The Minotaur's Hit List (Doc Minus Two Book I)

eighteen months ago, about six months after the flight. He was a young man in his early twenties, unmarried, and had no police record. His family did not take the news well. Lasbrant's mother attempted suicide a month later as a result, and was hospitalized for three weeks. His father quit his job to dedicate himself to caring for her. A few weeks ago, the police found out that Lasbrant had an affair with a married woman, and that her husband had learned about it. The husband, name of Robert Patrick, could not come up with a convincing alibi for the night of the murder, and so they arrested him.

  "Poor guy," I remarked to Doc Minus Two. We met at the Tampa bus station where he had come to pick me up. I had refused to sit in that open Jeep all the way from Boston to Florida, and took the bus instead.

  "Yes he is."

  "Can't we do something for him? Tell the police the whole story so they understand what's behind the murders?"

  He waited for me to climb into the Jeep, this time allowing for both my legs to come on board before taking off. "Do you really think the police is going to drop the charges just because some bozo tells them a fantastic story about an organization that's out to get everyone who was on board a flight from two years ago? And even suppose they did — how would you keep your name out of this? Inside of twenty four hours everyone would know you're here. What if the cops detain you at the request of the FBI? You'd be a sitting duck."

  "You're right, we can’t get involved. But the FBI can. Let me tell K about this. The FBI isn't some bozo. The police would listen to them."

  "The FBI won't intervene until they catch the perp. They'll be watching Patrick's trial from the sidelines and do nothing. For the last time, Al: no matter how much they sweet-talked you, the FBI is not your devoted assistant. You're not the center of their world. Deal with it."

  "What do you suggest we do?"

  "I want to talk to the suspect. He's out on bail. Can't leave the house. This would make it easy to find him."

  "Wait a minute. You don't seriously believe Patrick's done it?"

  Doc Minus Two took out a half a cigar and put it in his mouth and lit it up as he was driving. I wondered if he had ever smoked a new cigar or was it by design that he always obtained them pre smoked. "This is where it gets interesting," he said. "Of course it's ludicrous to think that the perp would use a hit man that can be linked to the victim as this suspect is. But there is strong evidence pointing to his guilt. They found gunpowder residue on his jacket — a jacket very similar to one an eyewitness has described. They also found a yellow mask in his home that this eyewitness said he also saw. If that's not enough, someone testified that Patrick tried to have him get rid of a gun after the murder. He also has no alibi as I told you already, and he most certainly had a motive."

  "So you think maybe it was a coincidence, then? That Lasbrant was murdered by Patrick before they could get to him?"

  "It's a possibility. Or maybe he really didn't do it, which means that someone is trying hard to get a conviction to hide something. If this is the case, it means that someone on the Police force was on the right track and the perps, through their connections, are trying to thwart the investigation. It's a little suspicious to me that it took eighteen months for the cops to even begin to investigate Patrick's involvement. And this is why I want to talk to him. I will know if he's done it or not. I can read people."

  Robert Patrick's home was a large, well kept colonial. Someone was doing the grounds maintenance; there was no trace of weed in the bright-hued lawn. He opened the door himself. He was alone in the big house. His wife had left him six months ago, with yet another man. She sued for divorce. The only reason he could still hold on to the house, Doc told me, was that it was underwater: he owed more on it than it was worth, and so she wanted nothing to do with it.

  Patrick looked tired. He was unshaven, and wore old boxer shorts and a faded red T shirt. Doc Minus Two flashed his badge. "We're with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I'm agent Salmond."

  I was faster than him this time. "And I'm agent Boris." I think it annoyed him.

  Patrick seemed surprised. "The ATF? Why do you guys need to get involved?"

  "Illegal gun possession," Doc Minus Two replied. "This is not an official investigation. None of this will be used against you in court if you cooperate. We're mainly interested in a possible connection to illegal gun rings."

