Blood Money
Authors: K. J. Janssen
Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers
Blood Money
By K. J. Janssen
Copyright 2011 by K. J. Janssen
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
BLOOD MONEY
By K. J. Janssen
Contents
FBI Special Agent Susan Harrigan regained consciousness. The duct tape across her eyes and mouth stung. Her hands felt numb where they were tightly bound behind her back. Sue could feel a mattress beneath her, could smell the foul musty odor. Two people walked into the room, a third followed rolling something heavy. They approached the mattress. Hands suddenly grabbed her, holding Sue's shoulders as her clothes were cut off and pulled from beneath her. The coolness of the room caused goose bumps to rise as her body was exposed. She twisted her body in protest, but was ignored. When they finished stripping her she was picked up and carried to a straight-backed chair. With her arms already taped behind her, they lifted Susan and slid them over the back of the chair, locking her in place. The wooden chair felt icily cold against her bare skin, causing her to shudder. Her ankles were taped to the front chair legs, spreading her legs apart.
“That should do it,” one of them said. It was a voice she didn't recognize.
Still another voice spoke. “Good morning, Ms. Harrigan. Let me tell you what this is all about. Simply said, you are here to provide information. To help you do that, I'm going to connect you to a machine that will send an electrical current through your body. Just a few mild jolts at first, nothing you can't handle. Then I'll slowly increase the setting. The idea is to give you a slight taste of what to expect. It won't be anywhere near where I'm prepared to go if you donât cooperate. I've made grown men cry like little babies, begging for me to stop, so don't think of being heroic. You cannot win against my machine. Mind you, I don't enjoy doing this. I don't want to hurt you. I'm just doing my job.”
Susan mouthed “
Nazi,
” but the tape stifled the word.
Ignoring her protestation, he continued, “Now for the specifics. When I am finished prepping you, my boss will arrive. He wants to ask you a few questions. If he is satisfied with your responses, I'll roll my equipment out of here and our little session will be over. On the other hand, if you don't answer his questions satisfactorily, I will have no choice but to take things to the higher level. Trust me when I say you don't want to go there. He will be the one calling the shots, so think very carefully before you answer his questions. Is that understood?” He waited for some sign of recognition. When he saw none, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back and repeated the question, “Understood?”
This time Susan nodded her head.
“That's better. It will go a lot easier on you if you cooperate. You're going to get hurt real bad if you don't. Eventually, you will talk, so I suggest you make the right choice by telling him what he wants to know up front.”
Electrodes were connected to her upper arms and forehead. As this was being done, the men took advantage of the opportunity to brush their hands against her erect nipples. She cringed at each touch, unaware of the boyish grins on their faces.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She braced herself as the current hit. It was brief and mild as he said it would be. It felt like a shock that one might get from a faulty lamp or appliance. The second jolt was identical to the first.
So far, so good.
“Those were just samples,” he said. “The next one will be the real thing. Keep in mind, also, that I may move the electrodes around as we progress. That means that no surface or orifice is off limits to me once I get started, if you catch my drift.”
Susan understood exactly what he was saying. She shuddered at the thought.
He deliberately delayed the next jolt, adding to her anticipation. “Okay, here we go.” Again, a delay.
Then, suddenly the current hit. It was much stronger than she was expecting. As the electricity coursed through her body, Susan Harrigan lost consciousness.
Mark Matthews, a Private Investigator operating out of Centerville, Ohio, came into the world at three p.m. on October 6, 1972. He was born in Kettering, Ohio, the son of academics. His father was a Professor of Romance Languages at the University of Dayton. His mother was a private school teacher for over forty years. She died from ovarian cancer about six years ago. Mark's dad died last year from a massive coronary thrombosis.
