The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 2

Blake Cutter, chief of police of Peachtree Heights, Georgia, pulled his personal vehicle, a steel-gray Dodge Challenger, through the gate of the fieldstone walled-in compound of Dr. Roy Ryan’s residence and clinic.

A gravel drive cut through the slightly overgrown lawn and widened into an apron around a large, rambling wooden two-story home dating to the turn of the century. A pair of outlying buildings on either side of the house represented Dr. Ryan’s office in a cement-block building and a similar structure given over to equipment used for tending to the large yard. It was well known that the late Dr. Raymond Ryan, Roy’s father, had allowed Depression-era patients who were able-bodied but not able to pay his fee to instead work at maintaining the yard and its shrubbery.

That old-fashioned tradition was eventually replaced by Roy and his brother and sister taking over the yard work when they were of high school age. Roy’s grown siblings lived out of state, and were also doctors — of medicine and archeology respectively. But after their father died of a heart attack earlier this year, it was Roy who returned to be in-house gardener and physician. One day, perhaps, his boy Richie would take over the lawn work.

Perhaps.

Cutter knew ten year-old Richie was a Special Needs kid, but pleasant and seemingly sharper than most in his category. Just exactly what Richie was capable of, Cutter wasn’t sure — the chief was friendly with Roy Ryan but not close to the man, who had only moved back home upon the elder Ryan’s passing last year, taking over both the family home and his late dad’s practice, bringing his son along... but not his wife.

The old homestead needed work, probably more than one man — particularly a busy family practitioner — could manage. But Cutter felt confident Roy was up to both tasks. And everyone in town knew the young Dr. Ryan had walked away from a high-paying practice in Atlanta to return to his roots in Peachtree Heights.

Cutter himself was not a native of the place. He was a Georgia boy, all right, if a man of fifty might be termed a “boy,” having grown up in Atlanta where he lived until his football scholarship to Georgia Tech was interrupted by Pearl Harbor. After the war, Cutter had married a New York girl he’d met at the USO there, and wound up with a career in law enforcement. He’d been a captain of homicide when he retired last year, after which he landed this job as chief of police in Peachtree Heights, a town of about 15,000 close to Atlanta but not quite a suburb.

Cutter’s ex-wife Dorrie still lived in the Coca Cola capitol. They were on friendly terms and he was working at getting her back — she hadn’t remarried, which was a good sign, and his two grown kids (Mary and Bill) were on his side. Dorrie hated his profession, the danger, the long hours, and considered her husband a workaholic.

He’d hoped to prove her wrong with his new job, trading New York for a classic American small town, and so far it had been easier, more administrative than anything. He’d taken over from a chief tossed out on corruption charges that had impacted the ten-man force. Cutter replaced most of them with other recent NYPD retirees, assembling a great damn staff he could be proud of. His captain, Leon Jackson, was his solid right hand, although after getting a look at the little town, Leon had asked, “Where are the damn peach trees?”

“They were all killed by a fungus in 1857, Leon.”

“And what’s ‘heights’ about it? I don’t see any damn hills.”

“Lots of towns flatter than a pancake use ‘Heights,’ Leon — way back when, it attracted settlers. You settled here, didn’t you?”

Leon made a big bearded face. “I came for the peaches, boss, but so far it’s the pits.”

Cutter smiled at the thought of that, but knew Leon was settling in just fine.

Four cars were pulled in near the porch — next to each other were a Chevy sedan, dark blue with medical license plates, and a pink Oldsmobile Toronado that screamed money... and a visit from Mrs. Ryan. She was not quite the doc’s ex yet — they were separated — but word around town said divorce was inevitable.

The other two vehicles were Peachtree Heights PD patrol cars, “Serve and Protect” black-and-whites. Each had brought two officers who could be seen right now, walking the periphery, across the lawn, around the outbuildings, along the walls. One might have thought this was a place under siege.

One might not have been entirely wrong.

