The Key

{c}Copyright 2004 - Bruce Gaughran

Chapter I

"Sir, are you alright?"

Startled awake, Jason opened his eyes and looked up through the pelting rain at two police officers hovering over him. He was feeling downright miserable. Every part of his body including his head hurt like hell. He flicked his tongue several times in an attempt to clear the cotton out of his mouth.

He tried to lift his head, but immediately dropped it back down accidentally rapping it on the pavement. ‘Ouch!’ As he reached up to grab the back of his head, his mind screamed out, ‘PAVEMENT!’ He became dizzy and closed his eyes to keep from getting sick. As the rain became harder, Jason opened his eyes, and this time very slowly looked around. What am I doing in an alley? My God, what has happened to me? He took a deep breath to help clear his head. What is that sickening smell? Another sniff told him all he needed to know. He knew the smell very well from days gone by - he reeked of booze.

But, that's impossible. I haven't had a drink in over a year. Putting his head back down on the pavement, he tried to remember what had happened last night.

“Sir, can you hear me? Can you stand up?”

Shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs, Jason responded, “I think so. Give me a minute to get oriented, would you?”

As he reached up to rub his temples, something fell onto his neck and clinked to the pavement. He twisted his head to see what had fallen – couldn’t see anything, so he rolled over on his side to get a better look. In a shallow pool of water, the same pool he was laying in a moment ago, was a stainless steel necklace with a key attached to it. Picking up the key, he wiped off the mud on his shirt, before studying it. It was a small key - the kind you would use for your safe-deposit box. He flipped the key over and saw letters and numbers stamped into the metal. Holding the key further away so he could read it with his ever-weakening 45-year-old eyesight, he mumbled, "MBT5734." Maine Bank & Trust went by MBT. He should know because he banked at the Harbor branch. But, what the hell am I doing with a MBT safe-deposit key?

"Sir, we need to ask you to stand up right now!"

"Okay, just give me a moment to get my legs." As Jason struggled to his feet, he wondered why one of the officers hadn't offered to help. It was then he noticed that they both had their hands on their guns. "Hold on a minute, guys ... I'm unarmed."

The younger of the two officers was holding a piece of paper and comparing what was on it to Jason. “Male, Caucasian, 6’2” tall, 185 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, 45 years old.” He looked at the other officer and asked, “What do you think?”

The older officer nodded his head and replied, “That’s him, alright.” He looked up at Jason while drawing his weapon, “Are you Jason Seaborne?”

“Yes, what’s going on, officer?”

“Sir, turn around and place your hands on the wall behind you."

With a little anger mixed in with fear, Jason snorted, "No! I don’t want to turn around. Why are you treating me like some kind of a criminal?"

As the two officers leveled their guns on Jason, the one with the paper in his other hand said, "Sir, I don't want to tell you again. Turn around and face the wall!"

Jason got the message. "Okay ... okay ... I'm turning around."

The next thing he knew one of the officers frisked him, cuffed him, read him his rights, and roughly shuffled him into the back of the cruiser for a trip downtown. He tried to make conversation with the officers, but they wouldn't comment or tell him a thing. It was when they both rolled down their windows that he realized how terrible he must smell.

He looked down. His hands were dirty and bruised. His shirt and pants were soaking wet and his shoes badly scuffed. It was almost as if he had crawled through the alley on his hands and knees.

At the station, the two officers guided Jason into an interrogation room and cuffed him to the table. He sat alone in the room for what seemed like an eternity before two men in suits walked in. For several minutes the two men just looked at Jason without speaking. Finally, the younger of the two – perhaps in his early forties – spoke. "Mr. Seaborne, I am Detective Abrams and this is Detective Carlson. Have you been read your Rights yet?"

"My Rights! Yes, I-I-I think so, but why do I need to be read my Rights?

"Well then, just to be safe, Mr. Seaborne, you have the right to remain silent. You have ..." as Abrams read Jason his Rights, Jason went into a daze. Pictures pop into his mind … stopping at the liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine for Tom and Maggie and sparkling cider for himself … arriving at their house around 7:30 … Jeopardy was on the TV and Maggie was spouting out the answers as she prepared the salmon … Maggie handing him a knife and a bag of carrots to chop up.

He paused for a moment considering what took place next. For a moment, everything was a blank, but then slowly more pictures began to form in his mind … there was a knock at the door and Tom excused himself to answer it … Tom yelled something from the hallway … the lights going out … Maggie screaming. After that, he couldn’t remember a thing. He wracked his brain trying to remember what happened after Maggie's scream, but there was nothing.

"Do you understand these Rights as they have been read to you?"

"Am I under arrest?"

"I will ask you again, Mr. Seaborne. Do you understand your Rights?"

"Yes - I think so. Will you now answer me? Am I under arrest?"

The older detective, the one Jason thought was the stereotypical example of a detective with a large pot belly, receding hairline, and a suit two sizes too small and ten years out of fashion spoke, "Mr. Seaborne, you are being charged with the murder of Tom and Margaret Benson. Would you like to ..."

"What did you just say? Maggie and Tom are dead? That's impossible; I was just with them last night."

"Mr. Seaborne, we want to help you out here, but you first need to help us out by telling the truth. Were you in some kind of a drunken rage over something the Bensons had done to you? Is that why you killed them?"

"You're out of your mind! I didn't kill anyone - let alone two of my best friends.” Jason was now indignant. “Furthermore, I don't drink. I haven't had a drink in at least a year."

