Ultra Murder

© 2012 by W. Strawn Douglas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/08/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0667-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0666-2 (e)

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Contents

Book One

Ultra Murder

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Book Two

Synchronicities

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Sensory Perception

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Book Three

Frog Stories

Overseer

All Jacked Up in 2070

Portrait

The Parasite

Case File Review

Authors Note

Book One

Ultra Murder

By W. Strawn Douglas

Chapter One

Back in the old days, the early eighties, you could sit on a park bench and smoke some pot in complete peace. Now the crackheads had moved in, and the police with them. Much had been lost.

This was not the West Bank of Paris, or Jerusalem. This was the West Bank of Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Time had been hard on this unique little neighborhood. Other shops had opened, and closed, their owners moved on. The one constant had been the old hippie vegetarian restaurant, the New Riverside Café. The Riv had in many ways been the community’s hub; its informal meeting place was where revolutionaries could foment overthrow in the non-exploitive company of the feminist brigade, a few day-glow mohawks, and fine dining in the form of brown rice with steamed or wokked veggies. It was a place of great comfort to its people. And now the Riv had closed too.

Nestled between the Mississippi River, and two huge six-lane highways, the people had developed a unique culture, some residents never leaving the comfort of its confines for years. Comfort brought those seeking refuge from the cold winds of distrust and foreignness. Eritrean and Somali Africans migrated in as old-guard hippies moved out. They settled in and took over the HUD-operated apartment towers and did not cower away from the concrete as had their hippie predecessors.

Five concrete towers made up Cedar Square West. The housing project had been the brainchild of Keith Heller. In the late 60s and into the 70s, the hippies had stopped this corpulent rich businessman dead in his tracks as he tried to take over the neighborhood, pave its charm and move on to the next project. The hippies organized, rallied, and conquered Heller. The property was taken over by the federal government entity, the Department of Housing, and the Urban Development Agency.

Thirty floors of the McKnight Tower were now available for college students, immigrants and low—and middle-income tenants. Soon these people began to change the face of the streets below. When once there had been young women in psychedelic tie-dye, there were now African Muslim women clothed from hood to ankle in intricate colorful wraps and dresses. James called them the Psychedelic Nuns.

James Scott McGregor was five foot eight, slim build, and one-sixty pounds of weight. An aquiline narrow face with sharp gestures and curly brown hair, blue eyes. Living on an SSI social security check in Section 8 low-income housing in the tower, he was one of the many welfare cases that made Cedar Square West the ghetto in the sky.

It was a Saturday, the 10th of November, noonish. He awoke, arose from his futon mattress and scanned the panorama of his one-bedroom apartment. His computer sat waiting for him on his desk, a former door. He dressed in jeans, t-shirt, running shoes and vest. He strode to the desk and took a seat in the old grey-green swivel chair. He picked up the inverted Frisbee that served as his marijuana-cleaning tray. He selected a small bud from the bigger stem of buds and began to remove the stems and seeds. He packed the leaves into the brass ‘one-hitter’ pipe. Clenching it in his teeth, he scanned the tabletop for matches or a lighter. He found a pack of matches with nine matches left. He tore one loose and hit its red head on the striker. The flame exploded with a hiss. After the sulfur fuel of the match head was done burning, he touched the flaming stick of paper up to the port end of the one-hitter. He inhaled deeply, and brought the thick pungent smoke down into his lungs. He held this for seven seconds and exhaled. Immediately he began to feel the effect: warmth passed into his brain. A gentle euphoria came over him. A buttery silliness tinged with paranoia.

He lit another match and burned out the last of the green leaf in the pipe, pulling the smoke into his lungs. The effect on his body was minimal. He was already stoned. He found the wonderful euphoria, with its confusion and loss of short-term memory comforting to him, as always.

James pulled a leather Navy pilot’s jacket from the closet. He slid into its cool nylon lining, and zipped it up halfway. It was cool out, but not bitterly cold. The flight jacket would be enough. He stepped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him, and headed down the red-carpeted hall. He waited for an elevator; he looked out the window at the street scene below. To the right was the burned-out hulk of Dania Hall, an old turn-of-the-century theater. Left of that was the Holtzerman Building, with its cheap single rooms and extensive fire escape network just out of sight on its east side. The Holtzerman’s street-level tenant spaces below were occupied by an art supply store and a furniture and futon mattress store.

James considered stopping in to the Artery. I do need some more radiograph ink, he thought, but then disregarded the notion. I’ll get it on the return trip, he decided.