The chief stepped from the Dodge into the cold, crisp night and took off his tan Stetson, surveying the scene. He wore a black PD windbreaker and white shirt-and-tie with chinos, a Smith & Wesson Model 39 nine millimeter on his hip. The rangy six-footer had only a hint of paunch, his craggy western lawman’s face topped by short, ragged brown hair going white. He had blue eyes on loan from Paul Newman and no idea how impressive he looked. Or at least he wasn’t about to admit it.

He nodded at the nearest of his men, patrolling the grounds, got a nod back, and climbed the four steps to the slightly saggy porch. His knock was answered by Dr. Roy himself, slender but sturdy-looking in a sports coat and Polo and jeans, brown hair cut short, face a handsome, friendly oval, but his dark blue eyes were almost lost under his furrowed brow.

“You all right, Doc?”

Ryan whispered, “I’ve been better. Helen is here. Her hair’s on fire about all this.”

Cutter grunted a laugh. “Maybe you need the fire department not the police.”

The dark blue eyes showed themselves. “Oh, I need the police. I think you know that, Chief.”

Ryan stepped to one side and Cutter went in. He’d been here several times, yet the room was always something of a surprise — the ceiling rose to the full two-stories, with a central open staircase curving to a half upper floor of bedrooms while this chamber seemed like maybe a wall had been torn from between the living room and parlor of what was already a spacious house.

At left was a brick fireplace with an oil painting of Ryan’s late parents above it, when they were the age Roy and Helen were now, smiling from eternity. A once elegant couch faced the fire, waiting patiently for re-upholstery. Here and there were corners with lamps and chairs for reading, and several sitting areas with chairs and two-seater sofas, making many rooms of this one.

An at once magnificent and shabby space, this was a living room designed, unlike most, for actual living. Over at right was a sort of library with lots of books, both medical and popular fiction; but also on the built-in shelves were the modern intrusions of a television and a hi-fi system.

The boy, Richie, was sitting on the floor in his blue and red Superman pajamas, looking up at the TV resting on an adult’s eye-level shelf. He glanced at Cutter coming in, smiled, and waved; the chief waved back and the boy returned to The Amazing Spider-Man on the tube.

Helen was sitting on that sofa in front of the fireplace, where flames were licking and snapping — the night was chill enough for that. She rose as Cutter entered, a stunning woman in her early thirties, almost as tall as her husband, shapely and just tanned enough, with eyes as blue as Cutter’s own and long blonde hair brushing the shoulders of a long-sleeved second skin of a black top and bell-bottom jeans. She wore sandals, a rich hippie.

She looked pissed.

Clearly Cutter had entered mid-argument.

She came over quickly and planted herself before him and said, “You’re Chief Cutter, I take it?”

“I am.”

“These are your men, walking the grounds?”

“They are. I take it you’re Mrs. Ryan.”

“For the moment. Are you a part of this?”

“A part of what, ma’am?”

She frowned; oddly, she was just as beautiful doing so, nothing at all ugly about her but her tone. “Spare me the Dragnet routine. I came down here in good faith, for a reasonable discussion with Roy about arranging shared custody of our son Richard, and what do I find? This... this circus.”

Roy, at Cutter’s side and facing the angry woman, bit the words off: “You can’t really imagine I would, that I could enlist the entire Peachtree Heights police department just to hang onto Richie for a few days while I, what? Cook up some evil plan with a small-town lawyer to go up against your father’s fleet of big-city, big-shot attorneys?”

“You did all right for yourself before!” she said, shaking a fist.

Whoa, Cutter thought. He didn’t know the specifics, just that somehow Dr. Roy had won full custody of his son. Rumor around Peachtree Heights was that the doc’s wife must be wild or something. Maybe on drugs or running around with men. Or, worse, women!

Mad as a wet hen though she might be, however, this was obviously no drug addict, and who she was or wasn’t having sex with was beside the point — her love for her son was clear by the depth of her rage.

Cutter needed to settle this shit down.

“Mrs. Ryan... or would you prefer ‘Helen’? I’m Blake. I’m really not the enemy, and I assure you this is not some crazy scheme to get the best of you in your custody battle. Could you and Mr. Ryan just... sit down for a moment, and let me fill you both in?”

