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Grasping the trigger lever, he pulled it.
The President's Doll
It started—or at least my involvement in the case started—as a
brief but nasty behind-the-scenes battle between the Washington Police and the
Secret Service over jurisdiction. The brief part I was witness to: I was at my
desk, attention split between lunch and a jewelry recovery report, when Agent
William Maxwell went into Captain Forsythe's office; and I was still on the
same report when they came out. The nasty part I didn't actually see, but the
all-too-familiar glint in Forsythe's eyes was only just beginning to fade as
he and Maxwell left the office and started across the crowded squad room. I
noted the glint, and Maxwell's set jaw, and said a brief prayer for whoever
the poor sucker was who would have to follow Forsythe's act.
So of course they came straight over to me.
"Detective Harland; Secret Service Agent Maxwell," Forsythe introduced us with
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his customary eloquence. "You're assigned as of right now to a burglary case;
Maxwell will give you the details." And with that, he turned on his heel and
strode back to his office.
For a second Maxwell and I eyed each other in somewhat awkward silence.
"Burglary?" I prompted at last, expecting him to pick up on the part of the
question I wasn't asking.
He did, and his tight lips compressed a fraction more. "A very special
burglary. Something belonging to
President Thompson. All I really need from you is access to the police files
on—"
"Stolen from the White House?" I asked, feeling my eyebrows rise.
"No, the doll was—" He broke off, glancing around at the desks crowding
around us. None of the officers there were paying the least bit of attention
to us, but I guess Maxwell didn't know that. Or else mild paranoia just
naturally came with his job. "Is there some place a little more private where
we can go and talk?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, getting to my feet and snaring my coat from the chair back as
I took a last bite from my sandwich. "My car. We can talk on the way to the
scene of the crime."
I was very restrained. I got us downstairs, into the car, and out into
Washington traffic before I finally broke down. "Did you refer to this
burglared item as a 'doll'?" I asked.
Maxwell sighed. "Yes, I did," he admitted. "But it's not what you're thinking.
The President's doll is—" He broke off, swearing under his breath. "You
weren't supposed to know about this, Harland—none of you were. There's
no reason for you to be in on this at all; it's a Secret Service matter, pure
and simple. Left at the next light."
"Apparently Captain Forsythe thought differently. He gets like that
sometimes—very insistent on having a hand in everything that happens in
this town." I reached the intersection and made the turn.
"Yeah, well, this one is none of his business, and I'd have taken him right
down on the mat if time wasn't so damn critical." Maxwell hissed through his
teeth.
"So what files do you need?" I asked after a minute. "Professional burglars or
safecrackers?"
He glanced over at me. "Nice guess," he conceded. "Probably both. We've
checked over security at the—office—and it took a real expert to
get in the way he did."
"Whose office?"
"Pak and Christophe. Doctors Sam and Pierre, respectively."
"Medical doctors?"
"They say yes. I say—" Maxwell shook his head. "Look, do me a favor;
hold off on any more questions until we get there, okay? They're the only ones
who can explain their setup. Or at least the only ones who can explain it so
that you might actually believe it."
I blinked. "Uh..."
"Right at the next light."
Gritting my teeth, I sat on my curiosity and concentrated on my driving.
—
Dr. Sam Pak was a short, intense second generation Chinese-American. Dr.
Pierre Christophe was a tall, equally intense first generation Haitian. Pak's
specialty was obvious; the lettering on their office door
proclaimed it to be the Pak-Christophe Acupuncture Clinic. It wasn't until the
two doctors led us to the back room and opened the walk-in vault there that I
found out just what it was Christophe supplied to the partnership.
Believing it was another matter entirely.
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"I don't believe it," I said, staring at the dozen or so row planters lining
the shelves of the vault. Stuck knee deep into the planters' dirt were rows of
the ugliest wax figures I'd ever seen. Figurines with bits of hair and
fingernail stuck on and into them... "I don't believe it," I repeated, "Voodoo
acupuncture?"
"It is not that difficult to understand," Christophe said in the careful tones
and faint accent of one who'd learned English as a second language. "I might
even say it is a natural outgrowth of the science of acupuncture. If—"
"Pierre," Pak interrupted him. "I don't think Detective Harland came here to
hear about medical philosophy."
"Forgive me," Christophe said, ducking his head. "I am very serious about my
work here—"
"Pierre," Pak said. Christophe ducked his head again and shut up.
I sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. Just how is this supposed to work?"
"You're probably familiar with at least the basics of acupuncture," Pak said,
reaching into the vault to pluck out one of the wax dolls from its dirt
footbath. "Thin needles placed into various nerve centers can heal a vast
number of diseases and alleviate the pain from others." His face cracked in a
tight smile.
"From your reaction, I'd guess you also know a little about voodoo."
"Just what I've seen in bad movies," I told him. "The dead chickens were
always my favorite part."
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