Strange Brew (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 2) Read online

  Chapter 10

  Traffic was fairly light, and running Code 3, we jumped ahead three blocks while the SUV was still stuck at the traffic signal. We were coming up on where Market Street cuts The City into a diagonal. We had two possibilities. The on ramp to I80 was a jumbled jog to the right. Shen decided against it, turning left on Van Ness and into the heart of San Francisco.

  The major thoroughfare cut past City Hall, the Financial District, Nob Hill, and at Russian Hill, Shen took the left on Lombard Street. The crooked part would’ve been a right. Soon, we passed through the Presidio and onto the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “I was thinking this was a wild goose chase,” Shen said. “Are they behind us?”

  I’d been watching the mirrors, and turning around to look out the back of the vehicle. There were lots of black SUVs. None of them seemed to be shadowing us. Shen changed lanes a few times to give me a better angle.

  “I think that’s them. They’re a ways back.”

  “Let me pull a sneak,” he said. “Give Agent Herald a call. Maybe she knows what’s up.”

  I had her on speed dial. Shen took the exit to San Anselmo, which also led to the Richmond Bridge.

  “We’re still on for tonight, right?” Drusilla said in greeting.

  I nearly slapped my head. The blue moon, the conjunction, the Angle Man, that was tonight. “Yeah, we’re good on that. But we’re being tailed by a government rental. Any idea what’s up?”

  “The boys from Fish and Wildlife?” In our last purple binder case, two agents under the guise of US Fish and Wildlife interfered with our case. Or maybe they were actual Fish and Wildlife agents and something had dramatically changed in that government office.

  “No idea. They picked us up in San Francisco. We’re working a homicide, possibly over a stolen record album.”

  Shen rolled along down the right lane toward the Richmond Bridge. I turned in my seat.

  “A what?” Drusilla asked.

  “I see them,” I said to Shen.

  We stopped at a red light. Cars backed up behind us. The SUV lined up with dozens of other cars, and got hemmed into the turning lane.

  “Hang on,” Shen said.

  Before I could, he flipped on the lights and siren. The vehicle crossed over the left lane and leaped over a median, traffic squealing to a stop in both directions on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. Shen bounced the SUV over another median and angled onto the 101 on ramp The SUV was trapped in the line of cars turning right for the bridge.

  He floored it. I smiled. We both knew Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. Not only did it lead to a bridge across the Bay, it led to San Quentin State Prison. Our pursuit would have half a mile to the nearest intersection. They would have to fight through bridge traffic to get into the left lanes to bang that U-turn. All without the benefits of emergency lights and siren.

  Drusilla pattered on all through the insane maneuver. “I haven’t heard any chatter about a record, but I’ll check with my contacts.”

  “Thanks, Dru.”

  I disconnected as Shen sidled into the right lane. Almost immediately, traffic slowed. Up ahead was the 580 merge. “What are you doing?”

  Shen moved to the far right. “Going back the way we came. They think we’re hot to stay on 101. It’s a long stretch before the 37 interchange. I’m betting they think they can catch us. So I’m going the other way.”

  This time on 580, we backtracked past St. Francis Drake and across the low Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. “Next stop: Wine Country,” he said.

  IT WAS A LONG DRIVE north. I took the time to Google The Peerless Scarlet Jack Explosion on my phone. The Wikipedia listing was pretty long, given that the band had released two singles and one LP. Most of it focused on the aftermath.

  “Check this out, Shen,” I paraphrased the information. “Gary ‘Gunmetal’ Gray was institutionalized after trying to murder his fellow band mates Guess what his weapon of choice was.”

  Shen drove through the rolling hills. “Shotgun?”

  “Bingo. He shot drummer Alf Fardel in the foot before the weapon misfired.”

  He bit his lower lip. “Y’know, that’s probably not enough to justify this little pit stop. We don’t want the brass thinking we’re making up for our missed day off. Trip to The City, trip to Wine Country.”

  “We’re just following the leads.” That was lame, and I knew it.

  “You have Vandermoot’s cell phone records, right?”