Abrams shook his head and ran his fingers through his slicked-back black hair. "Mr. Seaborne, will you believe us when we tell you that your denial is a little hard to swallow. First, you couldn't have been with the Benson’s last night. They were killed two nights ago in their home. Second, we have your fingerprints all over the house as well as on the murder weapon. Third, have you smelled yourself? You were not only drunk; you must have taken a bath in whatever rotgut you were drinking. Now, would you care to revise your statement?"

"I'll say it again. I haven't killed anyone and no matter how I smell or look, I haven't had a drink in over a year. Now what do you mean they were killed two nights ago? I was just with them last night."

"Well, Mr. Seaborne, perhaps you haven't been listening. We have all the evidence we need for an indictment. You are going to be convicted of First Degree Murder. We are just trying to give you a chance to tell your side of the story. If you could just explain what the Bensons did to you or what happened that night, it might help us understand why you had to kill them. With the right explanation, maybe we could recommend to the D.A. that you shouldn’t get the needle.

"The needle! What the hell are you talking about?”
Abrams didn’t even pause to listen; he just kept on hammering on Jason. “Or, was it self-defense? Is that what happened, Mr. Seaborne? Were you just trying to defend yourself? Maybe we could plead this down to involuntary manslaughter. But, the only way we can help you is if you tell us what happened."

“I keep telling you, but you aren't listening to me," Jason screamed. "I didn't kill them! They are my friends. I was with them last night. I went to their house for dinner." He dropped his head into his hands and his voice faltered as he reiterated, “I didn’t kill them. You have got to listen to me – please listen.”

"Mr. Seaborne, it is you who is not listening. Tom and Margaret Benson were killed in their home two nights ago,” Abrams looked down at his watch for a moment, “approximately 33 hours ago. You are the primary suspect. Perhaps you were so drunk you slept through the last twenty-four hours."

Jason's thoughts were swimming through his head so fast that he couldn't concentrate on anything the detectives said. Two nights ago – that’s impossible - fingerprints were on the murder weapon – impossible. "My God, was it a butcher knife?"

The comment about the knife got Carlson’s attention and he pulled up a chair next to Jason. "So you remember the knife, Mr. Seaborne. Now we are getting somewhere. Are you ready to tell us what happened?"

"No, you don't understand. I was just helping Maggie prepare dinner. I was cutting up the carrots when the lights went out."

"Good. We are finally getting somewhere. I am glad you’re finally beginning to cooperate. Everything will be much easier after you get this off your chest. Now, how did it happened, Mr. Seaborne; did you blank out or something? Is that what happened?"

"No ... no way. I did not kill them!” Jason realized that he was not going to be able to talk any sense into these two detectives. He needed professional help. "I’m through talking. I want to talk to my lawyer now."


Chapter II

A police officer escorted Jason to the holding cell. The next thing he knew, the officer shoved him into a grimy ten-by-ten cell that smelled worse than he did. He noticed vomit on one bunk and on the floor near the open commode. The smell was enough to make him lose his stomach. He rushed to the commode and threw himself onto his knees, but all that came up was bile that burned his throat. He turned to the sink and with cupped hands drank several gulps of water.

The officer stood just outside the door and laughed. “How do you like your new accommodations? We felt it was an appropriate waiting area for a murderer.” The officer slammed the door shut and the metal-striking-metal sound vibrated through Jason’s head making him nauseous again.

Jason glanced around the cell and recognized it for what it was – the ‘drunk-tank’. He spent a couple of nights in similar surrounding a year or so ago when he was still a lush. He’d forgotten how bad it was in here.

Jason paced the floor - walking from corner-to-corner - the whole time running through everything that he had heard and knew about the situation. The scientific side of his mind kicked in and he logically began to put two-and-two together.

Fact: Tom and Maggie were dead.
Fact: Tom and Maggie were killed two nights ago.
Fact: His fingerprints were on the butcher knife - the murder weapon.

Supposition: Even though he smelled like a drunk, he knew he hadn't been drinking.
Supposition: There was no way he could ever kill anyone - let alone kill his best friends.

Question: Who was at the door that night?
Question: Why would anyone want to kill Tom and Maggie?
Question: Why would the killer or killers leave me alive?
Question: What happened to me the night of the murders and over the next 24-36 hours?
Question: How did I end up in an alley across town?
Question: Why was I holding the necklace and key?
Question: What was the significance of the key; was it somehow related to the murders?
Question: Why can't I remember anything after Maggie's scream?

He realized that the more he knew about the situation, the more questions he had. He also understood why the police believed he was the murderer.

The guard interrupted his thoughts, "Your lawyer is here."

The guard led Jason to a six-by-six windowless room with one small table and two chairs. The guard handcuffed him to the table and left the room without saying anything. After a few minutes, his attorney, Robert Taylor, walked into the room.

"Jason, I couldn't believe your call. What have you got yourself into this time?"

"Bobby, you can’t imagine how good it is to see you. Thanks for coming down. Have you talked to the detectives about this?"

"No, they were unavailable. However, I did talk to the two arresting officers. They were very open and explained that the evidence is pretty much stacked against you. The most damning piece of evidence is your fingerprints on the murder weapon. Jason, I have to step away from being your attorney for a moment and do something very unprofessional. Tell me what happened – you didn’t kill Tom and Maggie did you?"

Jason stared straight into his friend’s eyes before responding. "Bobby, you know me. You have known me for over eleven years. You have seen me at my worst and bailed me out of jail several times. You also know what kind of person I am. Listen to me when I tell you; I could never kill Tom and Maggie."

