The Jezebel Remedy (12 page)

That same Friday, Joe was at his desk revising a timber contract for a third-generation Henry County sawmiller when Betty appeared in his doorway and told him she was sorry to distract him, but there was an unusual man in the lobby who claimed he had an emergency and needed five minutes to explain his problem. He didn't have an appointment. She didn't know him from Adam. He was alone.

“Ah, let me put on the turban,” Joe joshed. “It's Friday afternoon, and I'm ready to go home and enjoy the bachelor life for a weekend, so I'm guessing this is some doofus with zero money and a frivolous child visitation complaint, or it's also possible we have the classic late Friday ‘urgent' driveway easement feud and running gun battle that commenced around 1975 and will continue unabated until the Rapture.” He smiled and touched his temple with his forefinger. “How'd I do?”

“Well, Mr. Stone,” she answered, “I have to say he's a very odd fellow.” She raised her hand and cupped one side of her mouth and hushed her voice. “A little off mentally, maybe. He wouldn't tell me why he wants to see you.”

“Huh. Nice. So a
crazy
man with no money and a secret emergency. You know, unless he wants to tell you what's what, I don't really feel like spending an hour listening to a lunatic's ramblings. Tell him I'm busy and set him a scheduled appointment.”

“Okay.”

“Did he even give you a name? He's not a regular client's relative or something? A referral?”

“No sir, he didn't. I asked more than once. I don't think he's from around here.”

“Good enough. Send him along with our best wishes. If it's important, he'll keep the appointment.”

Betty returned quickly, rapping on Joe's open door even though he'd already peered up from his paperwork and was looking at her. “Well, he claims he's a friend of Lettie VanSandt. Or was, I suppose you'd say.”

“Ah. Now the crazy part makes sense. Has he decided to tell us what the emergency is, or are we still Ouija-boarding on that front?”

“No sir. He mentioned Lettie. He didn't tell me more. He's kind of pitiful, really.”

“Wonderful. Okay, just bring him back here. We'll spend more time debating it than it'll take me to deal with him.” Joe pushed the timber contract toward the middle of his desk, dropped the ballpoint he was using to make corrections.

Moments later, Betty ushered in a thin man wearing a paisley tie and a dark suit that was too large in the jacket, too snug and short in the trousers. His shoes were brown, his socks white, his hair mostly gray and buzz-cut to his skull. He appeared much younger than the gray hair suggested, his skin smooth, no trace of a beard or stubble. “This is the gentleman with the emergency,” Betty announced.

Joe stood and faced the stranger, unspooling slowly and purposefully to his full height. He flipped his hand at an empty chair. “Have a seat,” he said. He looked at Betty and thanked her and she took the cue and departed the office. Joe waited for the man to sit, then did the same. Brownie had shifted on his pad so he could inspect the visitor. The dog lifted his head, tightened his lips, appeared on the verge of a growl, seemed unusually alert.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Stone,” the man blurted. “I understand I didn't have an appointment. Thank you.” He twisted and corkscrewed in the chair, but his face and features and aspect were almost serene. “I'm sorry I couldn't schedule a time in advance.” His mouth twitched on the left side when he finished his sentence, the slight corner of his lips jerking toward his ear.

“No problem,” Joe assured him.

Brownie sighed, relaxed, lost interest.

“I don't want to waste my five minutes.” He sounded sincere, no irony or sarcasm. “I, I—”

“Let's begin,” Joe interrupted him, “by you telling me your name. Who you are.”

The man swiveled to check in the direction of the door, then searched the entire room with his eyes, tracing an obvious square as he surveyed the ceiling, the last place he inspected. He made no bones about what he was doing, didn't attempt to conceal it, though his face remained calm and satisfied as he scanned corners and walls and crown molding and ducked to peek around the desk in front of him. “I realize I couldn't see the tricks if they were hidden. But you already know that. My name is Steven Downs. Dr. Steven Downs. A degree in biochemistry from UCLA.” His lips twitched again, the tic evidently chronic.

“Okay,” Joe said. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Downs.”

“Thank you. Is the dog safe? A known quantity?”

“Uh, yeah. His name's Brownie. I've had him for years. I'll vouch for him.” Joe kept a .38 Ruger in his desk. He discreetly cracked the drawer. “I understand you mentioned Lettie VanSandt. You realize she's deceased?”

“Yes. You bet I do.” His voice was animated, almost a yelp, but his expression held, stayed curiously tranquil.

“Okay. So how did you know Lettie?”

“We met on the Internet. At Token Rock.”

“I'm not familiar with it,” Joe said. “Pot and music?”

“No. There's a great deal of numerology information there.”

“Right. Why am I not surprised? Though Lettie didn't own a computer. I'm fairly sure she didn't.”

“She used the library.”

“So what brings you here today, Dr. Downs? Late on a Friday afternoon?”

“I know you think numerology is a farce. It might be in some applications. But Pythagoras believed much of the world can be explained mathematically. I enjoy it; so did Lettie. I have an advanced degree in a hard science, so—”

“Fair enough.” Joe folded his arms across his chest.

“To complicate things, you'll discover I've been institutionalized for psychological concerns. I can't deny it. So you're aware. Full disclosure.”

“I appreciate the candor.”

Downs took a breath. He was silent while he eye-checked the room again. “Lettie was murdered.” His expression showed no distress.