  I put my phone away and pulled the MDC toward me on its arm. “In my account, yeah. Why?”

  “Do you think our vic was in contact with this Gunmetal Gray character?”

  The Mobile Date Computer booted up. “Because he was on the hunt for this legendary album?”

  “If he was, and he talked about it with other people, it might give them the idea that he actually tracked one down. Kind of a long shot...”

  “There’s a bunch of calls, 707 area code,” I said. That was the area code for Napa. I dialed the number on my cell phone.

  “Napa State Hospital Patient Services, how can I direct your call?”

  Shen and I exchanged a look. “Uh—when are visiting hours?”

  “Eight a.m. through eight p.m.”

  I disconnected.

  “Holy crap,” Shen said.

  “Don’t get too excited,” I said. “I don’t think they gave this guy a day pass to travel all the way to Delta Vista to shoot a guy.”

  “No, what the hippy guy said. The Sixties, acid events, government plants. The band had money to travel the world. We have a vehicle leased by a shadow organization tailing us. What does that add up to?”

  Where was he going with this? “What?”

  “Mind control, Mare, mind control.”

  “Huh?”

  “Back in the day, the CIA did a bunch of projects. You’ve heard of MKUltra, right? They used LSD for interrogation, to create unknowing assassins.”

  “Delta Vista is already crawling with shadow government agents. Do we really need to drag in the CIA?”

  But Shen was on a roll. “Think about it. Who else could track Vandermoot, and scramble burglars to his apartment on a moment’s notice? Maybe Gunmetal Gray is on a watch list. Vandermoot contacts Gray, and the CIA taps Vandermoot’s phone. Once the image of Sonic Lobotomy shows up, boom! they go after him.”

  “That’s incredibly paranoid,” I said. “Do you really think the government has kept track of a record album for more than fifty years?”

  “You’re the one who thinks our vic got whacked over a record. We know Vandermoot made some calls. We know he got murdered just after he sent that text to Zackary.”

  “Based on what, the vague bad vibe memories of an ancient hippy, who was high, by the way—did you pick up a contact high?”

  Napa State Hospital had eliminated the legend “For the Criminally Insane” from the big plaque out front. Image is everything. I watched a lot of criminally insane people wander the grounds. Or maybe they were gardeners. We followed a tree-lined lane to an old, creepy building with tall spires on the ends and in the middle. This was the long-term care facility.

  “You two don’t look like music fans.” The orderly who led us to Gary “Gunmetal” Gray’s room smiled.

  “Does he get a lot of fans visiting?” I asked.

  “A few, but most of those are geriatrics.”

  I described John Vandermoot, and asked if anyone matching the description was a regular visitor.

  “Yeah, he gets a few of those, too. Here we go. Hey, Gary, visitors.”

  Gunmetal Gray had hair of that color, cropped close. He wore superhero PJs. Cold, green eyes scrutinized us as we entered. “I don’t rap to the press about the exploitation of mentally ill musicians,” he said.

  “We aren’t reporters, Mr. Gray.” Shen and I badged him.

  “Damn fuzz. I ain’t talking without my mouthpiece.” He picked up a guitar that leaned against his bed and strummed a few chords.

  “We just want to ask y
ou a few questions about a guy named John Vandermoot,” I said.

  “I’m taking the Fifth.”

  “He was murdered, and it looks like it was over one of your records.”

  He strummed aimlessly. “Huh. Must’ve gone up in value. That’s cool. I got a whole case of ’em in storage.”

  Shen jumped in. “You have a whole case of Sonic Lobotomy?”

  Gray’s strumming faltered, and he dropped the pick. His eyes moved from Shen to me. “That record doesn’t exist.” Gray’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

  On the drive up, I’d re-texted the photo of the album from Vandermoot’s phone to my own. Our witnesses thus far didn’t believe the album existed. I held it out for Gray to see.

  “Whoa,” he said, eyes wide.

  “We know Vandermoot was in contact with you before he was killed.”

  “Whoa,” Gray repeated.

  It was Shen’s turn, and what a turn it was. “We also suspect that Sonic Lobotomy was created under the auspices of the CIA for purposes of mind control.”