"I believe you, Jason, but I had to ask. So now tell me everything you know about the murder and how you ended up here."

Over the better half of the next hour, Jason meticulously went over everything he knew including all the unanswered questions he had. Bobby had several questions of his own including what Jason did with the key.

"When I was booked, the police officer took everything from me including my shoestrings - he said he didn't want me hanging myself before the trial."

"Okay, I have a couple of thoughts, but first reassure me that you didn't drink any alcohol the night of the murder or since then."

"Bobby, I swear that I haven't had anything stronger than a Coke or sparkling cider for 373 days. I'm not saying that there weren't a few days that I wished I had a shot of J.D., but 'no' I am clean and I have never missed an A.A. meeting - you can ask John Creighton, my sponsor, if you like."

"I believe you, Jason, but I needed to ask you these things anyway.” Bobby paused for a moment to scratch his balding gray hair while considering everything he now knew about the murders. “Okay, let me tell you how I think I can get you out of here." Bobby went over his thoughts, point-by-point, and ended by asking if Jason had any questions.

"Do you think it will work, even with all the evidence they have against me?"

"There is only one way to find out." Bobby turned and knocked on the door. When the guard opened it, he asked to see the two detectives working the case.

Five minutes later, Abrams and Carlson entered the room. Bobby stood up and shook hands with each of the detectives while introducing himself, “Robert Taylor of Donaldson, Jerret, and Taylor. I am Doctor Seaborne’s attorney. I expect to be present anytime you care to talk with my client. Furthermore, my client is a respected member of the NSA’s Emergency Response Team – the same team that just over a year ago saved millions of lives when that Chinese nuclear submarine melted down right off our coast. I expect that he will be treated with a little more respect than he has been shown so far.”

Carlson sized up the attorney before responding. "That is all well and good, counselor, but all I want to know is whether your client is ready to make a statement?"

"No, not at this time."

"So then why did you drag us down here counselor," asked Abrams with a little impatience in his voice.

"My client wants to take a blood test."

Carlson put both hands on the table and leaned down so that he was less than a foot away from Bobby's face. "Now why in the hell would we want to give him a blood test?"

Bobby could smell the disgusting caffeine and cigarette breath of Carlson, but refused him the satisfaction of moving back. Instead, he moved to within six inches of the detective and replied, "Because it would prove whether he has been drinking or taken any other drugs. Once we have the results of the blood test, we can talk some more."

Carlson shook his head and commented, “It will prove nothing. It has been at least 36 hours since the murder. The alcohol will already be out of his system.”

Bobby thought for a moment before responding, “Yes, and no. First, if he was as drunk as you say he was when you arrested him, he might still have traces in his system. Second, it would also show if he had any other chemical substance in his system – cocaine for example.”

Carlson smiled at Bobby, stepped back to the wall, and then looked over at his partner for a moment. "Okay, let's say we go along with this little game of yours." He scratched his chin for a moment and continued, "And, what if it shows he is clean like he says? That still doesn't explain the fingerprints on the murder weapon." Carlson leaned back against the wall with a smirk on his face.

"You're right, detective, but it will prove that he was sober and drug-free. Schedule the blood test and then we can talk again after the results have come back from the lab."

It was Abrams turn this time. "Okay, and if we do this for you, what will we get in return?"

Bobby had been waiting for this question. "Besides the satisfaction of knowing that you have the wrong man, you mean? Well, yes … Dr. Seaborne will give you a complete statement once we have the results of the test in our hands. Do we have a deal?"

Abrams looked over at Carlson who nodded his head. "Deal."

Abrams grabbed the door handle, but Bobby raised his hand to get his attention. "One more thing, gentlemen, if you don't want this thrown out of court before the trial even starts, I would recommend that you get my client some clean clothes, allow him to take a shower and shave, and put him in a clean cell. Do we understand each other?"

Carlson laughed for a moment as if Jason's initial incarceration conditions were all a big joke, but then became serious before replying, "You bet. We'll keep our end of the deal and you had better keep yours."

Bobby stood up and reached out his hand to Carlson. "Then we have a deal. How soon can we expect to have the blood test taken?"

Carlson winked at Abrams and replied, "You can expect that our secretary will get right on that, Counselor. Does your client need anything else?

"A meal would also be nice, thank you," replied Bobby with his own wink.

"Yes sir," Carlson replied with a mock salute. "We'll have our secretary get right on that also." The two left without giving Bobby another opportunity to reply or request anything additional.

Jason looked up at Bobby and commented, "Thanks, Bobby. What happens next?"

"Now we wait. If they keep their end of the bargain, we should have the lab results back in less than twelve hours. One more thing, Jason, the D.A. will probably arraign you tomorrow morning. If we are lucky, we'll have the results back before then. But, I'll tell you right now, don't expect the judge to let you out on bail. This was a double murder and the D.A. will not want you walking the streets and maybe skipping out before the trial. You're in here for the duration or until we can prove you’re innocent."

If things weren't bad enough, this was crushing news to Jason. He had somehow hoped that the blood test would be enough to get him off. He again realized this was a murder investigation and that he was the primary, and perhaps the only, suspect. If convicted, he might have to spend the rest of his life in prison for a crime he didn't commit.

Bobby saw the change in Jason's demeanor and said, "You need to hang in there, guy. I'm going to do everything possible to get you off. Now I need you to rack your brain and try to remember anything else that can help our case. I don't care how trivial it might seem to you, it might be an important clue to help crack this case."