The woman took a deep breath and let it out. She swallowed. Nodded. “Yes. Certainly. And ‘Helen’ is fine... Blake.”

Ryan and his estranged wife deposited themselves on the sofa, leaving a cushion’s worth of space between them. Placing his Stetson and windbreaker on a nearby chair, Cutter put himself opposite that empty cushion with the warmth of the fire behind him. The real heat was coming from Mrs. Ryan, who watched him with skeptical tolerance. Flames reflected and danced on the faces of both wife and husband, as if God or anyway some god were laughing at them.

Cutter began: “Helen, I take it you’re aware of what’s happened in and around Peachtree Heights over the past month and a half?”

Helen nodded. “Three retired doctors have died. Accidental deaths in two cases, natural causes in the other.”

Cutter nodded, slowly, saying, “Died, yes. But not accidents, and not of natural causes.”

She frowned. “You were asked by reporters in Atlanta whether these were murders and your reply was, I believe, ‘no comment.’”

Cutter shrugged. “That was accurately reported. But ‘no comment’ and ‘no’ are two very different responses. We are not anxious to advertise it, just yet... but these are looking like murders.”

She did not seem impressed.

Her husband, however, was sitting forward, eyes narrowed and alert. “Including that obstetrician? Vernon Petersen?”

Again Cutter nodded. “His is the most obvious murder, but our medical examiner has only just confirmed the cause of death. Suffocation. Indications are Dr. Petersen was smothered with a pillow.”

Now Helen’s head cocked and an eyebrow raised. “What about the other two?”

“Dr. Samuel Carter, pediatric surgeon, fell down the stairs. Hard to prove that one’s a murder, but the carpeted stairs do tell a story of sorts — for it to be an accidental death, Carter would’ve had to miss the first three steps entirely, based upon where blood and broken teeth were found, indicating he first hit his head half-way down before tumbling the rest of the way and breaking his neck.”

That made Helen wince.

“As for Dr. Lee Meyer,” Cutter said, “he drowned, all right. And was washed ashore. But his shoulders were bruised, as if he’d been held under water.”

“Are these injuries,” Helen asked, “absolute proof of murder and not accident?”

“No,” Cutter admitted. “Carter could have missed the first step and Meyer might have been bruised by objects in the water. But Petersen’s death seals it. It’s absolutely suffocation.”

Helen’s eyes were slits now. “How can you know that for certain?”

But it was her husband who answered: “Petechial hemorrhaging.”

Cutter clarified: “Red or purple splotches in the eyes, face, neck. Your husband showed you the note?”

She twitched a frown. “Yes. Just before you got here. But... nothing.”

Ryan said, “She thought I was lying. That I made it up! Can you believe this bullshit?”

Cutter held up a gentling hand. He went to his windbreaker and got out the plastic-sheathed note and came over and handed the missive to her.

She read it.

Cutter knew what it said, in cut-out letters from area newspapers and national magazines: NOT JUST A DOCTOR THIS TIME. FIRST THE BOY. THIS IN PAYMENT FOR WHAT THEY DID TO ME.

“How...” She swallowed, thrust the plastic-encased note back to Cutter. “...how do we know an unsigned piece of garbage like that isn’t just... just a goddamn prank?”

Cutter flipped a hand. “To what end?”

She had no answer to that, but asked pointedly, “Why wasn’t I told about that vile note sooner?”

“It showed up in your husband’s mailbox today. We take it to mean it’s a deranged individual with one hell of a grudge against doctors.”

“Doctors in general?” Helen asked. “Or specific doctors?”

Ryan said, “She has a point. Two of the victims are pediatricians. The one last week, an obstetrician. All child-oriented physicians. But I’m a general practitioner. A family doctor.”

“Family doctors,” Helen said, her voice different now, “look after kids. What do you think, Blake?”

“Frankly I’m not sure,” Cutter admitted. Her using his first name was a good sign — she was finally buying in. “But right now we’re checking the cases histories in the files of the three dead doctors and looking for a tie-up, any connection at all.” To Roy, he said, “We’d like to add you into the mix, Dr. Ryan.”