Mark was in business as a Private Investigator for around five years. All of his training came compliments of Uncle Sam. He was recruited during his last year at Indiana State University at Terre Haute, where he earned a Masters degree in Criminology. He was told that the Department of Defense needed his talent. That certainly beat military service. Of course, the recommendation of Professor Martin Gross, with his contacts in the Clinton White House, didn't hurt a bit. So off he went to the Pentagon to work on top secret projects involving missing persons. There were four others on the team, two women and two men, all recruited from the graduate programs of their schools. The team was led by Chris Carter, a no-nonsense Air Force Colonel assigned to the Pentagon to manage this wide range of specialists. The code name (every project had to have one) for this group was “Hide & Seek.” The assignments certainly lived up to the name.
Mostly, Mark searched the globe for AWOL soldiers, terrorists, missing business executives and every manner of missing men, women and children assigned to him. His winning percentage was in the eighties, which was extraordinarily high given the cold trails that he usually had to follow. Mark had at his disposal the most up-to-date software and experimental code, supplied by large information services companies looking for government contracts. Most of the software was state-of-the-art.
Unfortunately, all good things eventually come to an end, and as the Clinton years ended the covert activities of the team were turned over to the Bush administration and the new broom swept things clean. They all went off in different directions. Mark returned home to Centerville, Ohio and moved back in with his father. He had a career decision to make.
During the first two months, he had a few interviews with corporations in Dayton and Cincinnati. There was very much interest in his academic and government credentials. Several of the offers were generous, but Mark just couldn't get excited about corporate life. Some of the perks were very tempting, but what he wanted was work similar to what he had been doing for the government. He had gotten used to the freedom and flexibility.
Government pay had been good, and with the money Mark had saved came options. The skills developed over the past four years qualified him for doing private investigations. Mark was certain that he could make a decent living at it. Once again, Mark visited his friend and mentor Professor Gross for some career guidance. Before leaving Indiana he had not only made the decision, but had all the right doors opened to facilitate getting a PI license. Within three months, Mark's office was set up and he started making contacts. He never regretted making that decision. He was one of those lucky people who was able to do work they enjoyed.
Mark's social life was limited since his return to Centerville. Building a business didn't leave much time for meeting women. In this line of work one meets mostly people with problems. He did, however, meet someone two years ago at a private gathering in Columbus. Her name was Cynthia Turnquist. Her father was an Ohio State Senator. The social life that was inexorably a part of the political scene was both time-consuming and tiresome. Most activities took place in and around Columbus, which is a good two hours from Centerville. In spite of his reservations, they became engaged after several months. Then all hell broke loose. Cynthia wanted Mark to give up his business and run for political office. Anyone who knew Mark knew that he had absolutely zero interest in politics. So, that wasn't about to happen. This became a major bone of contention between them, and after three months they mutually decided to end the engagement. Her final words to Mark were, “I feel sorry for you, Mark. You have no idea what a great future you're giving up.” She had that all wrong. He knew exactly what he was giving up, and was glad to do it.
Mark's Private Investigation business grew rapidly. The tri-cities of Dayton, Cincinnati and Columbus are home to many large corporations with large payrolls. Numerous sub-contractors for defense companies have plants and offices in this triangle. Thanks to his experience and exceptional references from friends at the Pentagon, he had no difficulty building a large clientele by performing security checks on prospective executives and office and plant personnel. His checks were more thorough that most. He had a reputation for researching beyond the obvious, often uncovering character flaws and, sometimes, criminal records that the candidate believed had been expunged. He dug as deeply as his skills permitted and submitted the results without any personal judgment on his part. The final decision had to be made by the client. Only once did he highlight questionable behavior of a candidate, needing to assure that that section of the report was not missed. The transgression was for several incidents of indecent exposure. The position to be filled was for a County School Board Administrator.
The Thurston Electronics building takes up one square block in downtown Dayton, Ohio. Even though it is the tallest building in the city, it is nonetheless just a blip on a rather unimpressive skyline so characteristic of small towns in America. Dayton, like so many mid-western cities, was slowly losing population and business to suburban sprawl, foreign manufacturing and business relocations. Thurston Electronics is an important holdout, continuing to employ over 500 people. In appreciation, the City of Dayton has enacted legislation that resulted in a favorable concession on their property taxes. Whatever revenue was lost in property taxes, Dayton recovered through the additional payroll taxes and increased commerce.