Two hours after a nurse had drawn his blood, Abrams and Carlson showed up at Jason's cell. Abrams looked at Jason sitting on the bunk and then nodded to his partner. "The results of the blood test are in. You were right, Mr. Seaborne, the test results show that you had no alcohol in your system. But, we did find traces of an illegal substance in your system. How do you explain that?"

"Illegal substance - what substance? Wait a minute; I think my attorney should be here before we talk any more."

Carlson clicked his tongue and replied, "Whatever you want, Mr. Seaborne. But, remember one thing. You promised us a statement if we allowed you to take the blood test."

Thirty minutes later, Bobby sat across from Jason in the same room they met in earlier that afternoon. He didn't say a word as he reviewed the lab results. When he finished the last page, he picked up the report and tapped the edges several times on the table. "Well, this is very interesting, Jason. The good news is that there isn't even a trace of alcohol in your blood. The bad news is that there were trace amounts of Katamine in your system."

"Katamine! What is that?"

"It is also known as 'Special K', a date-rape drug. Do you know how that could have shown up in your blood?"

"Date-rape drug - no way, Bobby! I have never taken anything like that. In fact, I have never taken any illegal drugs in my life. I've heard of something called a 'false-positive' before, could it be something like that?"

"I don't think so, Jason; the lab did their job and ran the test three times. Look, if you're telling me you don't know anything about this, I believe you." Bobby sat back in his chair and his eyes searched the ceiling tiles for several moments before continuing. "I've got an idea. Let me make a couple of quick phone calls. Just sit tight, will you?"

Jason smiled for the first time since his arrest. "I've no where to go, Bobby."

Bobby laughed and commented, "It is good to see that you still have a sense of humor. You're going to need it in the days to come. I'll be right back."

About fifteen minutes later, Bobby returned with a Coke in his hand and a smile on his face. He offered Jason the Coke and sat down. After several moments of silence, Jason couldn't stand it any longer. "Well, are you going to tell me what you are smiling about?"

"Well, I just talked to a criminal psychologist that our firm retains. He said that Katamine is an animal tranquilizer - a very powerful tranquilizer used on horses and large dogs to make them very compliant. He also informed me that it has the same effect on humans. It also causes hallucinations - similar to an out-of-body experience. However, even more importantly, it often results in the user having disassociative amnesia. That is why it is the perfect date-rape drug."

"Amnesia - then maybe that's why I can't remember what happened." Jason sighed and looked intently at his friend and asked, "My God, Bobby, do you think that is what happened to me?"

"Possibly, but I can’t say for sure. But, if you didn't take the drug voluntarily, then maybe someone else slipped it to you. Jason, when you showered earlier today, do you remember seeing anything unusual on your body - something like a bruise that you didn't have before?"

Jason's eyes lit up as he began to unbutton his shirt. "Something like this," he asked as he pulled his shirt down over his right shoulder.

Bobby reached out and ran his fingers along a small circular bruise on the rear of Jason's shoulder. "Yes, something exactly like that. Bobby stood up, opened the door, and said to the guard, "Let's get those two detectives in here now."

As Abrams and Carlson walked in, Carlson warned, "This has better be good, counselor. I'm not used to being yanked around by some 'hoity-toity' attorney. So, what do you have for us?"

Jason watched as Bobby smoothly maneuvered the two detectives along another potential scenario for the murder. Each time one of the two detectives would offer an objection, Bobby would counter it with more facts and suppositions.

While he explained his theory on Katamine, he asked Jason to remove his shirt. "Now, gentlemen, I would contend that someone shot my client with a dart containing this animal tranquilizer. Therefore, he has no recollection as to what happened to him or the Bensons."

"Abrams interrupted and commented, "That is quite a tale, counselor. I would like to see you prove it."

Bobby smiled and replied, "I don't have to prove it, I just have to introduce the theory to the jury, and let the D.A. disprove it." Bobby paused to see the detective's reaction and when he saw the desired response in Abram's eyes, he added, "Did you have the Bensons checked for Katamine?"

Out of the corner of Jason's eye, he saw Carlson's mouth drop open and he knew Bobby was on to something. Abrams glanced at his partner and saw him shake his head. Bobby saw Carlson's response and went on the offensive. "Well, gentlemen, I would recommend that before we continue our discussion that you have the coroner run a blood test on the Bensons. When you have an answer, give me a call. I think you have my number." Jason watched Bobby turn around and sit down in the chair ignoring the two cops. It was the perfect move. He saw the two detectives look at each other - questioning what to do next. After a moment, Carlson nodded to his partner, opened the door, and walked out with Abrams following behind.

Bobby winked at Jason and commented; "Now we wait." After a brief pause he added, "If you believe in God, I might recommend that you pray they find Katamine in the Bensons blood."


Chapter III

In less than two hours, Carlson and Abrams returned. Jason immediately knew something was up by the expression on their faces. Carlson handed Bobby a piece of paper. Bobby studied it for a moment and handed it across to Jason.

"So, both victims have Katamine in their system and both have similar bruises like Jason's. What does the coroner believe was the cause of the bruises?"

Abrams pulled the paper from Jason's hand before he finished reading the report. Abrams leaned back against the wall before replying, "That was a good call, counselor - or a lucky one. Either way, it doesn't make Mr. Seaborne here innocent."

"Would you mind answering my question, Mr. Abrams, what did the coroner believe was the cause of the bruises?"