“By, uh, whom? Count von Count?”

“No. For goodness' sake. I'm trying to be helpful. I'm not a fool, Mr. Stone. Making light of me and my efforts gains us nothing. Just because I have a facial tic and have suffered with some issues doesn't mean I'm not reliable.”

“I'm sorry. So who killed Lettie?”

“I suspect a smart fellow like you found her death puzzling. Am I correct?”

Joe shrugged. “Lettie was odd. We checked it out. She was cooking meth and her lab exploded. Hard to locate any motives elsewhere.”

Downs smiled. “Lettie was different. No doubt. But surely you don't really think she was a dope dealer. Lettie?”

“So what's your theory, Dr. Downs?” Joe unfolded his arms, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk.

“Before I was unfairly and illegally discharged, I was employed by Benecorp. I'm certain you've heard of this corporate beast?”

“Sure. Of course. Pharmaceuticals. Tedious TV ads during every sitcom and football game. They are, what, right up there with Merck and Pfizer?”

“Not quite as big as Pfizer. But well ahead of Merck. Fifty-five billion a year.”

“Okay. And they fired you. And this is connected to Lettie…how?” Joe leaned away from the desk and rested his head against the back of his chair.

“Yeah, I know. Give me just a minute to explain. So Lettie sent me a compound. To test for her. I'm a genius in the lab. You can ask anybody. I actually hold three equipment patents. The compound was an epidermal regeneration formulary. As I understood its mechanism, it operated via the transforming growth factor alpha. A wound-healing salve, in plain terms. One of my specialties. That's why she sent it to me
and I agreed to shake a beaker for her. I have other specialties too.” His expression changed for the first time, became earnest and emphatic. “I did not run it on Benecorp's time. Though that's my job, right, to do research? I did it on a Saturday. I was a conscientious employee. I was wrongly fired.” His point made, the emphasis in his features vanished, the creases around his eyes flattened out and disappeared. “Maybe we could discuss that, too, how I was treated.”

“I don't practice employment law,” Joe said brusquely. “Plus, I'm assuming your termination occurred in another state. I'm only licensed here in Virginia.”

“Sorry. Yeah, I'm letting myself get sidetracked. Wasting my appointment. But you already know that.”

“Let me see if I can anticipate a few things and move us along. Lettie discovered you on a numerology website and sent you one of her thousands of wacky poultices. It was supposed to promote wound healing or wound care. Did it work?”

Downs clapped his hands together in front of his chest and kept them clasped there. “My gracious, no. Might have made a good solvent. That's an old lab saying.” His mouth pulled left twice.

“Figures. No big surprise.”

“But you see, Mr. Stone, all Benecorp lab data is stored and some is processed and analyzed and compared blindly, automatically, Hail Marys and cold hits. A clever program called MissFit Matrix. A separate department. Actually takes a sample of your compound and applies it to other projects, the big stuff like certain cancers. AIDS. The moneymakers. It's a brilliant technology. The magic is being able to replicate the control subject cheaply and accurately. Make it cost effective to create thousands of petri dishes, is how I describe it. Benecorp can. Pretty incredible. Anyhow, Lettie was in the system, and the system is always scanning. Hunting. People introducing Lettie VanSandt's failed concoction to everything under the MissFit sun. Other employees who still have jobs often didn't follow procedure and didn't enter their compounds into the system. It's a little extra effort. I always did. But I was fired, not them.”

“Sounds like remarkable science.”

“Indeed. We dummy into a lot. Fleming accidentally discovered penicillin. But you already know that. The microwave oven—luck.
LSD, even Viagra. All were happenstance. Outside the trials and protocols. Fahlberg discovered saccharin while experimenting with coal tar.”

“Lettie's medicine was a failure for its intended purpose but was effective in some other area?” Joe slid forward in his chair. He scrutinized Downs.

Downs finally dropped his hands. “Correct.”

“Okay, I'll bite. What does it do?”

Downs commenced his searching again. He made several square trips around the ceiling. He locked on to Brownie, who ignored him. “Don't have any idea,” he said. His lips tracked left, and he swiped the corner of his mouth with a fingertip.

“Huh?”

“I only know it was something worthwhile. Very, very valuable.”

“And this formula with its unknown use, if I'm following your theory, Dr. Downs, somehow got her killed?”

“For certain.”

“For certain,” Joe repeated, practically mocking him. “And how, pray tell, do you know this?”

“My supervisor contacted me and asked about the composition. History, trials, origin. My Grand Pooh-Bah supervisor. His name is Anton Pichler. No scientist at all. Guess what degree he holds?”

“Couldn't say,” Joe answered.

“Guess,” Downs insisted.

“You're wasting your five minutes.”

Downs's expression remained serene. “Yes, but I imagine you'll at least let me finish before you kick me to the curb.”

“Depends on how long it takes,” Joe said.

“MBA. He has an MBA. Studied basic chemistry at Ole Miss. Two whole semesters in their vaunted, world-renowned department. Wowee. Moron couldn't even light a Bunsen burner. He's my boss. He's with a big cheese from MissFit, a woman, Mrs. Meade, and those people are top-notch. They're rude and aloof, but I give them their due. I immediately add up what's happened. No reason not to tell them the facts. Lettie's miss with me is a fit elsewhere. Or at least there's some promise. There are plenty of false starts with the program.”