He dug in his pants pocket for a cigarette pack: Rothman Blues.

The bell rang for the elevator. He rode it down, got out, and walked outside in the sun and fresh air. He followed the walkway to the street, noting the security camera and the place where the old walk bridge had once stood. He crossed the street and walked past the Artery, Come to Your Senses, and the bank. Rounding the corner, he soon came upon the Hard Times Café.

A large cup of coffee, please, he said to the counter worker in tank top and Army dungarees. The worker handed him the paper cup, plastic-covered, and moved on to the next customer. Just as he was about to go back out the way he came, he heard a familiar voice.

Hey James, check this out, came the voice of Kermit Suns. I think you’d like to see this.

Hey Frog, what’s new? James joined Kermit, who was sitting at a table. The little man was dressed in a Carhart tan jacket and faded jeans, his knees showing pale skin through ample holes. Kermit’s dark hair was cut short with a thick moustache. A mousy man, he was known for his talents at electronic circuitry. Nicknamed Frog for the similarity of his name to the Muppet show’s Kermit the Frog, he wore his name with pride. Piercings on his eyebrows marked him as one of the West Bank’s newer residents.

What’cha got for me, Frog? asked James.

You wanna be a medical experiment? Frog opened casually. There’s good money in it.

James shrugged. I got enough medical influence on my life. What are the conditions?

They’re looking for schizophrenics. Frog waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. That’s you. What meds are you on?

Four, ten-milligram tabs of Zyprexa.

That’s great, Frog nodded. You can pull in six hundred bucks a month.

James met his eyes. Would I have to go off the Zyprexa? I don’t want to do that.

I don’t know. The ad doesn’t say anything about that. It’s in The Daily in the classifieds.

James sipped at his coffee. So this is your big news, is it?

Not exactly. Kermit/Frog leaned forward and whispered. DJ just got a connection for sheets of prime acid.

How much is she selling it for?

A hundred hits for a hundred bucks.

I’ll bet she’s getting them for thirty in San Fran.

Yeah, but you won’t find a better price in this whole town, said Kermit, leaning back and dropping the whisper.

That may be a good deal. Have you got any of the products? I’d like to try out a few. Can I get a bulk rate price for ten hits?

They’re ‘worlds.’ Little Planet Earths on blotter. I can crack off ten from my sheet. He reached into his jacket and retrieved a wallet. He opened it and withdrew a plastic bag with one three-by-four-inch sheet of blotter paper precut into quarter inch squares and printed with little Planet Earth colored insignias. Each hit had its own world print.

Ten I can do. That’s ten bucks, Kermit handed James a sliver of paper five hits long and two hits wide.

James took the cellophane wrapper off his cigarette pack and put the paper into it. He put it in his jacket pocket and pulled a cigarette out of the pack.

Got a light, Frog?

Yeah, said Kermit. He produced a lighter and a flame popped out. James leaned forward lighting the cigarette and sat back down.

I think I’ve got a ten in my wallet, lemmee see. He pulled his wallet out and found a ten-dollar bill.

Take this and tell DJ I might want a sheet. James got to his feet, jammed his wallet back into his pants pocket and picked up his coffee cup. I’m headed out to the East Bank. Catch ya later.

James strode to the door, gave a final wave at Kermit, and crossed the street to the Triangle Bar. Heading around its west corner, he crossed the next street to enter the parking lot of the Humphrey Center on the University of Minnesota campus. It had modern art in its courtyard and an arched brick doorway. James walked on to the Wilson Library. He turned left, went past the music school, the anthropology tower, and made for the bridge. He stayed on the sunny side, the south side. The gleaming steel of the new museum building shone in the bright sunlight. A cool breeze was blowing.

Graffiti covered the brown-painted panels and glass of the bridge’s contained interior. Cars ran beneath, one deck down. The covered walkway above was a real godsend in winter when windchill factors could reach below zero Fahrenheit.

At the bridge’s terminus, it branched off into three main avenues. Right was the Coffman Student Union Hall, ahead lay Stadium Village, and left led towards Dinkytown. He took the left path, past another library, and chemistry buildings, with Northrop Auditorium to the north. Past the underground bookstore and a few multipurpose brick buildings and into Dinkytown he went. His coffee cup was empty and he lit another cigarette. He walked north past Annie’s, Ragstock, and the Grey Drugstore, crossed 4th Street, and passed the Baskin-Robbins. Bob Dylan had written a song about this very street: Positively 4th Street. Past the pizza parlor to Giocco’s. Go-ko’s, he called it. He peered in and spotted Myron.