Carlson could see his partner was getting upset with the know-it-all lawyer, so he jumped in with the answer, "The coroner believes that the bruising and puncture wounds are consistent with a hypodermic needle fired by a dart gun."

Bobby glanced over at Jason and winked. "So, the Bensons as well as my client all have the same tranquilizer in their blood and also have the same bruises and needle puncture wounds. Your theory around the murder would be what ... my client drugged the Bensons before killing them, drove across town several hours later, doused himself with Jack Daniels, then fired a tranquilizer dart into his upper back, and managed to not only remove the dart, but also make it and the pistol disappear before passing out in an alley. Now that sounds pretty creditable to me, detectives. How do you think that will play out in front of a jury?"

Carlson and Abrams' shoulders fell almost simultaneously. Neither said anything for several moments. Carlson eventually spoke up, "Okay, counselor, your instincts were correct. It doesn't appear that Mr. Seaborne is the murderer. However, Seaborne is the only one still alive, besides the murderer, that was in the Benson's house that night, so he is a material witness. Is he ready to cooperate?"

Bobby considered the question before answering. "I am certain my client is more than willing to cooperate with you to help apprehend the killer or killers. First, however, you need to drop all charges against my client and return all of his belongings. Deal?"

"Deal," responded Carlson.

Another hour passed as Jason recounted the evening of the murders. One of the most interesting pieces of information was the lights going out right after Tom Benson answered the door. Abrams excused himself for a moment and when he returned, he whispered something into Carlson's ear.

Carlson nodded and continued to question Jason on what else he remembered that night. A little later, another officer walked in and handed Abrams a note. The detective read the note and handed it to Carlson. After he read it, he slid the note into the file folder on the desk. "Well, Mr. Seaborne, based upon the information you provided, we had a Crime Scene Unit go back to the house and check out the fuse box. You were right. Someone tampered with the fuse box and we have a partial print. CSU is currently running the print to see if we can get a match."

Abrams sat down across from Jason and asked, "Mr. Seaborne, are you aware of any reason why someone would want to kill the Bensons?” When Jason began to shake his head, Abrams added, “Anything - anything at all?"

Jason wanted to know that answer as much as anyone did. He wracked his brain going over everything he knew about the two of them, but nothing came to mind. "I'm sorry; I wish I could be more help. I can’t think of anyone or any reason why someone would want to kill them. I know I keep on repeating myself, but Tom and Maggie were good people."

Bobby, who had been sitting quietly in the corner observing the process, leaned forward in his chair and asked, "What about the key, Jason?"

Jason's face lit up with that question, turned towards the detectives and added, "I totally forgot about the key. When I woke up in the alley, I had a key and neck chain in my hand. It looked like a safe-deposit box key from the Maine Bank & Trust."

Abrams leaned forward and asked, "Where is the key now?"

“It should be in my personal effects envelope.” Jason reached down and picked up the envelope from the floor beside him. Just as he started to reach inside, Abrams leaped out of the chair, jerked it out of Jason's hands and yelled, "Don't touch that!"

"What the hell are you doing? I was just trying to find the key."

Abrams looked apologetic as he attempted to explain, "Sorry, but it is possibly evidence. The key could have fingerprints on it."

Jason shrugged and apologized, "Sorry, I didn't even think of that."

Abrams pulled out a vinyl glove from his coat pocket and slipped it on. He opened the envelope and emptied the contents on the tabletop. Using a ballpoint pen, he separated the chain and key from the rest of the contents and pushed the remaining merchandise back to Jason. The detective carefully picked the key up by its edges and examined it for several moments with Carlson leaning over him.

"Yup, I think you’re right. It sure looks like a safe-deposit box key. You're certain this isn't yours, Mr. Seaborne?"

"Positive - I don't have a pot to piss in - let alone a need for a safe-deposit key."

Abrams slipped the key and chain into another envelope and rose from the table, "I'll take this down to the CSU. Maybe we’ll get lucky."

After Abrams left, Carlson asked, "Any more surprises, Mr. Seaborne? And, I mean that in the most positive way."

Jason looked over at Bobby to see if he had anything else. After Bobby shook his head, Jason looked back at Carlson and responded, "Not that I can think of right now."

"Well, if you think of anything, don't hesitate to give me call. Here is my card."

Five minutes later, while on the way out of the building, Jason slapped Bobby on the back and said, "I owe you, man. I'm buying you dinner - whenever and wherever you want."

Bobby turned to Jason and laughed, "That's not all you’re buying. Wait until you get my bill. You won't be feeling so good then."

It was Jason’s turn to laugh. "Whatever it is, it’s worth it. If it weren't for you, Bobby, I would still be in jail charged with murder. You're the best!"

Jason stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Bobby with a look of shock on his face. "I just thought of something. I don't know where my car is."

"You're right. Maybe the police know. Let's go back in and check. Who knows, it might still be in front of the Bensons, or in the alley, or perhaps it was impounded."

After checking with both the front desk and the two detectives, they located the car at the impound yard and Bobby offered Jason a ride to pick it up.


Chapter IV

His 1974 maroon Volvo was easy to spot at the impound yard. Jason could tell it had been gone over with a fine-tooth-comb, probably by the CSU, because there was dusting powder on the door, windows, steering wheel, and seat belts. He thanked Bobby one more time and after paying the towing charge, he was out of the gate and on his way home in less than ten minutes.

As he unlocked the door to his little cottage, he hit the light switch, but nothing happened. He turned and tried the switch a couple of more times with the same results. He heard a scraping sound behind him, and as he turned, he went down hard and screamed in pain as he grabbed the back of his head.

