Murder in C-Minor

By William J. Russell

John Reynolds is a PI with an expired license, has a Vietnam past in the medical service, and has a job as night watchman at Euphor Industries, when the stuff literally hits the fan. A likely psychopath, who is wigged out at Euphor Industries, throws him into a situation that plays on his subconscious, bringing into play Lt. Dan Wilder and Jim Stinger, CEO of Euphor Pharmaceuticals. Someone is killing streetwalkers, and the three of them work together, trying to make sense of the situation before them. Poetic clues construe the playing field as each new homicide makes itself known. A drama that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the last clue lies crumpled in a wastebasket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664124189

William J. Russell

William J. Russell retired from the U.S. Army Medical Service after twenty-four years. Mr. Russell has spent over forty-three years within the medical arena. He has taught in one medical capacity or another for over thirty-five years, usually in consonant with a medical-, counseling-, or nursing-type job.

Book preview

RETRIBUTION IN C MINOR

Words of malice churn

Nefarious poison;

Vindictive harpoons

Like swallows, return

Instilling silent wounds

While wrath and anger burn

It was blackout, so dark that shadows did not exist, only the pervading blackness, like a giant evil pushing against the damp windows. John Reynolds sat before the TV screen watching with intent concentration. John, with a PhD in psychology, a 1969 Plymouth station wagon, an expired investigator’s license, and this crappy job as night watchman for Euphor Pharmaceutical Industries, was trying to see into the blackness projected on the screen.

Damn, I guess the lights went out! John muttered to himself. In the past five years, things just hadn’t worked out. John had been an excellent student. He finished school in the upper third of his class and graduated with honors. The only problem was that no one had told him that a PhD in psychology was about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, not to mention his marriage going down the tubes. Fortunately, there were no children involved, and the divorce was easy because he had only been married for two years. Even at that, though, he wasn’t getting any younger. At forty-seven, he had thought he would have a good job, a good marriage, and most of all, a son to carry on the old family name.

Evidently, having served in Vietnam had taken something from him, like his sanity. It didn’t do any good being pissed; he wasn’t the only one who had served his nation in a worthless cause. Old men make war, young men die. Now twenty years later, it was just he and his post-traumatic stress disorder. What a blend. Now his 6-foot 180-pound frame was lurking before the TV screen as a security guard. Just overtrained a little bit, he mused.

There was a loud crash coming from outside. It wasn’t thunder. It sounded like metal against metal, perhaps like the tin roof of one of the buildings. Then the TV screen went black. Then all the lights went out.

John reached for the flashlight he carried on his belt. He opened the door of the guard shack and peered out into the extreme darkness. Nothing there, he couldn’t see anything, just blackness. Then there was a sound. He turned on the flashlight and shot a beam in the direction of the noise. He could barely see the outline of what looked like a car. Steam was shooting out from the radiator with a loud noise. It looked like the car had gone through the metal fence. The fence was a high-voltage one, and when the car had gone through, it must have shorted out, causing power failure to the small complex of buildings.

John approached the car. He couldn’t see if there was a driver. As he got closer, he noticed blood on the concrete in front of the car. But no person or body appeared. He flashed his light inside the driver’s side of the car, nothing, and no one at all. The windshield was smashed from the inside, and the front of the car was slightly damaged. Both front tires were flat. Part of the fence was still in contact with the car, but there was no fire or spark. John went back to the front of the car to inspect the blood on the cement. It was fresh. It looked like someone had spilled it there. John turned to go back to the guard shack. The phone rang.

By the time John answered the phone, several black-and-whites had pulled into the driveway. John picked up the receiver.

Hello, yeah, it’s me. I’m OK. I don’t know what happened.

John’s boss, Jim Stinger, was always on top of things. He must have gotten a call from the police. He was a little pissed that John hadn’t called him right away. He told John that he would be right over to see what happened and hung up abruptly. Jim was one of those guys who had everything given to him. Euphor was a small pharmaceutical corporation that had been owned by his late father, R. V. Stinger. They used to jokingly call him IV Stinger. After the death of R. V. Stinger, everything went to his only son, Jim Stinger.

A voice came from outside the shack door. Sir, are you the guard? It was one of the officers investigating the accident.

John stepped outside the door. Yeah, but I don’t know what happened.

The officer took out a clipboard. Well, we’re not sure either. Looks like some crazy drunk ran into the high-voltage fence. Damnedest thing, though, we can’t find the driver. According to the registration, the owner of the car is Howard P. Shienfeld. Do you know that name?

John rubbed his brow. Can’t say that I do. Did you call this in yet?

The officer, now seemingly distracted by a call on his radio, shook in a negative manner and walked back to his car. A few moments later, he came back up to the door. Just got a call from the officer on the scene about another accident four blocks away, strange, same MO as this one—blood on the ground, in a pool, fresh, but no body or driver of the car.

A shout came about two hundred yards from the fence, on the inside of the compound. It was one of the other officers. You better get your ass over here! We’ve got a body!

Behind some boxes and crates, there was a young woman lying faceup. She was unclad. Her eyes were open in an expression of disbelief. Her body, while beautiful, blond, and well nourished, was also very pale. Two puncture marks on her neck seemed to indicate why she was pallid. It seemed that all her blood had been sucked out. No, it was not a vampire. But a device with a large needle, like one belonging to a large syringe, had been used.