  Patrick nodded his understanding and led us to a single sofa that stood in an oversized living room. The only object in the room besides the sofa was a small TV that lay directly on the carpeted floor. The bare walls revealed dust-free rectangles where paintings had been removed not long ago. Patrick was kind enough to offer us coffee. I declined; Doc Minus Two said he would have some, and to make it strong. Patrick disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he put a blue cup on the floor in front of Doc Minus Two. The cup seemed to have been bought in a cheap souvenir shop in Tampa itself, and I wondered whether his ex wife had left him anything at all if he had to resort to using souvenirs as dishes. He sat down on the floor with a can of beer and drew his knees to his chest. Now I noticed for the first time that he wore an ankle monitor. "So," he started, "Just like them, you also believe that I bought an illegal gun. You guys already decided I'm guilty. What's the point in me talking to you?"

  Doc Minus Two shook his head. "Not at all. What you have to say carries a lot of weight with us. Forget what you told the police. We want to know what you think."

  Patrick's tone was derisive. "What I think? I think the world has gone crazy, that's what I think. My wife is a serial adulteress; she took with her everything that was not bolted to the floor and my entire bank account; and if this is not enough, now they say I killed one of her back-door men."

  "Did you?"

  He threw his arms open in desperation. "If I killed that Lasbrant guy, then why not the man she ran off with a few months ago? Why not the two or three she had before Lasbrant? What makes him so special?"

  "What did the police say to that?"

  He guffawed. "They say I snapped. That everyone has a breaking point and that I reached mine. But that's silly: if I snapped, then why kill him and not her? I never laid a finger on her."

  "The police report states domestic abuse."

  "How?!" he shrieked. "Because she felt she was yelled at too much? Even she never claimed that I beat her, only that I pushed her out of my way in anger once, and that I pulled her by the arm a couple of times. And none of that around the time of the murder."

  "And the gun?"

  He wagged a finger. "You didn't waste too much time getting to that, ATF man. I don't own a gun. I never owned a gun. The police has no proof of illegal gun possession except for that guy they produced that says I tried to have him dispose of the weapon after the murder. And even he says he didn't see any actual gun, because, he says, he refused to do it. I only met him a couple of times in my life; he is an employee of my mechanic's. He says I recognized him in the street and approached him about this." He worked himself into an exasperated state now. "Do I look so stupid that, after I used a gun to murder someone, I'd just go and hand it over to someone I barely know to dispose of? Put my fate in the hands of a stranger? Do I really look that stupid? If I had a hot gun like that, I'd have disposed of it myself; melt it or toss it in the ocean or something. Wouldn't you?"

  Doc Minus Two nodded his head slowly, never taking his eyes off Patrick's. "And the traces of gunpowder on your jacket?"

  "You better ask Beth about that."

  "Your ex?"

  "Yes. She used to lend my stuff out to her boyfriends. Without my permission, of course. I don't know where they wore it to; went to a shooting range or hunting or whatever. Let me tell you again, I'm not stupid. Even if I were to do something like this in the heat of the moment, I'd know how to dispose of evidence. An hour after I shot anyone, everything I wore would be tossed away. The case the police is trying to build hinges on me being a complete moron. I'm a database administrator, for fuck's sake." He
pointed at his head. "I work with my brain. I wouldn't have made such stupid mistakes."

  "And the mask they found in your house?"

  He pointed an accusing finger at Doc Minus Two. "That — that's was the part where someone got creative. One of your law enforcement buddies. They knew they don't have much to go on, so they went and planted something. Would I keep something like that around after I used it for a murder?"

  "So, not yours?"

  "No! And there were no fingerprints on it, either."

  "Fingerprints don't survive on wool."

  Patrick leaned back against the wall. "So how can anyone be sure it's mine? What do you want from me? I had nothing to do with this I tell you."

  "The police report says you exchanged words with Dominique Lasbrant a few days before the murder. Angry words."

  He spoke softly now, like a broken man would who had lost all hope. "I exchanged words with all of her lovers. One time it even came to blows, but not with Lasbrant."

  "What did you tell him? Stay away from my wife or else? That kind of thing?"

  "No. I said if he wanted her he should at least have the decency to pay for the entertainment. She used to put the restaurants and hotels on our joint credit card. I had to pay for it. Do you know how it feels when you have to pay for it? Your wife is cheating on you and you have to pay for it? Pay for the room they screwed in