The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (70 page)

“You must be the young fellow my daughter told me about,” he said.

Berenger stood and shook the man’s hand. “Spike Berenger, sir. Glad to meet you.”

“Jeremiah Levine.” The doctor gestured to an empty sofa on the other side of the room. “Why don’t we go sit over there where it’s a little more quiet.” Levine scooted the walker along at a reasonable pace and managed to lower himself onto the furniture without help. “It’s my only real problem,” he said once he was settled. “My legs have gone kaput. Especially the knees. I probably should’ve had the replacements done ten years ago, but I was stubborn and didn’t do it. Now it’s really too late to go through that kind of surgery at my age.”

“You look like you’re doing fine to me, sir.”

“Thank you. You can call me Jeremiah. What was your name again?”

“Spike.”

“Right. When my daughter told me your name, I expected I’d see a bulldog or something.” He chuckled. “She said you’re a private investigator. What can I do for you?”

“Do you remember a patient named Stuart Clayton?”

Berenger could have sworn that a shadow passed across the doctor’s eyes. After a beat, he answered, “I do. His parents were good friends of mine. Lovely people.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about his… case. About what happened to him in nineteen-seventy-three when he had his stroke.”

“Stroke?”

“Didn’t he have a stroke? Or a heart attack?”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know this, if I may ask?”

Berenger brought his voice down. “Mister Clayton is the target of a killer who has been murdering rock and roll musicians in Chicago. Several of his friends and former band mates have already been killed. I recently learned about something that occurred in Mister Clayton’s past and it may be the reason behind the killer’s motivation. Stuart—Mister Clayton—is not well and has been reluctant to talk about it. In order to protect him, and perhaps figure out who the killer is, I need to understand more about Clayton’s condition.”

“You say Stuart is alive?”

“Yes, sir. Er, Jeremiah.”

“He’s still in Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he’d moved to Europe.”

“He came back in the early nineties.”

“I didn’t know that.” The man shifted a little on the sofa. “You know, it goes against my ethics to reveal information about a patient—former patient or not—if he’s still alive.”

“I understand that. Perhaps if you spoke in general terms?”

“It’s not that simple. I either tell you about him or I don’t.”

“What if I said that any information you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence, and that it’s possibly something that could save Stuart’s life?”

“I don’t know…” The doctor shook his head. “If you had a court order or something…”

“Doctor Levine. There’s a concert planned for tomorrow night featuring the remaining members of the band—and Stuart, too, if he agrees to show up—and we believe the killer is going to use that opportunity to strike. It’s possible that anything you tell me will be totally useless, in which case I’ll just forget about it and pretend we never spoke. But if it’s something that has bearing on the situation and it can save some lives, then I have to know.”

The doctor stared ahead for a few moments and then inhaled deeply. “Stuart Clayton did not have a stroke or a heart attack in… what year was it?”

“Nineteen-seventy-three?”

“Yes. What happened was that he attempted suicide.”

Berenger sat back. “How?”

“Drugs, of course. He had a long history with drug abuse. Especially street drugs. You do know that he’s mentally ill?”

“Yes. That’s fairly obvious.”

“He was diagnosed as a schizophrenic when he was a teenager. Psychiatry in the sixties wasn’t what it is today, you understand. His parents refused to take him to a psychiatrist. They thought there was a stigma attached to that. So I treated him for his mental illness. And I have to admit that I didn’t really know what I was doing. Oh, I prescribed the correct medications, I’m sure of that. But the problem was that the boy began to experiment with those mind-altering drugs like LSD. And while LSD might not be harmful
per se
to the average person, for someone who already has an impaired mental condition it can be disastrous.”

“I believe that.”

“Stuart became bi-polar as he matured, although that term was not used back then. He seemed to be fine when he was in a manic phase. He was productive, he was creative, he socialized, he played in his band… but during the depressive phase, he was pretty bad off. And in nineteen-seventy-three, it got so bad that he tried to do himself in. He overdosed on LSD and another psychedelic drug, an herb that he grew in his back yard. I’d never heard of it at the time—”

“Would that be salvia divinorum?”

“That’s it.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know who found him. He was down at the harbor where he had a boat—I forget which harbor—and he was lying on the pier, totally naked and unconscious. He was taken to a hospital. He was in a coma for two months. When he finally came out of it, he experienced several psychotic episodes. He had to be put in a psychiatric hospital for a year or so. I forget how long. He eventually recovered, more or less. But the experience left him disabled. Somehow the coma had affected his motor skills the way a stroke can—he lost some of the movement on his left side.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

“But he could still function. I thought he was rehabilitated as far as the drug abuse was concerned. So he was released.”

“What happened after that?”

“His parents died in a terrible accident. It was a fire. On Stuart’s boat.”

“I heard that, but I didn’t know it was on his boat.”

“The story was that the whole family had taken it out on the lake—Stuart was with them—and somehow it caught fire. It sank, the parents were killed. Stuart suffered some minor burns but managed to grab a life vest and one of those lifesaver rings. The Coast Guard picked him up. After that, he wasn’t the same. He was emotionally distraught. All the progress he’d made in the hospital went down the tubes. He came in to see me once or twice after that, and I discerned that he was abusing drugs again. I warned him about it.” The doctor sighed heavily. “And I never saw him again. Sad case, really. I’m happy to hear that he’s still alive. I was afraid he’d meet with a bad end.”

