The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

He drew the band close to the lantern, examined it carefully in the lamplight.

The binding was not rain-soaked, as he had assumed.

It was covered in blood.

He crumpled the plastic strip in his hand and shoved it into his pocket.

Confidence overwhelmed him. An intruder was on the grounds, only now he would have an easier time of finding him. The blood on the binding was fresh, still tacky to the touch, and experience had taught him that wounded prey was always the easiest to track.

And to dispatch.

29

WITH A MUG of hot coffee in each hand, Martin shouldered open the front door and stepped outside onto the porch, delicately balancing the steaming liquid. Maggy lay at Claire’s feet, chewing heartily on the rawhide Justin had given her when she arrived. As Martin stepped through the door, Maggy sat up and sniffed the air. Realizing that the smell was not on her list of allowable treats, she lay back down and resumed devouring the rawhide.

“Thought you could use a little pick me up,” Martin said. “Black with two sugars, right?”

Claire smiled. “Thank you,” she replied.

Mark Oyama walked through the door behind Martin and settled into a knotty pine swayback chair across from Claire. He noticed the yellow file folder resting on her lap. “Case file?” he asked as he sipped his coffee.

“A patient file,” Claire replied. “I thought it might prove useful.”

“How so?”

“Remember earlier, before we examined the photographs, Martin mentioned I had reason to suspect someone killed my parents?”

“Yes. You believed it was Joseph Krebeck.”

“Right,” Claire said. She opened the file folder and removed the case photo of Walter Pennimore. “This man was one of my patients. With his dying words he told me Krebeck had something to do with their death.”

“What would a guy like Krebeck want with your parents?” Mark asked. “What’s the connection?”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Mind if I look?” Mark asked. “Sometimes a fresh perspective can help.”

She handed Oyama the file. “If you can find something in here that I missed, something that will help me figure out how Krebeck is involved with my parent’s death, then go for it.”

Mark flipped through the thick pages of Pennimore’s patient history. “How long had you been treating him?” he asked.

“Twice a week for a little over a year at the request of the parole board.”

“That seems unusual. PB’s rarely specify the treating physician.”

“No, they don’t. But this case is different. They learned about the success I was having applying a series of psychoanalytical procedures my father had developed before he died. The results were nothing short of amazing.”

“Your father was a psychiatrist as well?”

Claire nodded. “One of the best in the country. He’d made significant advances in research over the course of his career. But the results he’d got with patients through the application of these specific methodologies were nothing short of spectacular. During my first couple of years in university he was testing these alternative approaches, applying them in practice on a select group of high-risk patients.”

“What was the nature of his research?” Martin asked, “Did he create a new drug or something?”

“The opposite, actually. He created a psychological model that, when applied in a state of deep hypnosis, enabled patients to affect immediate behavioral changes: a significant shift at the sub-conscious level. By working with the patient and introducing a behavior modification skill set that resulted in permanent attitudinal change, my father was able to treat the patient’s problem at its root cause without having to resort to the more traditional means of therapy you mentioned, such as prescribing anti-psychotic medications. His success rate over several months with neurologically healthy patients was almost one-hundred percent.”

“Sounds to me like this was a major breakthrough,” Mark said, “and I assume one of immense proprietary and monetary value as well.”

“Without question,” Claire replied. “Remember, my father was curing patients. They weren’t going through life reliant on their meds anymore, ready to snap or kill somebody just because their prescription ran out. This was a total and complete pain and pharmaceutical-free rehabilitation process of significant benefit to both psychiatric medicine and mankind. There was talk that with further research and greater refinement of his techniques, my father could have been nominated for a Nobel prize.”

Martin glanced at Mark, leaned forward.

“I know that look, Mark,” Martin said. “What’s on your mind?”

Fingers steepled, pensive, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, Oyama’s body language was as subtle as a train wreck.

“If Claire’s father’s research is as valuable as it sounds,” Mark said, “then it’s possible someone would be willing to kill for it. Professional jealousy, perhaps. Claire, did your father have any enemies you’re aware of or have a falling out with a past colleague or research associate?”

“Many doctors were envious of his work and reputation,” Claire replied, “but I can’t think of one that would resort to murder.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mark replied. “Not that you need a life lesson, but trust me, the human animal is as unpredictable as any you’ll ever find. Experience has taught me to start with all the possibilities, then rule them out as I go along. Sometimes the answers to the most troublesome questions are found in the most obvious places. So, let’s start with your father. I take it he kept a diary to track his progress?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “My father was an exhaustive records keeper. He kept meticulous notes. He assessed each step of his research from the day he began the project until the day he died.”

“Where are those records now?”

“Locked in my safe at home,” Claire replied.

“Does anyone else have access to that safe besides you?”

“No, just me.”

“Good,” Mark said. “We may want to have a look at those files. Maybe there’s something in your father’s records that can tell us more about this Joseph Krebeck character. Have you spoken to anyone else about this besides Martin and me?”

“Yes. Inspector Chris Maddox. He’s with the Paulo Brava police department. He was also a