  I side-eyed my partner.

  “Whoa.” Gunmetal then surprised us. “You aren’t supposed to know about that.”

  Shen’s brows shot up. I tried to keep us on the track of a murder. “What did you and Vandermoot discuss, Mr. Gray?”

  He seemed stunned, but he answered. “I’ve been rapping with that cat for years about Sonic Lobotomy. He was determined to find one. I kept telling him, there weren’t any. Five hundred pressed, five hundred returned. Records were destroyed, the masters were destroyed. It was an efficient elimination, you dig?”

  “Why were they returned?”

  “Something went wrong with the mastering. When you played it, all you heard was a bunch of pings and beeps and pops, some white noise, like that. There was no music. It was kind of important for a record album to have songs, right?”

  Shen mused. “Pings and beeps?”

  Gray waved the question away. “It was supposed to be subliminal. You couldn’t even hear them in the mix unless you had cans on, and even then only in the far left and right pan.”

  I wasn’t following, but Shen pursued it. “Why did it have those sounds at all?”

  “Mind control,” Gray said. “Brainwashing.”

  Chapter 11

  Shen didn’t give me the I-told-you-so look. He was too intent on the elderly musician. Gray took Shen’s intent look as an accusation.

  “Look, man, you have to understand the times. A bunch of Limeys had co-opted American music and made a lot of bread. They were influencing the youth of America, turning them against the war, against the values we hold dear. I volunteered to change all that.”

  “How?” Shen pressed.

  “Me and the boys were all in the Army. Volunteers, not draftees. We wanted to kill a commie for mommy, shoot some zipper heads for the American Way. But the Army knew we were players, right? So they put a bunch of us in bands. Personnel was moved around until they found the right combo for this combo, you dig? And the Peerless Scarlet Jack Explosion was born: our mission was to infiltrate the youth movement and weed out anti-American sentiment.”

  The speech sounded rehearsed. “Did that work out well for you?” I glanced around the featureless hospital room.

  Gray finger picked the guitar. “We weren’t the first, and probably not the last. The government worried about the youth movement ever since the baby boomers became teenagers. Why do you think Elvis was drafted?”

  I thought we were about to take a crooked road to crazy town, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “They tried to control the musicians directly, but the government cats were too square to get it. They were backing guys like Pat Boone and Fabian, repackaging and spoon-feeding watered down rock n roll pablum to the masses. They had it under control for a while, and rock music, real rock music, died.

  “Then came the British invasion. The kids were turned on, but the hippies, they were subversive. Uncle Sam did not groove on subversion. They needed more direct control, musicians who were part of the scene, not the industry.

  “We wrote songs, played for the troops. Response was monitored. Hypnotic beats, infrasound in the bass lines, disharmonic chords, hypersonic frequencies, enormous volume, we threw in the kitchen sink of any sound that would interfere with the brain. Engineers tweaked everything until it worked as well as it could. When we played out on tour, every city we visited responded with a higher number of armed services recruitment.”

  Shen turned thoughtful. “If it worked so well, why did the Vietnam War remain so unpopular? The Peace Movement went on into the ’70s.”

  Gray nodded to himself. “Our handlers wanted more. They wanted to plant ideas in people’s heads directly. Our shtick worked on live audiences, but it was hard to capture on a recording. Transistor radios can’t reproduce hypersonic or infrasound frequencies, for instance. You can’t cut that into vinyl, either. That’s why Manifestoes was a bust. We tried to put the message in the lyrics, to make the overall album a cautionary tale. You know, if you think this way, you’ll end up in the madhouse.”

  Shen asked, “Sonic Lobotomy was different, somehow?”

  The finger picking stopped. In Gray’s eyes, I could almost see a fire burning. “Yeah. Different. It wasn’t so much a recording session. It was created in a laboratory. We were taken to a hospital, a facility of some kind. They put us in sensory deprivation tanks for days. We were pumped full of drug cocktails, maybe radiation, flashed us with lights, hit us with all kinds of horrible sounds in the dark, gave us shock treatments. Then they made us play. We had EEG spikes in our heads the whole time, and our brainwaves were recorded.

