Overdose (4 page)

At that point facts smoothly gave way to assumptions. It was obvious that Borovsky had been taking that crash course on guns in preparation for the robbery. This also explained why he had been so hell-bent on trying different guns—he simply didn’t know what they would give to him. As for that business on the side—

“What about the Spanish lessons?” Gorton lost his patience.

Spanish lessons had followed the same scheme. Three months of intense studies. Focus on spoken language. Great—in fact very impressive—progress. Lessons on the weekends. Cash only.

“Mexican Spanish?” Gorton asked grimly.

Kelly nodded. Even
his
intuition had been sufficient to check that.

“The car?”

“Still looking for it.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it. No, there’s one more thing. I sent Garcia to that fishing store. Borovsky had shopped there only once.”

“That doesn’t sound right. His room was full of stuff he bought at that place.”

“That’s right. That’s where he bought all of it. Only he bought it all in a single visit.”

“
Everything
?”

“Yes.”

“When? Three months ago?”

“Yep. It took the guy at the store just one look at the photo. It’s a small place—they don’t often get customers like that.”

“How did he pay?”

“A check. From
Chase
.”

Gorton recalled a white pen.

“I see.”

He massaged his face with his right hand and sighed.

“Thanks. You can go now. He must be already in Mexico. Wait,” he remembered Dr. Moore. “What did you find out about the drug?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean you didn’t look?”

But Kelly hadn’t forgotten to look into this. He just hadn’t found anything—neither in the drug database nor on the good old Internet. He even checked with a couple of local experts, but to no avail. As far as official medicine was concerned, the drug called
Arbidium XT
didn’t exist.

When the door closed behind Kelly, Gorton took his cell phone out of his pocket and neatly put it on the desk in front of him.

Two missed calls. What would be a good time to call back? Now or later? Later. Most definitely later.
Más tarde
, as they say in the place where Borovsky is most likely heading at this point. Or where he even more likely has already arrived. He must have left yesterday, and the border is just eight hours away. His plan clearly allowed him enough time to get away.

Yes, he must be a good planner. A thorough, meticulous planner. He had been planning this robbery for nineteen years. At least, this is what tomorrow’s newspapers will say. ‘The Robbery of the Decade Took Almost Twenty Years of Planning!’

Oh yes, they’ll know about the nineteen years, and about the quiet dedicated employee, and about his football collection, and about his passion for fishing. They always know. It’s a small town, after all. You don’t have to tell them—there are enough people in this building who would. It would be just another police official speaking on the condition of anonymity. Writing about two decades of preparation pays better than writing an article about ancient computers that police officers have to use, thanks to the generosity of Uncle Mayor. Plus, not many police officials would speak about this to the press, even on the condition of anonymity.

But it didn’t take David Borovsky two decades to plan this thing. It didn’t even take him a year. That planning began about four months ago. The first link in the long chain that includes an unexplainable parachute jump, a real fixation on all kinds of firearms, Mexican Spanish lessons, a hotel twenty minutes away from home, a secret bank account, and a fake, utterly fake passion for fishing—the first link in that chain is not in a small fishing equipment store where David Borovsky purchased all the stage props for a well-directed show called “
The Fisherman’s Passion.
”

The first link in that chain is somewhere else. It’s in the office of a psychologist, an office with books on tall bookshelves, and aesthetically pleasing floor lamps standing next to fresh green plants, and those soft inviting armchairs that make it so easy for you to relax and share your intimate thoughts and hidden fears with a compassionate professional. A professional who would understand, and help, and explain, and maybe even offer a cure for your condition.

And that professional is about to be bothered, whether he likes it or not.

He set a long silver pen next to the mobile phone that was staring at him with silent reciprocation, and dialed the number.

Getting past Dr. Moore’s reception desk proved to be a daunting task. It seemed that the receptionist had received specific instructions about calls related to the investigation. When, after lengthy negotiations, Dr. Moore had finally agreed to pick up the phone, Gorton was ready to hang up and pay him a visit.

“Lieutenant, you're overstepping your authority,” Dr. Moore began, skipping the salutation. “Why in the world—”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Borovsky was participating in a clinical trial?” Gorton interrupted.

Dr. Moore quieted.

“What makes you think he participated in a trial?” he asked after a long silence.

Gorton sighed.

“You really think we’re so dumb? Or you simply don’t like us? Your
Arbidium
isn’t registered anywhere. I hope you’re not trying to tell me that your patient has been taking pills you made in your spare time in your kitchen. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because this information is not pertinent to your investigation,” Dr. Moore said dryly.

“Please leave it to me to decide what is and what isn’t pertinent to my investigation,” Gorton said, savoring every word. “If you continue on this course of non-cooperation, I can guarantee you some serious trouble down the road. That is
my
expert opinion.”

Dr. Moore paused again for a long moment.

“What do you want to know?” he asked finally. “And I want to be clear about this: I couldn’t care less for your threats.”

“Why did Borovsky come to see you and what is
Arbidium XT
?”