Mark was there in response to a message left on his answering machine. It contained only a day, time, address and the name Peter Thurston. In this area of the country, the mere mention of that name was usually enough to catch one's attention. Mark was certainly no exception. He arrived twenty minutes early for the appointment. As he entered the building, a feeling of dread appeared suddenly, causing a shiver through Mark's body.
What was that about?
He had had the feeling in situations before and nothing good ever came of it.
Why now?
Security, as expected at any defense contractor, was extremely high. After checking his driver's license and giving him an electronic wand scan, Mark was personally escorted by an armed guard to a private elevator that whisked them up to the executive suites on the seventh floor. When the door opened, he was met by Peter Thurston's secretary, who bore a very strong resemblance to Jane Hathaway, Mister Drysdale's secretary on “The Beverly Hillbillies.”
“Please follow me,” she said as she escorted him along a lush carpeted hallway towards ornate paneled double doors. A highly polished brass plate on a side panel read “Peter Thurston-CEO.” As they passed through the doors, his secretary, who had not introduced herself, directed Mark to an overstuffed chair in front of a massive mahogany desk. “Mr. Thurston will be with you in a moment. May I get you a beverage while you are waiting? Coffee, tea, water or pop?”
“No thanks, I'm good,” he replied. Once, during a job interview, Mark had made the mistake of placing a Styrofoam cup of coffee on an executive's desk and proceeded to knock it over, spilling it all over his résumé and onto the interviewer's lap. He didn't get the job. Since that incident, he has always declined such offers.
“Very well, then,” she replied, as she made a hasty exit.
The feeling of dread seemed to have abated.
As he looked around the office, it was obvious to Mark that Peter Thurston enjoyed the better things in life. The room measured about 2,200 square feet, which was only slightly larger than his own, but that's where the similarity ended. It was small compared to many other executive offices he had been in, but what it lacked in size it made up with opulence. Abstract paintings were hung every twelve feet along the walls. Mark didn't recognize any of the paintings, but was certain that they were originals and probably very pricey. He never understood modern art, never knowing what he was supposed to be looking at or what to feel.
Thurston's desk was in the center of the floor about three quarters of the way into the office, with the windows as a backdrop. There's a science built around using light and shadow as a “psychological advantage.” It appeared that Thurston was well aware of it. The desk was at least ten feet wide and five feet deep. The only items on the surface were a phone, a small desk lamp, a pen set and two picture frames. One contained a photo of a couple that looked to be in their mid-forties; probably Peter Thurston and his wife. The other was a photo of the same man on a dock standing next to a massive swordfish. Mark mentally calculated how much the decorating cost of this office might come to. The total came to at least $100,000, which was probably a conservative figure. His own office was decorated for well under a thousand.
Mark's mind was somewhere else when Thurston entered the room. Actually, he was busy visualizing what it would be like to have an office like this. Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, Thurston appeared next to his desk. He was a stately man, about six feet three inches tall, with a trim athletic build, weighing in at about 220 pounds. Thurston sported a dark tan, which offset his deep set blue eyes. His full head of meticulously combed blond hair was parted on the right side. A few strands of gray showed on the sides. Mark recognized him immediately as the man pictured in both photographs.
With the exception of large corporate clients, Mark met prospective clients at Denny's, his favorite eatery, so he could get a chance to screen them. This was a necessary precaution in the business. There had been occasions where his services were being sought out by husbands or wives who wanted him to either kill or rough up their partners. At other times, he was asked to perform other illegal acts, often for exorbitant amounts of money. Meeting away from his office gave Mark a chance to reject such offers, and at the same time kept these unsavory people away from his place of business. He often wondered where people got the idea that a private investigator is just hired muscle. He suspected it was from the TV image of Private Investigators.
