Dead of Night

“I get that,” said Goat, and when Volker cut him a sharp look, the cameraman explained. “After World War Two, after the Allies dismantled the death camps, they found tens of thousands of pages of research material culled from the experiments performed on Jews and Gypsies and other prisoners. You’d think that we’d just chuck all that shit right into the fire. You’d think that we wouldn’t want anything that came from that, um … process, but that’s not what happened. Our government … and everyone else’s, I guess; Russia, England … they took the research on the basis that, despite its source, it was valuable to the overall body of medical research.”

“Yes,” agreed Volker, his stern demeanor toward Goat softening by a few small degrees. “That decision is frequently defended at medical conferences and in papers, because there is strong statistical proof that it has since saved many lives and advanced medical science as a whole.”

“End justifies the means,” said Goat.

“That is the logic.”

“But you disagree with that?” Trout prompted.

“Of course. Or … I did,” said Volker. “It’s confusing, because I have made some questionable choices of my own in order to accomplish my goal.”

“And what is that goal, doctor?”

Volker smiled thinly. “To punish the monsters.”

“How?” asked Trout.

“It became clear that I could not get to Henker. He was very much a prized soldier, and I was a simple army doctor. He was much more important than I was. His specialty was interrogation. Imagine it, gentlemen. Being strapped to a table so that you are entirely at the mercy of a monster such as this. A person who delights in your pain. A person to whom your screams are more delicious than a lover’s whisper. A creature who knows how to keep you alive while he skillfully and meticulously deconstructs those things that define you as human?”

Trout swallowed. As Volker spoke he found that he could imagine it, and it was horrifying. He was one of the people who collected murderabilia. His desk chair once belonged to a mass murderer. He had followed the Homer Gibbon case more out of fascination with the man than empathy for his victims. Now, another window in his mind opened up and he looked through it into the horror Volker described.

“Christ,” he said softly.

“Indeed.” Volker took a breath. “Naturally I did not know that Henker was the killer. Not at first. No … after the police abruptly stopped investigating the case, I continued to look into it. I was very circumspect about it. I am a meticulous man, you see. I followed clues and compiled data until I built a picture of what had happened. I interviewed people—always under some unrelated pretense—and because I was a doctor and a member of the army, people were always willing to cooperate. I used, you see, the atmosphere of paranoia to investigate those murders. I won’t go into every detail. Over the last few months I have written it all down.” He stopped and waved his hand toward a cupboard. “There are several flash drives in there, in a sugar bowl. They lay it all out, and you may have them. You have me saying so right there on your recorder in case there is any dispute.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Trout without enthusiasm. The story was amazing but it was turning his stomach.

“In order to try and get within reach of Henker,” Volker continued, “I volunteered for special services with the Red Army medical corps. I have both the aptitude and patience for research, and I am not a weak-hearted person. I knew that there were special divisions that would require nerve. Every time I thought that I might falter, I held in my mind the crime-scene photos of my sister. It was … very effective. I was accepted. My obvious willingness and my apparent cold detachment served me well in moving up through the ranks and deeper into the inner circles of classified medical research. Soon I was working in one of the more arcane areas of interrogation.”

“With Henker?”

“Not at first. I was sent on research missions to various places around the globe. I spent time in Cuba and was part of a multinational expedition to Haiti. The cover story was that we were studying medicinal qualities of the flora and fauna.”

“Cover story?”

“The truth is that we were looking for a new generation of psychotropic drugs upon which we could build drug combinations useful in interrogation. You would be surprised what nature provides in such areas. I led three expeditions into the Amazon and various parts of the Brazilian rainforests, which are treasure troves for pharmacologists. I became skilled in ethnobotany and related sciences. It amused my superiors that in the course of searching for drugs of warfare we also stumbled on compounds that have contributed significant treatments for a variety of diseases. And there is little government interference in such countries. The biologically rich countries in the tropics are poor in money, thus the rainforests are ripe for exploitation.” Volker spread his hands. “On the books I was a field surgeon, but in truth I was part of the medical team that offered support and protocols for the interrogators. And … from there it was a short step to biological warfare.”