A voice came out of the darkness, "Shut ya mouth! Not another word or ya’re a dead man."

Jason lay on the floor rubbing the knot on the back of his head. "What do you want?"

Jason buckled over as a boot found his groin. "I told ya to shut up," whispered the voice, but Jason still let out a series of low groans as he rolled around the floor.

"Where is it," asked the voice.

"Where's what," gasped Jason.

This time the boot found his left kidney and Jason screamed out in pain again. "Funny man - let's see how funny ya are when I'm through with ya," warned the voice.

"No … wait," begged Jason. "I'm serious; I don't know what you are talking about."

A hand reached down and grabbed Jason's hair yanking it and his head back as the voice spat, "Where’s the damn key ya took from me?"

Jason was in a lot of pain, but his mind was still working well enough to know not to tell his attacker the truth. "Listen, mister, I don't know what you are talking about? Honest! What key ... my car keys, the house key - take them ... take whatever you want, but please don't kill me."

Jason heard several deep breaths and smelled tobacco in the air. The hand released Jason's hair and he heard a grunt - presuming that the man stood up. "No games. If I even think ya are playin’ me, ya’re dead."

"I'm telling you that I don't know what you are talking about. If I did, I would tell you."

There was a long pause as if the attacker was considering what to do next. "When I dumped ya in dat alley the other night,” he explained, “ya woke up and began to struggle. Somehow, ya managed to grab my necklace. And, just my luck, before I could get it back, a police cruiser parks right in front of the alley." A foot suddenly came down on Jason's throat and he found he couldn’t breath. Jason struggled to free himself by grabbing the foot, but the man was just too strong. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, the man removed it.

Jason rolled around on the floor gasping for air and massaging his throat. A hand once again grabbed his hair and yanked him to an upright position. "Now, are we through playin’ games or do ya want to see what else I can do to ya?"

"No, please don't hurt me any more," Jason begged. "I don't remember a key. When I was arrested there was no key on me."

Another pause while the unseen man considered his options. "If ya were arrested, why did the police let ya go?"

"I'm not sure," Jason lied, "my attorney said they didn't have enough to hold me."

"Well, I’d say ya are one lucky guy. Let's see if ya can stay lucky. The two of us are gonna take a ride. We're gonna check out dat alley. If what ya say is true, it should still be there. Now, get your ass up. But, I'm warning ya now, ya try one thing and I'll kill ya."

As Jason started to rise, he commented, "Don't worry. I'm not stupid."

As soon as Jason was on his feet, the unseen man threw something over his head. Jason yelled, but the man whispered in his ear to keep quiet and not try anything funny. The man grabbed Jason by the rear of his collar and shoved him out the door.

Jason tripped on something, went down hard on the sidewalk, causing his assailant to let go. Jason heard grunts, groans, curses, and yells, but didn't have a clue as to what was happening behind him.

Someone yelled telling Jason to stay down. It didn't sound like the man that attacked him, but he complied - not wanting to risk anything.

Someone ripped the hood off Jason and asked, "Mr. Seaborne, are you alright?"


Chapter V

Jason looked up and saw Detective Carlson standing over him offering his hand to help him up. Jason reached up and allowed Carlson to pull him to his feet. "Yah, I'm fine I think. How did you know this guy was coming after me?"

"We weren't really sure until we checked with the bank and discovered the key you found belonged to Adolph Swartz, a cousin of Margaret Benson. We did some additional checking and found out that Swartz was killed less than a week ago. When we went to the bank, we found fifty thousand dollars in cash, several carrying cases of rough-cut diamonds, and a couple of large rubies and emeralds. We did a little more research, found that Mr. Swartz was a diamond importer, and often stashed his own personal collection in this safe-deposit box. We then assumed that this is what the killer was after. Somehow, you had managed to take the key away from him and we figured he would want it back. So, we staked out your place to see what would happen. Fortunately for you, our hunch was right."

Jason watched as the police cuffed a large, burly man with a pockmarked face and long black hair and led him off to the police car.

Carlson also watched the man walk by and then continued, "When you went inside and didn't turn on the lights we knew something was up. Uncertain as to whether the killer had a gun, we didn't dare break in on him until the SWAT team arrived. Meanwhile, he did us a favor and decided to take you for a ride."

Jason shook his head trying to sort through everything that happened to him over the last three days. "But why would he kill Tom and Maggie. Why couldn't he just steal the key?"

"We're not certain as to what happened, but we now believe that something got out of hand. Perhaps he over-dosed the two of them and couldn't find the key. Or, maybe the tranquilizer didn't work as quick as what he thought it would, and Tom or Maggie put up a fight. We really won't know until we interrogate him ... and maybe we'll never know."

"But why didn't he kill me?"

Carlson shook his head. "Again, we aren't certain, but we think the killer needed time to figure out how to gain access to the safe-deposit box. He couldn't just walk in there. So, he needed someone to pin the murders on while he arranged to rob the lock-box. We might never know the real reasons for the murders, but at least we have the killer – and, we caught him red-handed thanks to you."

After making a statement at the police station, Jason drove back to his house. He brushed his hand through his hair as he considered how fortunate he was this afternoon. So, it’s finally over. What a nightmare. He still found it hard to believe that Maggie and Tom were dead. Dead because of another’s greed.