The doctor looked away and frowned.

“Doctor Levine?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you any of that. Stuart has a right to privacy just like anyone.”

“Don’t worry, Jeremiah. I won’t tell—”

“Perhaps it’s best if you go now. I said more than I wanted to say, but once I started talking, it just all came out. It’s not your fault.”

Berenger understood how the man felt and could appreciate the doctor’s regret. But in the world of private investigation, secrets had to be unearthed and exposed by any means possible. In Berenger’s mind, Levine had done nothing wrong. The man helped shed some light on one of the players in a complex and mystifying case.

“Thank you, doctor.” He stood and shook the man’s hand. “Take care of yourself.”

“I hope you solve your case.”

“Me, too.”

Berenger left the doctor on the sofa and headed for the front door. He said goodbye to the receptionist and went outside, where daylight was ebbing. The sun was low in the sky, blocked by the tall buildings.

From his pocket burst the strains of “21
^st
Century Schizoid Man.” He pulled out the mobile and noted that it was Remix calling.

“Berenger.”

“Spike, there’s something you got to see, man, like pronto, on the double!”

“What is it?”

“I got hold of those record albums—you know, Joe Nance’s and Stuart Clayton’s solo disks. I uploaded the music and the covers, just like you asked.”

“Great.”

“You need to take a look at the back cover of Clayton’s solo album, the one called
Trrrrans
with four
R
s.”

“I’m out and about and don’t have Suzanne’s laptop with me.”

“Then go to a Kinko’s and get online. Really, you need to see it.”

“What is it, Remix?”

“It’s best if you have a look yourself. I can’t begin to describe it.”

Berenger turned around and went back inside the building. Meadowmere’s receptionist had a computer. “Okay, Remix. I’ll take a look. I’ll call you back if I have to.” He hung up, approached the middle-aged woman, and asked, “Ma’am, pardon me, but is your computer connected to the Internet?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Would you mind terribly if I just looked up something
real quick
?”

The woman frowned. “I don’t know…”

“Pretty please?”

“Well, all right. But hurry. I don’t want my supervisor seeing.”

“I’ll just be a few seconds.” Berenger swung behind her desk, opened the browser, typed in the URL of Rockin’ Security’s server, entered his user name and password, and navigated to Remix’s folders. The
Trrrrans
front cover consisted of nothing unusual—just a picture of Clayton, his back to the camera and looking into a blurred mirror. The reflection wasn’t visible, but the words “Stuart Clayton” and the album’s title were written across the top. Berenger then clicked on the link to view the back cover.

“Oh, my God,” Berenger whispered.

“Is something wrong?” the receptionist asked.

Berenger quickly closed the browser and moved from behind the desk. “No. Thanks very much.”

He ran outside, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Prescott’s number. It rang twice but then went to her voice mail.

“Damn it, Suzanne!” He ended the call and then noticed that there was still a voice message he hadn’t heard—from Prescott. He quickly connected to his mailbox and listened to what she had left him a couple of hours earlier.

A wave of dread surged through his gut.

He ran to the corner, whistled loudly, and hailed a cab. Once the taxi was on the way, Berenger phoned Mike Case and got voice mail—
didn’t anyone answer the phone anymore?
—so he dialed 9-1-1. Not knowing exactly what he should tell the dispatcher, he merely said that there was a breakin at Clayton’s address and to send a patrol car immediately. In a few minutes, the cab arrived at the decrepit house on Mango Avenue. The PI paid the driver, got out, started to run for the front door… and stopped.

Where’s the rental car?

Prescott had driven it to Clayton’s house, but it wasn’t parked in front or anywhere on the street that Berenger could see. There was only a Chevy Malibu parked against the curb a couple of doors down. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Prescott’s number again. Voice mail.

“Damn it, Suzanne!”

He went to the front door, and just as she had, found it ajar. Berenger knocked loudly and called inside, “Hello? Stuart? Suzanne?” There was no answer, but Berenger heard music coming from somewhere deep within the house. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it sounded familiar. He stepped inside and shouted louder, “Anyone home? Stuart? Suzanne?”

Berenger drew his Kahr and slowly walked to the kitchen. No one there—just a bunch of disgusting dirty dishes and the leftover pizza from the other evening still on the table. Yuck.

He searched the living room and found the broken picture frames and defaced photos, which caused his anxiety level to increase dramatically. From there he went back to the hallway, peeked into the first bedroom, then the second bedroom, and finally made his way to the studio.

The music was coming from the storage room. The door was open.

As he moved closer, he recognized the song that was playing. It was one of the tracks that the killer had left for him. Allegedly it was sung by Sylvia Favero, but it was really performed by Julia Faerie.

He saw the open trap door in the floor, something he hadn’t noticed the first time he’d glimpsed the storeroom’s interior. The music was drifting up from the basement. A light flickered down below. He knelt beside the opening and called, “Hello? Someone down there? Stuart?”