Peter Thurston, Board Chairman and CEO of Thurston Electronics, was accustomed to meetings on his terms. He was a powerful man with a power office. He insisted on the advantage of being on his own turf. That was fine with Mark. It gave him the opportunity to temporarily enter the world of the very rich and famous, and Thurston was, no doubt, one of the richest and most powerful men in the country. The records showed that he sat on the boards of at least ten large corporations here and abroad, and those were only the ones that were made public. There were probably a few more. At age forty-nine, Peter Thurston was a truly self made man. He was the son of an electrician. He and his father spent endless hours tinkering with electrical gadgets in a garage they converted into an electrical lab. Together, they held ten patents for electrical controllers. It was not surprising, then, that Peter pursued this field academically. He graduated MIT with honors and a Masters in Electrical Engineering. Soon after graduation, Peter partnered with fellow graduate Michael Matthews (no relation to Mark). Matthews was a true genius, a math prodigy with an I.Q. of one hundred eighty four. They developed an innovative missile guidance system, and with venture fund seed money started Modern Electronics, Inc. in 1985. The system came to the market in 1986, and Modern Electronics quickly became one of the prime guidance contractors for the Defense Department. Early in 1987, Matthews was killed in a car accident. Thurston used the proceeds from a “Key Man” insurance policy and some family money to wrest control of the company from the venture fund and minority shareholders. Thurston Electronics has since grown well over fifty times in size. It was on almost all “Fastest growing companies in America” lists that are published.
Thurston wore a double-breasted navy blue pin stripe suit, a pale blue shirt and a colorful Borrelli tie. His weight was well proportioned on his tall frame. Peter Thurston had a commanding presence, but that was not entirely because of his appearance. It was something else, something that came from deep inside.
As he sat down, he said, “Mark, before we get started, I need to set down some ground rules for this assignment. These are non-negotiable.”
There was no introduction. Thurston just started the meeting. His look was stern as he continued, “There are to be no recordings or paper files in your records that connect me with the subject we are to discuss today.” Thurston's gaze was very penetrating. It grabbed Mark's full attention. “Just log your time as consulting for Thurston Electronics,” he continued. “No other specifics. Is that understood?”
? Mark thought.
Am I just overawed by being here?
“Yes, sir, it is. Although I will admit that it is a little unusual. But however you want to handle our business together is fine with me.”
“I think you will understand when I give you all the details,” he said, a bit more softly this time. He leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be measuring his words. “I contacted you because my connections in Washington tell me you have certain skills that I am in need of. I've also been assured that you can be trusted.” He noticed that Mark wanted to speak. “Please do me the courtesy of holding your questions until I'm finished. I'm sure you'll see where this is going in just a few minutes. It is important that you see the big picture.” He leaned forward, opened the top left hand drawer of the desk, took out a red folder and handed it to Mark.
“We're going to be discussing possible corruption at a corporation that collects and distributes rare blood. I sit on the Board of this corporation as one of twelve outside directors. I also happen to have one of those rare blood types, AB-Negative, which is originally how I got involved with them. It's all spelled out in the reports in that file. I need you to become familiar with them before we go any further. Please take whatever time you need.”
He stopped speaking while Mark reviewed the material. He had marked key areas with a yellow marker. The paperwork was mostly technical, with numerous footnotes. Mark was an old hand at reading this type of document, so he knew where to look and how much weight to put on specific data. Most of the file dealt with the origins, validity and practical uses of the ABO blood grouping which had it origins in the early 1900's. The science had made a quantum leap over the last hundred years, especially with the discovery of antigens and antibodies. In the back of the file were financial reports showing income and expenses. Many of the items were boldly highlighted with an orange marker. Mark concluded that this was where they were headed. The financial reports belonged to the National Rare Blood Association (NRBA). Included was a brochure from the National Rare Blood Association or NRBA for short. The NRBA, from what Mark was reading, was the largest collector and distributor of rare blood types in the world. Thurston had written “ninety six percent” on the cover of the brochure, which Mark took to mean that the word “largest” really meant “exclusive.” He wasn't keeping track of time, but at least a half hour had passed before he felt confident enough to discuss the material. Mark was anxious to find out the scope of the project with as few questions as possible. “Mr. Thurston, I think I have a pretty good feel about the blood donation process and blood types, but I'm unclear as to what it is that you expect me to do.”