Trout nodded. “You’re here in the states and you have a high security job at a supermax prison. Somewhere up the line the feds have to know your history. Our background checks show that you defected. Why?”

If Volker was impressed by Trout’s knowledge, he did not show it. “I did not defect per se. I was recruited. The CIA had spies peppered all through the Red Army, just as we had spies in the American military. Nature of the game. There is an expression in covert work that a ‘prospect is cultivated.’ It means that there is a process of contacts used to establish trust and look for chinks in one’s political loyalty. I am not political at all. My focus is entirely built around punishment. When my CIA handler finally recognized that, he made me an offer than I quite simply could not turn down. I defected at a pre-arranged time and shortly became an American citizen.”

“I’ll bet the CIA was happy to tap you for information.”

“Very. And it is a scorched place on my soul that the information I shared has almost certainly been put to terrible use. I am well past the point of idealistic trust where I believe that governments only target bad people. That view is absurdly naïve. They drained me of everything I knew. I was offered various positions within the covert scientific community here in the States, but I chose to work in the prison systems. They arranged that for me, with some encouragement to continue my research.”

Trout and Goat shared a look.

Here it comes, Trout thought.

“I was accorded far more freedom than is typical with a prison doctor. My staff was handpicked by my real employers. That was necessary because otherwise there would be too many obvious irregularities … and in truth very little of what I did in the corrections system was regular.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “And that’s what brings me to this moment.”

“Homer Gibbon,” urged Trout.

“Yes. Another monster like Henker. But a monster I could get close to.”

“What happened to Henker?” asked Goat.

Volker gave a short, cold laugh. “He died of prostate cancer. I never laid a hand on him. I never, in fact, met him.”

“Damn…”

“Yes.”

“Gibbon,” said Trout.

“One last bit of history,” said Volker. “But it’s crucial and I guarantee you that it will be worth your time to hear me out.”

Trout nodded.

“Among the projects in which I participated was one intended to create a mind-control drug. I know, it sounds melodramatic, but it’s a common research theme in biological warfare. The goal is to create a compound or pathogen-borne virus that can be introduced into an enemy population and affect brain chemistry. Much of what we know of the therapeutic uses for ethanol, scopolamine, 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, temazepam, and barbiturates like sodium thiopental and sodium amytal have come from bioweapons and interrogation chemistry research.”

“Okay.”

“Our trips to Cuba and Haiti were intended to deepen that research by using combinations of those drugs along with various neurotoxins, particularly tetrodotoxin, which is found in certain species of puffer fish common to that area. At near-lethal doses tetrodotoxin can leave a person in a state of ‘apparent’ death for several days, while the person continues to be conscious. It was our task to create a bioweapon that would render an enemy population inert but alive.”

“I heard about that stuff,” said Goat. “There was a movie about a guy who went down to Haiti to study it.”

“Yes,” said Volker. “Dr. Wade Davis, another ethonobotanist, though not one of ours. He was the first person to determine that it was tetrodotoxin, along with a few other substances, that was used to put a person into a deathlike trance. So deathlike, in fact, that victims were often declared dead by trained physicians and buried, only to be later ‘raised’ from the grave. It’s cloaked in cultural mumbo jumbo, but I assure you that it is very hard science. Science that we developed to a very high degree of effectiveness. Science I brought with me to the United States and shared with your government. Our government, I suppose. And … science I continued to explore as a doctor in the prison system.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Science that I now fear has slipped the leash … science that may endanger us all.”

Trout stared at him. “Wait a goddamn minute … Wade Davis? Tetrodotoxin? Jesus Christ, Doc, you’re talking about fucking zombies.”

A cold tear broke from the corner of Dr. Volker’s eye. “Yes,” he said in a hollow voice. “God help me, but yes … I am talking about zombies.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

STEBBINS COUNTY LINE

Lieutenant Colonel Macklin Dietrich turned to his aides. “Give me a minute.”

The two junior officers saluted and stepped outside to stand in the rain. When the door was closed, Dietrich tapped his headset.