Page 50 of Red Rooster

“Oh. Right. I knew that.” He covered his disappointment poorly. “Well–”

“Trina,” someone said, and she glanced up to find one of the young patrols walking toward her desk, a man in an expensive suit following along behind. “You’ve got a visitor.”

She hitched up straighter in her chair. “I can see that.”

The man in the suit – iron-haired, but well-preserved, upright and fit for this age – stepped forward and offered a large, tan hand for her to shake. “Detective Baskin? I’m Dr. Fowler with the Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology.”

She broke out in goosebumps. If she closed her eyes, she could see Dr. Charles Ingraham’s smiling face, hear his stumbling Russian.

She swallowed and pulled her hand back, hoping Dr. Fowler didn’t notice that it had gone suddenly clammy. “Hello.”

Lanny gave her a sharp look from behind his desk.

“May I sit?” Dr. Fowler asked, motioning to the chair angled toward their pushed-together desks.

Trina had to clear her throat. “Sure.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, doc,” Lanny drawled, his running-interference voice. “But we weren’t expecting a house call.”

The doctor arranged himself in the chair and favored Lanny with a smile that was polite, but cold. “My apologies. I’m sure you’re both very busy, and I hate to disturb” – his gaze returned to Trina – “but I think we might be able to help each other.”

Trina lifted her brows. “That doesn’t exactly sound cop-kosher, Dr. Fowler.”

He chuckled. “No, I guess it doesn’t. I’m sorry, let me try again.” He settled deeper into his chair, hands clasped together on his knee. “At the Ingraham Institute, we’re working on improving health in a number of areas,–”

Sales pitch, Lanny mouthed.

“–working on breakthrough drug studies that would treat both physical ailments…and mental ones. I’m afraid that’s why I’m here.” He looked troubled, regretful. “Several murder cases have made the news recently, all fielded by this precinct – by you and your partner – and, well – I believe I may know who’s responsible for these horrible crimes.”

Lanny held up a piece of paper where the doctor couldn’t see it,holy fucking shitscrawled across it in the blue ink of his favorite pen.

“Friends of yours?” Trina asked.

“Patients,” he said firmly. “Patients who are, to put it bluntly, not in their right minds. They’ve been undergoing extensive psychological evaluation and treatment at our facility in Queens.”

“Treatment?” Lanny said. “What’s that like? Electroshock?”

Dr. Fowler grimaced. “No, Detective Webb. We’ve come a long way since the days of sanatoriums. The patients I’m referring to are in the midst of a drug trial for a new antipsychotic medication. They’re staying at the facility – a safety measure for them and those around them. And, regretfully, they slipped out.”

“So they escaped,” Trina said, voice flat. It was taking every ounce of composure not to betray her mounting panic.

“Yes.”

“Do you have photos?”

“Well,” he hedged. “I’d hoped you’d allow me and my people to try to apprehend them so that they can return to the Institute and get the treatment they need.”

She took a quick, constricted breath. “Doctor Fowler, if this is the work of your patients, this is murder. Whether they’re sent to jail or remanded to your custody is up to a judge, maybe a jury. But it’s not up to me. It’s my job to arrest them and take them into custody.”

“Of course.” He dipped his head. “I understand. Only…”

“What?”

“I hope you’ll be careful.” Something dark flashed in his eyes, there and gone, that left her stomach clenching. “These men are very dangerous. Especially when cornered.” He pulled a white business card from his breast pocket and set it on the edge of her desk. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. I’d like us to work together to rectify this situation.”

“Right,” she said.

He stood. “Pleasure meeting you. I wish it had been under different circumstances.”

“Yeah.”

When he was gone, Lanny said, “Why do you look like you wanna throw up?”

She swallowed hard. “Because I do. The Ingraham Institute? That was founded in 1942, by a doctor who was studying Sasha.”

He blinked. “Let me say it out loud this time. Holy fucking shit.”

“The people who sent feral werewolves to track you,” she said, gasping a little, “are fuckinggovernment funded.”