Between spending a night in the alley, the drunk-tank, the interrogation, and the pummeling from the attacker, he was mentally and physically exhausted. Bed – his own bed – was the only thing on his mind as he unlocked the door. As he entered the house, he automatically reached for the light switch. When nothing happened, he remembered that his attacker must have removed the bulb. He felt along the wall to the living room lamp and switched it on. As he turned around, he froze. Sitting in his old, faded-blue lounge chair was a man with a gun in his hand. The gun, what looked like an automatic to Jason, had a silencer attached.

Jason’s knees buckled for a moment and he almost fell to the floor before catching himself. “Good evening, Mr. Seaborne, please take a seat. We have much to talk about.” The man pointed with the pistol to the red sofa opposite him.

Jason fell into the sofa and found it difficult to generate enough saliva to say anything. “Who are you,” were the only words that came out of his mouth.

The man was smiling when he spoke. “As they say in the movies, I’m your worst nightmare.” The man leaned forward and asked, “Where is it?”

“Where’s what,” Jason automatically replied.

The pistol spit once and the fiber flew from the couch’s backrest next to him. As if reacting in slow motion, Jason’s head jerked to the side, saw the hole in his couch, and dove for the floor. It seemed to be the appropriate response at the moment, but afterwards, as he huddled on the floor, he felt rather foolish.

The man reached over and placed the hot barrel against Jason’s temple. “Now, I’ll ask politely one more time; where is the key?”

Jason flinched from the heat and his body started to tremble uncontrollably, but, at the same time, he knew better than to try to move away from the gun. “I told your partner the same thing earlier. I don’t know where the key is. If I knew I would tell you … really I would.”

The pistol flicked to the left and spit again. Jason cried out in pain and grabbed his right ear. He found the top of his ear shredded. Blood flowed down his neck and oozed out between his fingers.

The shooter tossed him a handkerchief and casually commented, “Next time I will aim at something a little more vital.” The barrel dropped from his temple and pointed at his crotch. “Now, I hope you’re smarter than you’ve acted so far. One more time … and this is the last time I will ask … where is it?”

Jason pressed the wadded-up handkerchief against his ear in an attempt to slow the bleeding. His teeth were now chattering even when he attempted to clench them. One thought came to mind at that moment. If he told this guy that the police had the key, he would be dead. He swallowed back the tears and replied, “Look, as I told your partner, if the key is anywhere, it is in the alley where you dropped me. I told him and I am telling you … and please believe me when I say … I do not want to die. If I had the key I would give it to you.” He now gambled and prayed it would work, “Yes, you can kill me because you don’t like my answer, but it still won’t get you the key. If you want, I’ll go with you to the alley and we can both search for it. Just promise me that you won’t kill me.”

The shooter sat back in the lounge chair and rocked back and forth for several moments contemplating what to do next. The whole time, however, he kept the pistol pointed at Jason. “Okay, Mr. Seaborne, I might be gullible, but I believe you. Why don’t we take a little drive? Tell you what, if we find the key, you can walk away and you will never see me again. On the other hand, if there is no key, you won’t leave the alley alive. Deal?”

Jason believed the man, but the longer he could delay the eventuality, the better chance he had to survive. For the first time since turning on the lamp, he took a moment to size up the man. Jason guessed he was in his mid-30’s. The man had long blond hair pulled back and tied. The guy’s eyes were gray; and when he talked, they showed no emotion at all – almost as if they were dead. The two most striking features were a blond handlebar mustache and a long scar down the man’s right cheek. The scar made him look sinister. Jason judged from the once-over that the man was reasonably fit. He wouldn’t be easy to overpower. One other thought crept into Jason’s mind, because the man didn’t bother to protect his identity, he was probably planning to kill him once he had the key. The thought chilled him to the bone.

While Jason was running through his options, the man tapped the barrel against Jason’s temple to get his attention. “Well, do we have a deal or not?”

Twice today Jason thought he was in an impossible situation, but somehow he managed to survive. Who knows; miracles do happen. Maybe they happen in threes. “Deal.” Jason wondered for a moment how many deals had been made that day that had something to do with his life.

The man rose from the chair and commented, “Good, you’re driving.”

Jason started to rise when he remembered he was still bleeding. “Wait a minute; I need to patch this up.” He pointed with his free hand at the blood-soaked handkerchief wadded up on his ear.

“Okay,” the man responded and then lowered the barrel of the pistol until it was pointing at Jason’s crotch again. “But, don’t try anything funny. I would hate to see you have an accident after we have become such good friends.”

The man followed Jason to the bathroom and watched as he pulled out gauze and tape from under the counter. When Jason asked for help in applying the bandage, the man shook his head and told him he was doing a fine job by himself.


Chapter VI

On the way across town, Jason’s mind continued to weigh all of his options – and, unfortunately, there weren’t many. From the very beginning, something had been bugging him and he knew he had to ask, “Why kill the Bensons? They weren’t any danger to you.”

The man, who had been holding the gun on Jason the entire trip, let the barrel drop slightly and grinned, “You’re a gutsy kind of guy, aren’t you? I normally like that, but today it just might get you killed.” After a brief pause, he laughed and said, “Oh, what the hell. The Bensons were an accident. My partner and I planned to knock them out with the ‘tranq’ gun, roust the house for the key, and if we couldn’t find it, maybe torture the woman a little until the man told us where it was. We also planned to hold the woman hostage until the man went to the bank the next morning and emptied the safe-deposit box.”