“It's really quite simple, Mark. I need to know, in greater detail, how the NRBA is spending their money. Notably missing from any of those reports is an accounting of the multimillions of dollars expended for grants and gifts. It's just covered by a single line on the Profit and Loss statements. I sit on a number of “Boards,” so I know that the reports the NRBA is distributing to board members are incomplete. I have officially requested additional information before the last four board meetings, and they have given me one excuse after another as to why the data is unavailable. Logic demands that if you have a total, there must be details to support it. It's really that simple. The NRBA board consists of twenty-five Directors, thirteen inside and twelve outside. The outsiders are mainly for show and for sizeable financial support. Their influence in the operations of the NRBA stops there.”
How ironic
, Mark thought.
Money can't buy everything, after all. Thurston is upset over being denied access
. Mark had no problem with that. He had taken on jobs for more shallow reasons than that. His resistance was slowly waning.
Thurston continued, “I've cancelled my contributions in protest. It was more of a symbolic gesture that anything else. They don't seem to care. Apparently they are more interested in my name. I know deep in my gut that something is wrong.”
The great man had a very obvious character flaw; an over-inflated ego. Again, Mark could live with that. It wouldn't be the first time.
“Mark, my main concern is having my name connected with possible illegal payments, or some kind of money laundering. The way they ignore my legitimate requests makes me very suspicious. I need to see the detailed disbursement records for at least the last two fiscal years.”
.
The puzzle is solved. Or is it?
“Are you saying that you're expecting me to hack into the private financial records of the NRBA?”
“Well, I wouldn't exactly put it that way.”
“How exactly would you put it, Mr. Thurston? Isn't that illegal? I'm sure that you've learned enough about me to know that I won't be involved in anything unlawful. I still have to look at myself in the mirror every morning.”
Thurston sensed the annoyance in Mark's voice.
“Take it easy, Mark. It really comes down to how you look at it. Remember, I am a Director of the company with every right to full disclosure about their operations. That's what I signed on for when I accepted their offer of a directorship. I'm legally and morally bound to protect the Association. I intend to look at those records, with or without you. You decide whether you are with me or not.”
“Before I make any decision, I would like to know how they get away with these alleged irregularities, given their public image,” Mark asked. “Aren't there laws they need to follow?”
“They report to no governmental agencies, but wield enormous power world-wide. Governments look the other way because of the public service they provide. Local blood banks screen all donations, and when they spot a rare type that is on the NRBA list they pass all information about the donor to them. That's how I came in contact with them originally. They contact the donor with a powerful argument for belonging to their group and for donating blood and money. It's a very âlife and death' sales pitch for those with rare types. They now have over 800,000 registrants world-wide. In fact, most blood banks, as a matter of practice, now automatically send all blood on the list to their regional NRBA bank. The âlist' includes the negatives of all blood types, so they have control of over 16 percent of the total blood supply. Their revenues exceed a billion dollars annually.” He paused for a minute. “Getting back to your question, no, I don't see it as illegal. If anything, I see it as obtaining information I have every right to see. You can look at it as a research project if that will make you more comfortable. Another thing, I can't help thinking that an organization with the kind of power they have could pose a potential threat to our national security. You know, Mark, the people I contacted at the Defense Department knew exactly why I asked them to recommend someone. I'm sure that they wouldn't have given me your name if they thought I was going to ask you to work on something illegal. They know all about this. I spelled it out in detail for them.”