John remembered something from Vietnam. He had been a medic. What he remembered was that it took quite a while to do this to someone. Yet since the accident, only about fifteen minutes had passed. At that moment, a sound came from above their heads. One of the officers turned rapidly with his weapon drawn and ready to fire. The sound began again, and what they heard was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto number 2 in C minor.

EUPHOR DOES NOT NECESSARILY

STAND FOR EUPHORIA

Jim Q. Stinger was nervously fingering his $200 gold-plated deluxe wristwatch while looking around the guard shack for a place to sit. I can’t have this kind of publicity, John. You know how business has been and those threats by Magnum Pharmaceutical that we have copied one of their psychotropics.

Jim looked like the spoiled brat he was. Besides, John thought, what could he have done? It was pitch-black out there. He had no way of knowing what was going on. No, he wasn’t going to buy into whatever Jim was setting him up for, even though he and Jim had known each other for a long time. In fact, Jim had helped John out many times since Vietnam, usually with money, and now with this security job. But money doesn’t buy friendship.

Look, Jim, John said, I don’t know what it is you expected me to do, but it’s too late now. If you’re going to fire me, then get it over with.

Jim looked hurt. No, no, John, I’m not going to fire you. In fact, I may need to hire you.

John stood. That’s it. I knew you were stupid, but hire me, for what? The job I’m doing isn’t demeaning enough?

Jim’s face reddened. Asshole, have you forgotten what you’ve been trained to do?

John sat back. You mean psychotherapy or investigating? What in the hell has that got to do with your company?

Jim shoved a paper at John. This is what I mean.

John looked at the paper. It was a note made up of cutout letters from magazines or newspapers. It stated,

Letter Number 1: The Fun Has Just Begun

You are marked by the sign of the beast

for selling drugs that seize the minds of

the innocent. You shall be punished with

the blood of young whores—

until death and you do meet

C Minor

You idiot, this has to go to the police. John looked out to see if any of the officers were still rummaging around for clues.

Jim jumped and grabbed John. Are you crazy? I’ll lose everything—my business, my reputation, and my position in the community.

OK, John said, but if you ask me, you’ll lose more by keeping this to yourself.

John was thinking about the weird note and the psycho who must have written it. If true, this meant that someone had a vendetta against Euphor or Jim Stinger or both. The lawsuit filed claimed that Jim’s company had been producing a drug by the name of Euphorzepine that was essentially the same as the drug Normalzepine put out by Magnum Pharmaceutical. There had been complaints Euphorzepine was a drug known to cause a false feeling of euphoria, followed by depression, which may have been responsible for client suicides. Magnum wanted their name cleared of this association in writing. It did not seem likely someone from Magnum was pissed off enough to go around killing whores just to get even. No, this had to be someone who was wigged out for another reason.

You’ve got to help me find out who’s behind these murders, Jim was saying. But we can’t let out the word that someone is threatening me or my company.

John looked out the window. Sure, now I’m a private dick psychologist. Take your pick. Either license is about as good as my marriage license. And you want me to use my training to solve a murder.

Jim interrupted, There must be something you can do. I don’t see that telling the police is going to solve anything. Besides, I’ll pay you two thousand a day plus expenses.

You asshole, John said. Do you think that everyone can be bought with money? The sun doesn’t rise and set on the almighty dollar.

I guess that means you’ll help, Jim added with a sarcastic grin and then sat down again.

John pulled up a chair, sat, looked straight into Jim’s beady eyes, and said, OK, you sorry piece of crap, I’ll help for now, but if this thing gets bad, and it probably will, I’m going directly to Lieutenant Wilder with the whole thing. You got that, Jimmy boy?

Jim got up and went to the door of the guard shack. If it gets bad, I’ll go to Lieutenant Wilder myself.

SOME THINGS HAPPEN IN TWOS

Lieutenant Wilder stood looking at a pool of fresh blood. A car had crashed into a metal storm fence. There did not seem to be any driver, just the fresh blood about three feet behind the car trunk on the damp concrete.

That’s strange, Lieutenant Wilder said. Hey, Sergeant, how long did you say you’ve been here?

Sgt. Roy Mintel came over with a flashlight in his hand. About twenty minutes, Lieutenant.

Don’t you find it strange that this blood hasn’t coagulated yet? Lieutenant Wilder said.

Sergeant Mintel put a finger into the center of the spot. Seems like real blood. All right, I’ll get the lab boys on it.

What else was strange was the fact that there was no body, no driver, and no evidence of any injury inside the car. Whatever had happened had happened in some kind of a vacuum, existing only at this point.

Lieutenant Wilder walked back to his car. It was possible that some damn prankster was just playing a practical joke. If so, he had better hope that he didn’t get caught this night. His car radio was asking for backup. Evidently, there had been another accident about four blocks away. He called in and told headquarters that he would follow up on the accident at Euphor Pharmaceuticals.

When Lieutenant Wilder got to Euphor Pharmaceutical Industries, he noticed Jim Stinger was just leaving. John Reynolds, an old friend, was standing in