The man paused for a moment as if recalling the series of events; then, after a long sigh, continued, “Well, wouldn’t you know it, the tranq doesn’t work as fast as the ‘Vet’ said it would and the guy jumped us. My over-zealous partner then cracks the guy on the head with his gun and accidentally kills him. Then, after we tranq'd the two of you in the kitchen; we couldn’t find the damn key. We brought the woman back around and, wouldn’t you know it, the stubborn old broad refuses to cooperate – no matter how much we threatened her. While I’m off ransacking the house … and, by the way, I did find the key … this broad spits in my partner’s face. The dumb son-of-a-bitch loses his cool and slits her throat.”

The man used his free hand to massage the back of his neck and then ran his fingers through his hair. “So, now we have the key, but we don’t have a hostage or a person who can go to the bank.” The man paused again, “You know something? You just can’t get good help in my line of work. This guy knew we needed the woman alive and he took the spit in the face personal. Next, while dumping you in the alley, he loses the key. And, now the idiot gets arrested!”

“But, why did you try to frame me?”

“Well, I guess you could say you were partially to blame for that stunt.” The man leaned towards Jason as if telling him a secret. “You see, we needed time to figure a way of getting into the bank and emptying the safe-deposit box. We didn’t need any statewide manhunt on our hands. Anyway, while we were considering the options, you wouldn’t shut up and kept babbling on and on about your wife, your boozing days, something about the Omega Factor, all kinds of nonsensical shit.” The man chuckled. “That tranq the ‘Vet’ gave us really makes people talk. So, I decided to make it look like you went off the wagon and in some kind of drunken rage, you killed your friends. We even cleaned up the house real good to make certain no one thought it was a robbery gone bad.” The man sat back for a moment contemplating something, then continued. “And, it should have worked. I’m still not certain what went wrong with that part of the plan.”

Jason knew his tenure on this earth was coming to an end when he turned right and entered the street where the alley was located. He knew he had to keep the man talking until he came up with a plan. “So, once you get the key, how do you plan on getting the safe-deposit box?” He immediately found out that this was the wrong question when the man jammed the gun into Jason’s side with such force that he thought it might have broken a rib.

With venom in his voice, the man spat, “You are one nosey bastard! I am sick of your questions. Now shut up and pull into the alley up ahead.”

Jason’s mind raced trying to figure out what to do. With the gun on him, it was almost impossible to escape. His eyes searched the street ahead for anything that might divert the shooter’s attention long enough for him to escape.

Call it luck, call it the help of a guardian angel, but whatever you want to call it, Jason must have had it today. Turning onto the same street in front of him and heading his direction was a police cruiser. He made a spontaneous decision and knew that if it failed it would get him killed. He floored the accelerator, veered into the oncoming lane and headed straight towards the cruiser.

As the car continued to accelerate, the man stuck the gun up to Jason’s head and screamed, “What the hell are you doing?” A moment later he yelled, “Stop the car … you’re going to get us both killed!”

Jason didn’t back off on the throttle and continued to aim directly for the cruiser. When the car was less than ten feet from the police car, he cranked the wheel to the left, stomped on the brakes, and felt the car fishtail out of control. The passenger side of his Volvo smashed into the oncoming cruiser with such intensity that the shooter’s head whip lashed into the side window.

Initially stunned by the impact, Jason quickly recovered, looked over at the shooter, saw the blood-smeared spider tracks leading out from the man’s head to the edges of the window, and knew he was unconscious or dead. About then, the two police officers, as much in shock as anyone would be from the suicidal attack of the Volvo on their cruiser, climbed out of their vehicle with their guns drawn. “Step out of the car with your hands in the air,” yelled the driver.


Chapter VII

Thirty minutes later, the Paramedic finished patching up Jason's ear under the watchful eyes of Detectives Carlson and Abrams. When finished, she pronounced him as good as new. Carlson, who had waited patiently for the Paramedic to finish her work, leaned down and asked if Jason was ready to talk.

"That was quite the maneuver this evening, Mr. Seaborne. Not only did you manage to total your vehicle, you did a pretty good job of screwing up a new police cruiser. Next time, pick on one that we plan to retire in a few months, okay?" Jason looked up to see if Carlson was serious, but saw the smile and relaxed a little.

Abrams walked over and sat down next to Jason on the rear bumper of the ambulance. He looked over at Jason sizing up the extent of his injuries. "You were lucky twice today, Jason. I don't know how many lives you have left, but you used up two of them today." The detective laughed for a moment, but the smile disappeared quickly. "That was quick thinking, Jason. It was also irrational and suicidal, but quick thinking nonetheless. He was a killer and he wouldn't have let you leave the alley alive. I don't think I would have thought of crashing into a patrol car, but in hindsight it was probably the only way to get out of the situation alive."

Carlson stepped forward and held out his hand in front of Jason. Jason held out of his palm and Carlson dropped the Volvo keys into it. "You should frame these. That old junker of yours saved your life today. Do you need a lift home?"

Jason looked up and smiled, "Thanks. I could use one."

On the way home, Jason told his story. Occasionally, one of the detectives would interrupt to ask a question or comment on something. The more Jason talked, the more exhausted he became. By the time they arrived at his house, he was starting to doze off in the back seat.

Carlson pulled over and shut off the engine. "Doctor Seaborne, would you mind if we accompanied you into your house? I don’t think you want any more uninvited visitors today."

"Did you say, Doctor? That is the first time you used my title. I think you know that I am not a MD, right?"

Carlson turned around and smiled at Jason. "We know what and who you are, Doctor. We also know that you are one hell of a man. Come on; let's go check out the house."