insubordination, and you know that, Greg.”
Because of the traffic, he didn’t return to the office until nearly five. And the dispatcher said that Gelford wanted to see him in his office immediately.
Again, Gelford was not alone, but flanked by Chief Norm Adler and Internal Affairs Officer Rick Bolduk. Something told Greg that they were not here because of tardiness.
Gelford, of course, was ripped because Greg had gone against his notice to drop the Sagamore Boy case—which meant that this was a
mano a mano
thing—a personal offense against his supervisor who prided himself on running his ship on uncompromised discipline. But Gelford would hear him out first.
“I realize that, but I’m telling you, there’s a connection. What I need is a court order for that database.”
“And what’s that going to do?”
“It’s going to let me cross-reference missing children from three and four years ago with kids who were part of the SchoolSmart program.”
“Because one of your skull kids happened to take a test?”
“Yeah, and because three dead kids had similar holes in their skulls and two of them are linked to the Nova Children’s Center. And two of the three kids were very smart, and a fourth unknown and still alive has the same kind of holes. And I want a court order to obtain his identity and check his medical records. He too could be in their files.”
“Before you go banging on some judge’s door, you’ve got to have evidence that a crime’s been committed,” Rick Bolduk said. “All I’m hearing is circumstantial evidence.”
“I’ve got the testimony from two doctors who are convinced that these kids might have undergone some experimental procedure. And one of those kids, Grady Dixon, was kidnapped and possibly murdered. So was the Sagamore kid. That’s evidence enough for me.”
“They’re not our jurisdiction. None of them. We don’t own them,” Gelford said, his face turning red again. “One kid’s from Tennessee. The Sagamore kid is from God knows where.” He picked up the schematic of the North Shore boy’s X rays. “And this kid’s still wearing his head. There’s no goddamn crime.”
“There’s one more thing,” Greg said. “Two neurophysicians say that these patterns trace the areas of the brain associated with intelligence and memory.”
“So?”
“It’s possible some kind of experiment is being done on kids’ brains, maybe tampering with intelligence or memory. I don’t know, but I think it’s something nasty and should be investigated.”
All three of them stared at Greg as if he had just reported the landing of Martian spaceships.
Gelford, who was nearsighted, removed his glasses and picked up a fax lying on some other papers. “While you were gallivanting around the North Shore today, a Reed Callahan was severely beaten up and hospitalized by Mr. Ethan Cox. And in case you don’t recognize the latter’s name, he was assigned to you last week on the school break-in, and had you done your job and questioned these kids and brought him in as you were supposed to, Cox would have been behind bars before he tried to shut up the Callahan boy who’s now in the ICU of Cape Cod Hospital with a fucking concussion.” Gelford’s face was purple with rage.
“I got held up in traffic.”
“Maybe you were, but something tells me your distraction with this skull shit has compromised your attention, your efforts, and your abilities to fulfill your assigned duties. This Callahan kid may not come out of his coma. He might also die because Cox took a baseball bat to him, and you could have stopped him because he’s got three previous assaults on his record and two B
and Es. He’s a fucking animal, and you didn’t go after him but flew off to Cape Ann to look for skulls.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am, because you’ve disobeyed orders and turned a blind eye to everything else on your desk, and a kid’s in a coma as a result.”
Gelford then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a letter and handed it to Greg.
Greg felt his heart slump. He didn’t have to ask its contents. He was being suspended.
“I wish it didn’t have to come to this,” Gelford said. “But you were put on notice, you were given a verbal and written reprimand, and you chose to violate department policies.”
“How long?”
“One month with pay until a hearing on a determination of guilt.” Then Gelford added, “As corny as it may sound, we live by discipline in this department, and you pissed on it.”
Greg looked at the letter, aware that they probably viewed him as a crazy man on a mission, a cop who saw things that they discounted as patently foolish. It was possible that they even suspected that he had made it all up about the doctors and Nova Children’s Center.
Technically, Gelford was right: They were not bound to crimes in another jurisdiction, especially when it was questionable that a crime had been committed. His lone hunches weren’t enough. The long and the short of it was that he was no longer credible or reliable in their eyes. Possibly even psychotic.
“Sorry, Greg,” said Chief Adler. “You have a right to a hearing, of course, but in the meantime I must ask you to clean out your locker and turn in your badge and weapon.”
Greg got up. He unstrapped his weapon and his badge and laid them on the desk. He felt half-naked.
Gelford rose to his feet. “I think this might be for the best,” he said. “I think you need to decompress, maybe get away for a while. Get off this thing. Chill out.”
Greg nodded.
“And I think in the meantime you should see somebody—a professional. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Greg nodded again and headed for the door with his suspension letter in hand.
“One more thing,” Gelford said. “I need not tell you there are laws against impersonating a police officer. Furthermore, if you keep bothering those people up there, you could be arrested for harassment and disturbing the peace.”
Maybe that’s how it would end,
Greg thought. He thanked them and left.
BOOK: GRAY MATTER
7.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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