“Anything you need,” he said.

Helen drew in another big breath and let it out. “I suppose I should thank you, Chief Cutter.” The informality of “Blake” was gone suddenly. “And even you, Roy... because you make my case better than I ever could. Our son is much better off in my custody now, for obvious reasons.”

Ryan began, “Helen, that’s not the way to—”

Cutter cut in. “Mrs. Ryan... upon my recommendation, no judge in this state would release your boy from here — for one thing, it might void the current custody agreement.”

“I’ll sign off on that!” Helen blurted. “I’m only thinking of Richard’s safety.”

“If you lived out of state,” Cutter said calmly, “perhaps Richard would be safer with you. But you are in Atlanta, apparently well within the reach of this madman, I’m afraid.”

She was shaking her head, the blonde hair flying. “Peachtree Heights is a small town, Chief Cutter — you have a minuscule force. The Atlanta police are entirely more qualified to—”

Cutter cut in again. “I am a former NYPD captain and I’ve assembled an elite, educated, well-trained and experienced team. Please don’t underestimate our capabilities. But even granting some of your concerns, a judge will understand the situation completely. This compound, walled-in as it is, and with our ability to patrol and guard here, make protecting your son an achievable priority. And if necessary, we have relationships with the Atlanta PD and the various suburban agencies and can draw support from those circles.”

She was sitting up straight now. “And, what? I’m supposed to stay out of this until you say otherwise?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have any choice, Mrs. Ryan. Not unless you want to expose your son to the possibility of extreme danger.”

“I could fight it,” she said tightly. “My father...”

“Your father has money,” Cutter said, “and connections. No doubt about it. If that’s the way you want to go, it’s your prerogative.”

Ryan said, with some acid in it, “For all his wealth and power, darling, your daddy and his legal fleet weren’t able to take Richie away from me before. You said so yourself.”

“Bastard!”

“Bitch.”

Cutter said, “May I make a suggestion? You have an impressionable young man across the room there, watching TV, who I’m sure loves you both and would not benefit from hearing language like that, or seeing two people he loves going at each other’s throats.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Ryan hung their heads.

Roy said, “You’re right.” He looked at her across the endless divide of a single couch cushion. “Honey... I’m sorry. But for now, Richie’s better off here.”

She looked sharply at him. “Then I’m staying right here. With my son. Until this situation is resolved. If he’s safe here, I’m safe here.”

Her husband seemed amused. “You’re comfortable, being under the same roof with me?”

“Oh, you’ll be quite safe from me, and I from you. I’m not about to abrogate our separation agreement, Roy. There are plenty of extra bedrooms here and, with so many police patrolling, plenty of prying eyes to keep everybody honest. And I’m sure any judge will understand my desire to be with my son in these circumstances... don’t you agree, Chief Cutter?”

Cutter, arms folded, grinned at the pair. “I’m quite sure any judge would heartily agree, Mrs. Ryan.” He went over and plucked his windbreaker from the chair and climbed into the jacket. “For now we’ll have four men outside the place, round the clock. We’ll keeps tabs on the phone calls coming in. This character with his newspaper-clipping note doesn’t seem like the telephone type, but you never know.”

As Cutter put on his Stetson, Ryan rose. “You need to put somebody on the phone here in the house, Blake?”

Cutter shook his head. “We can set that up with the phone company.” He got a card out of his breast pocket and a pen from his jacket, jotted his home number down. “If you can’t get me at the PD, call me there. Any hour of the day or night. You have a gun, Roy?”

“No. Not in a house with... a young boy.”

“I understand that concern. But you may want to reconsider in these circumstances. Can you line up other docs to fill in with your patients? I want to keep that gate closed with as little coming and going as possible. You got enough food on hand to stay in for a while?”

Ryan nodded, then walked the chief to the door and asked him, “What should I tell the medics filling in for me?”

“Say you’ve got the flu.”

“That typically doesn’t last longer than a couple of weeks.”

Cutter gave Ryan a hard look. “Let’s hope that’s more time than we need.”