Myron was a very small man with grey hair and thick glasses. He worked at the University as a research assistant in the chemistry department. James remembered instantly the conversation he’d had with Myron about hydrazine being used by drag racers on the National Hot Rod Association pro circuit. Hydrazine was one of the components of rocket fuel used in the Nazi rocket plane called the Messerschmitt 163. Hydrazine was commonplace in Myron’s world.

James walked on to Al’s Breakfast. One row of diner stools and standing room only for the next customer was all there was to Al’s. James took his place in line, waiting patiently for a seat to open up. He thought about the last fleeting memory of his dreams before he woke. Something about being in a six-engine seaplane and walking the streets of Copenhagen, Denmark.

He thought about the fall colors in the tree leaves now falling: rich golds and yellows were amongst the greenery. He viewed the uncluttered campus quad with Northrop and the Student Union facing each other, the cool breeze blowing through it all. It was a fine day.

After ten minutes, a seat opened up. He sat down before a plate covered with a thin yellow film of egg yolks and a few toast crusts.

The waitress cleared away the former diner’s plate and returned to take his order.

Three eggs over easy, and hash browns, and a short stack of blueberry pancakes, please.

James surveyed the eclectic collection of mementos and centered in on a portrait designed to look like Da Vinci’s famous painting of the Last Supper of Christ. Six long-haired men and women were gathered in black ink on white paper. It was captioned The Last Breakfast. He thought of those people, now long gone, and how they must have changed over the years. Long gone in days gone by.

Other things on the shelves caught his eye: a can of mace, a sign that said, Tipping is not a city in Russia, several photographs, a Pez dispenser. He noted the credit books on the lower shelves. One could prepay by buying a book, writing a name on it, and one would have credit until the pages of the book were all torn out. A nice convenience.

The waitress delivered his meal. Nice looking waitress, he thought. Young, twenty-ish. He remembered the can of mace and the muscle-bound cook. He watched the waitress’ reddish-long hair, pony-tailed but swinging free. He watched her hourglass figure with a heavy chest, all wrapped up in a grey t-shirt with an apron and low-rise jeans. He looked from his food to the waitress’ backside to his food and back again. His eggs were perfectly cooked, sharing a plate with the hashbrowns. He reached for the ketchup and poured some out onto the hashbrowns. He cut the eggs so that the yolks were trimmed away from the egg whites. He slid the tines of the fork under one of the yolks and lifted the self-contained envelope into his mouth.

He repeated the process until only the hashbrowns and pancakes remained. As he was working on the remnants of his meal, he listened to the radio and snippets of conversation from the other diners. The heroes of New York on 9/11, the new director of hematology and his plans for revamping some tests, an application to medical school, a new boyfriend, a make-up test in biology. He finished off the meal methodically and paid, leaving a dollar tip. He left and glanced into Giocco’s, but seeing only Myron, he started walking back through the campus. He stopped by the physics building and picked up a copy of The Daily, the University’s newspaper.

He turned to the classified ads. There were three ads for medical test subjects. The first was for people with Type-II diabetes. The second was for women who had given birth and had post-partum depression. The last one caught his eye.

It read, New study on monthly medication regimen for sufferers of schizophrenia whose onset predates January of 1997. Requires overnight stay for 24 hours once per month. Compensation is six hundred dollars per month. Program duration is six months. Candidates must apply in person, Rm. 213, Malcolm Moos Medical Center.

He thought for a moment. His SSI check was only $424 dollars per month. Added to his state check of $151, it all came to $675 per month to live on. Another $600 dollars a month would be great, a godsend. That would mean three and a half thousand dollars, over a six-month stretch of time.

The medical center wouldn’t be open for another two days, Monday being Veteran’s Day, a holiday for all state workers, including the University. The real Veteran’s Day was tomorrow, Sunday.

That left him with two days down-time to test-drive this new batch of LSD. Maybe trip tonight, he thought. Gotta talk to the Frog.

He folded the paper, put it inside his jacket, and began to walk back to the West Bank.

As he emerged from the Wilson Library parking lot to peer at the Hard Times Cafe’s multi-colored façade, he noticed Frog still sitting in the window where he’d been an hour earlier. James looked for cars, crossed the street, and went inside.

"Hey