  “Loyal, patriotic American brainwaves were captured to be inserted into anybody’s head. My brainwaves, Eric Rice’s, Andy Darwin’s and...”

  “Alf Fardel,” I said. “The guy you shot.”

  Gray stared right though us, maybe all the way back to the ’60s. “Only half the mix made it to the masters. There was no music on the pressing. They took pieces of us, pieces of our minds, of our souls, and after the screw up, they just dumped us.

  “Our manager, Tom Rathers, told us that what actually came out on the vinyl, the technique of portable brainwaves, put national security at risk. If the Russians got a hold of it, well, I’m guessing they wouldn’t let a production mistake stop them from using the same methods.”

  “Tom Rathers?”

  “A Company man. A spook.” His eyes focused on us. “They scrambled our brains, and left us to fend for ourselves. We’d been sonically lobotomized, and they threw the portable brainwave installation kit in the garbage. We were out on the street and things went a little crazy from there...”

  Eyes went back out of focus. Gunmetal Gray stared off.

  “Did you give John Vandermoot Tom Rathers’ name?” I asked.

  The lights went out in Gray’s eyes. He sat in catatonic stillness. We couldn’t prompt him to say anything more.

  “DO YOU BELIEVE ANY of that?” We headed back to the vehicle.

  Shen beeped the doors open. “He sure seems to believe it.”

  “Gray is obviously way off the deep end.”

  “Yeah, but it fits,” Shen said. “Think about it. If the CIA actually came up with a record that would put ideas in your head just by listening to it? They would either be using that technology, or doing whatever they could to cover it up.”

  “Including tracking and killing anyone who had a copy?”

  “The whole murder over a record was your idea, Mare.” Shen shrugged. “This makes for a lot more motive, and it makes the MO a lot easier to swallow. Hang on.”

  His phone tweedled. Shen stared at it. After a minute, I got in the car. I checked the voice mail on my phone. Records had run down associates of Darren Strathmore and Robert Zackery. Neither of them had any ties to known criminals. Neither had anything more serious than a speeding ticket on their records. There were a ton of reports about the two of them sitting on my desk in the CAPs bullpen.<
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  Shen still stood outside the vehicle, staring at his cell phone. I reached over and honked the horn. He gave me a startled look. It turned angry when he slid behind the wheel. “What was that for?”

  “You’ve been standing there for ten minutes on your damn phone. What the hell is so interesting?”

  He cranked the engine. “I was looking up something called psychic driving. It’s about controlling human behavior with a series of repeated sounds. It was part of the MKUltra project.”

  I thought it over. “So maybe Gunmetal Gray isn’t so crazy after all.”

  Shen backed up and headed down the tree-lined drive. “Looks that way. Although this could still be a murder for a valuable record, I guess.”

  He guessed wrong. I pointed. An SUV headed toward us, and angled to block our way. It wasn’t black, but dark green. I read the legend US Fish and Wildlife on the doors as they opened. Two very tall men stepped out, one black, one white. They dressed like cowboys; dusters, hats, boots and all.

  “Walleye and Stoney,” I said. “What the hell are they doing here?”

  Walleye, Agent Kade Wallace, walked to my side of the car. Stoney hung back by the vehicle, arms folded. I swished down my window. Wallace removed his shades, revealing his mismatched eyes, one blue and one green.

  “You need to end this line of investigation,” he said.

  I frowned at him. “Let me guess—you want to take this case over.”

  He shook his head. “Wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.”

  “Because the CIA?” Shen leaned into our conversation.

  “This thing has roots—deep roots.” Walleye adjusted his cowboy hat. “You need to pursue another angle. Any other angle. Otherwise, I’m sure a suspect will be provided for you.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  Walleye glanced over his shoulder, as if someone could overhear. “These projects have been going on for nearly seven decades. They know how to cover their tracks. Sometimes, they cover their tracks with blood. They are experts at discrediting their detractors. They are experts in extracting as well as implanting information in the minds of subjects. You don’t want to cross these guys. Take it as friendly advice.”