“David Borovsky indeed has been participating in a clinical trial,” said Mr. Moore, ignoring both questions. “He is a part of the control group for
Arbidium XT
, which, as you correctly pointed out, has not been registered anywhere yet.
Arbidium
—just like its name suggests—has been developed to strengthen
Arbitratus Dominatus
. Borovsky is perfectly sane and has no mental health issues. He came to discuss with me a deep dissatisfaction with the life he lived. And as I have already mentioned, he ended up in my office only because under his new insurance he didn’t have to pay a dime for that pretty expensive visit. When people discover that they can talk to someone like me for free they come to me for things far less important than life dissatisfaction. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Would you care to explain to me in plain English what
Arbitratus Dominatus
is?” Gorton asked. “My Latin is limited to
habeas corpus
.”

“Willpower,” Dr. Moore elaborated.

“This not the best time for jokes,” Gorton said.

Suddenly he felt strongly irritated.

“I’m not joking,” Dr. Moore said coolly.

“You cannot affect willpower with pills.”

“Let’s both stick to our areas of expertise, shall we? With pills you can affect anything. For you these are all abstract concepts. For us—chemical balance of the brain. Willpower is not that different from anxiety.”

“Fine,” Gorton said, trying to digest this information. “The brain balance, chemistry, I get it. But why did you put him on that drug in the first place? You said he didn’t have any issues. And how does this
Arbidium
actually work? I mean what happens once someone starts taking it?”

“
Arbidium
’s effect is very simple: the drug closes the gap between a decision and the corresponding action. It replaces the familiar cycle: decision—resolution—postponement—a change of mind—forgetting—another decision . . . with a single straight line: decision—action.”

“And what does this have to do with Borovsky?”

“Everything. When a healthy man in his mid-forties comes to see me, complaining about life dissatisfaction despite having a job, a home, a family and a hobby, I advise him to explore his desires, understand what is missing and act accordingly. And when I hear about multiple failed attempts to change his life, I explain to him that a decision—no matter now well-intended and bold—is nothing without an action.”

“So did he mention a hidden desire to rob a bank when he talked about what was missing?” Gorton asked sternly.

“No, he didn’t. And even if he did I wouldn’t tell you. But we didn’t talk about his desires. We only discussed his mindset. Although I have no doubt that at some point he had begun identifying his wants and acting to address them. But that is beyond
my
jurisdiction. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes
, there is,” Gorton said. “How long does this
Arbidium
work?”

“First, it takes about a month for the drug to start working. Once it has kicked in, the effect of
each pill lasts five days.”

“And for
how long has he been taking it?”

“Give me a moment,” the receiver produced a series of rustling sounds. “About four months. Six more months to go.”

“Ten months for a clinical trial?”

“We don’t like to rush in pharmacology,” Dr. Moore said didactically.

“Will he go cold turkey? I can guarantee you that he won’t be coming back to you for the next dose. And I doubt he’ll get it in a pharmacy.”

It was Dr. Moore’s turn to show signs of irritation.

“I’d appreciate if you don’t refer to
Arbidium
as if it were a narcotic. It’s a non-addictive medical drug. As for the dose—he has a full ten-month supply of pills.”

“A ten-month supply,” Gorton repeated.

An image of a clear-plastic bottle with four lonely pills was flashing before his eyes.

“So he is supposed to take a single pill in five days, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well,” Gorton said slowly, “I’m sorry to inform you that your patient has only four pills left. It took him only four months to consume his ten-month dose. I suppose it was one of these
decisions
he made and acted upon, thanks to your non-addictive medical drug. So are you sure about him not having withdrawal symptoms?”

“Are you certain that he actually took all these pills?”

“Either that or he sold them on the black market.”

“Very funny,” Dr. Moore said, a light trace of concern in his voice. “Well, there isn’t much we can do about it. In this case an overdose presents no danger. Although it’s a very interesting outcome. Especially considering the circumstances.”

“No danger?” Gorton even rose from the chair, leaning toward the phone. “Your pills turned a quiet bank clerk into a criminal! Your
Arbidium
is better than heroin!”

“
Arbidium
has nothing to do with Borovsky’s actions,” Dr. Moore’s voice was ice-cold. “He simply did what he wanted to do.”

“And had he wanted to slaughter a dozen people, your pills would’ve helped him in satisfying
that
desire? Where do you draw the line?”

“Nowhere. We don’t draw it. The patient does.
Arbidium
does not weaken logical reasoning. If anything, it strengthens it. The person knows that an action would always follow a decision, leading to the corresponding consequences.”

“He didn’t seem to worry much about consequences last night.”

“Or maybe he did. You don’t seem to understand that the single purpose of
Arbidium
is to help people do what they really want. It could be a childhood dream or a relatively new wish, but it has to be something the person really wants. The medicine does not affect the decision-making process. It only affects execution.”

“But until he took a horse’s dose of your medicine, he had been living
a normal life!”

“Well then maybe it’s for the better that he took it. Who knows how it would’ve ended had he been accumulating his dissatisfaction for another year. At least
at this point it was only money.”

“Only money,” Gorton muttered. “It’s easy for you to say.”

“Not easy—this conversation is taking place during a scheduled consultation with a patient. If you call me again, I may send you a bill. Do you have any further questions?”

“No,” Gorton said. “Thank you for your time.”

He hung up and looked gloomily out the window. Same, always the same picture. The back side of a brick building covered in graffiti. A slightly angled darkened wooden utility pole in front of it. A hot wind keeps dragging torn newspaper pieces along the dusty ground. Why is the place always full of newspaper pieces? Who tears these newspapers apart every day?  Any why?