Shock!. Donald Ph.D. Ladew

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      He mumbled something unintelligible that Swinburne translated as agreement, and left with Moran.

      Further along through the area with the beds was another smaller room. It smelled...of death.

      Walker Preston of the city coroner's office closed his bag and made some notes on a form attached to a clipboard. Swinburne had worked with him on more than fifty cases. He was thin and sour.

      For some inexplicable reason he had taken a shine to Swinburne when he'd first made detective, and this morning he actually seemed interested.

      He reached out a hand with yellow, nicotine-stained fingers to shake the Lieutenant's. He always did it, as though it was the first time they'd met. He had bad teeth and a little rim of scruffy brown hair.

      "Lieutenant, welcome to, 'This Was Your Life'. You're going to love this one." He turned and pointed to an operating table behind him. "Looks like the shocker became the shockee." He snickered at his joke. Swinburne knew he'd have to listen to Preston's wit before he got down to cases.

      "I saw this interview on TV where this famous shock-doc was being interviewed opposite a leader of one of the psychiatric abuse groups. Anyhow, the silver-haired asshole, fresh from the salon and half a quart of Grecian Formula is weaseling on about how wonderful electro-convulsive treatment is for his poor deee-pressed patients.

      "Personally, I'd be pretty damned depressed too if some demented dipshit wanted to fry my brain and turn me into an epileptic. Anyhow the other fella says, if it's so safe, and there's no fear of brain damage or memory loss, then you wouldn't mind having it done to you, would you?

      "The oily shrink says, of course not, if I needed it. Then he gives this nice patronizing chuckle to the stupid layman.

      "The other guy isn't upset at all. He's real serious. So he says to the shrink, Fine, tell you what I'll do, I'll pay you five thousand dollars; all you have to do is have one 'therapeutic' treatment. Just think about it, you can make five thousand dollars and prove to the world how safe this modern-day miracle is," Preston snickered.

      "Well, the weasel pats his hundred-dollar hairdo, gives his Hollywood chains a nervous twitch or two with those lovely, manicured hands and says, ex cathedra, One shouldn't make jokes about the tragedy of mental illness. Gave it a nice lecture tour ring, he did.

      "This other fellow comes back straight as can be; pulls out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and says, 'I wasn't joking. How about it? We'll make it a small dose, say a half an amp for a second. Pimple dick mumbled something nonsensical and the interview went downhill from there.

      "Believe it, Lieutenant, I've studied the field and these boys," he nodded towards the corpse on the table, "are right out of your worst nightmare. I can't abide what these people do in the name of “treatment.” It's fuckin' primitive. Well, fair's fair, looks like someone administered a little dose of his own therapy."

      "So it's primitive. Tell me what you know," Swinburne said.

      "Right, well the subject has been dead between two and three hours. An educated guess would put his death at around two A.M. Cause of death is a tough one. I won't be able to say for sure until the autopsy's done. His temples are burned so he may have died of brain dysfunction, or it could have been heart failure, maybe even a broken spine. Note the arch to his back.

      "There's pronounced blanching." The dead man's face had a pale, waxy look.

      "That will have occurred when the grand mal seizures induced by the ECT machine shut off the blood supply to the brain. There’s something else," he moved over next to the body, "come have a look." He pointed to a small puncture wound near the man's collarbone. "It’s too big to be a needle." He looked at Swinburne slyly. "What do you think, Lieutenant?"

      "Is there going to be a written test after the quiz?" Swinburne asked.

      "C'mon, don't be a wimp, what do you think?" Preston grinned slyly.

      Swinburne bent over and looked closely. "Animal control dart, maybe? I've seen something like this before."

      "Like I told the boss, you're good. You pay attention and you don't forget. I won't be sure until the autopsy and chemistry's done their thing, but I'd put money on it. The perpetrator got the other guard the same way; only he didn't fry his ass."

      "Okay, Walker, thanks. Get me the results on this as fast as you can. For some reason the bench warmers downtown are all a' twitter over this one."

      Animal darts, in and out without a trace. Either a professional or a gifted amateur, Swinburne thought.

      Nick came into the room and waited for the Lieutenant to finish with Walker.

      "Lieutenant, a couple of interesting things here: One of the men found where the alarm system has been tampered with. It looks like some kind of 'by-pass' was used. Also, Jennings says whoever did it had his own keys. He's found oil in some of the locks into and out of the building. The guard who was shot says it was a tall guy wearing a Navy watch cap, a dark coat and a ski mask; says he only saw him for a second."

      "Yeah, Nick, it fits. Whoever did this didn't just walk in off the street, and I don't think he came from the wards. This isn't the work of one of the patients; that is, one of the patients who are currently on the premises. This took planning, what we call preee-meditation. I have a feeling we aren't going to lack for motive.

      "Excuse me a second, Nick. Walker, will you do something for me? If you have anything in your library on ECT, I want it. This whole operation", he pointed around the area, "there's too much I don't know about this business."

      "Sure, Ed. I'll come by this afternoon. Plan on some late nights, there's a lot. You'll get to read Thomas Szasz, which is a treat under any circumstances," Walker said.

      They were there until ten in the morning. A Doctor Cedros came in at eight. He was less than cooperative. Odd; he went on about how willing he was to help, but when Swinburne tried to get something concrete, like medical records, names of people who had been committed over the past few years, the man didn't want to give them anything. Swinburne had to threaten to subpoena every record since day one. He'd been particularly difficult when the lieutenant asked for information on the clinic itself. For instance, who owned it, board of directors, things like that?

      Swinburne was familiar with the right of confidentiality, privileged communications, but, as he told him, he wasn't interested in the personal difficulties of any of the patients; he needed background data, and why all the fuss about the corporate history.

      The man's objections seemed reasonable, legally, but something didn't ring true.

      Well, we'll see. I'm not an unreasonable guy. All you got to do is give me exactly what I want and we'll get along just fine, Swinburne thought.

      Chapter 7

      Gilbert laid back, legs stretched out on the old sofa. He loved everything about the room. As a boy, all reward and punishment had been meted out in the library. If he'd been 'good', his father let him come in and play. If he'd been 'bad' he'd be sent there to hear the 'voice', as Mother called it.

      His father spanked him only once. Gilbert borrowed some wooden matches from his father's desk after watching a Dr. Wizard show on TV that described how to make a rocket. He did his own experiment with a tin of gasoline and some old rags. The fire department arrived within minutes СКАЧАТЬ