No Patent for Murder

Chapter 1

My retirement from the Navy and subsequent move to the resort island paradise of Coastal Georgia started the cosmic wheels in motion. Sure, most every red blooded American male dreams of adventure. I always thought I was as ready for what fate had to offer as the next man. Little did I know I had been selected to be a part of an event filled journey allowing me to rescue beautiful women, to uncover international intrigue, invent new weapons to fight terrorism and to help bring murderers to justice. It makes me tired just thinking about it. It’s the kind of story better told among friends, each with a dram or two of my Grandmother’s Scotch sipping whiskey. Forgive me, but I do believe the story gets better with each telling.

Everything was put into motion very early on a hot August morning, right after my new life as a civilian had begun.

My right hand was rubbing the itchy one-day stubble on the crown of my head and my internal clock was opening the breakers for the pain signaling I was alive for another day. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. Out of habit, I checked the corners of the still darkened room, even while my eyes were in the process of opening. Blinds on the two small windows in the room glowed opaquely from the eerie light cast from the antique street lamps on the street below.

As with most of my stateside days, the daily ritual of a morning shower, a vigorous run and another shower was now beginning. I found myself re-closing my eyes while entering the bathroom and walked naked into the shower. Eyes still closed, I fiddled with the knobs and turned on the water, cold at first, then steaming hot. I moved my body so one scarred shoulder absorbed the needles of scorching heat and then I allowed the other shoulder its own individual massage. Old cuts and holes in this middle aged body hinted there were special memories there for the taking, but I was already focusing on the day ahead and I turned off the water.

I methodically removed most of the water from my body with a washcloth and then squeezed the cloth almost dry with hands made strong from years of exercise and training. A small towel was sufficient to finish the drying process.

I dressed in black jogging shorts, the black ATF tee shirt Bruce had sent me with a letter of introduction and there were fairly new Adidas running shoes on my feet. Part of my morning ritual in the more tropical climates was a light spraying of Deet all over my body and when among civilians, I always wore red flashing lights, attached at the front collar and at the back of my Navy Seal’s ball cap.

I had long believed logistics and efficiency should be demonstrated in all phases of life, whether at peace, at war or even when exercising. Only minimal time was ever allowed for stretching. The warm up for the run this morning began as soon as I had closed the upstairs door and had verified the biometric lock was secured. On the way down the stairs I indulged in a loosening up exercise by rotating my head from side to side, in opposition to the rotation of my shoulders. Bursting out the double doors at ground level and already into a power walk, I kicked high into the air every fourth or fifth step, kicking hard enough for my entire body to clear the ground. I smiled, a little, at the thought of any bystander who ever chanced to see this strange ritual. I continued the walk, walk, walk, walk, kick for another block, almost to the base of the Confederate memorial statue and then glided into a run along the right side of the tiny, shadow filled park.

"Now let’s move," I thought, and willed myself to go faster. My waking body flowed in and out of shadows cast by the streetlights and from the timid yellow hazes issuing from occasional kitchens and back bedrooms. I breathed deeply through my nose and filled my lungs with the nearly cool, ocean dampened air. I ran with confidence… the kind of confidence coming from feeling the breeze rustling past your face. I was running with the sense of awe and power happening every time I stretch my stride or when I skip or lunge or dance my way over around and through potholes, rocks and the scarred places dotting the asphalt.

I knew too soon the exhilaration of the manic soaring sensation would subside and I would settle into the hypnotic rhythm of the run. The morning run was the time when I could just clear my mind and focus on my day or my new life and then the miles would just seem to melt away. I was more than an hour away from my half waypoint. More than two hours away from heaving lungs, the tightened muscles and the real cardio vascular benefit from all this exercise. My schedule calls for a 20-mile route twice a week and a 10-mile distance three times a week. The odd days off included about 30 minutes with weight and resistance training in order to keep my 200 pounds as lean as a bull rider. Today it was over to Jekyll Island and back, the 20-mile trip.

"I’m meeting with Bruce Loggen this morning at 8:00, I was thinking. I looked at my watch. It blinked 5:10. Plenty of time," I thought.

The morning aches and pains were subsiding, now. My body was coming alive. I have always prided myself on having a Sound mind in a strong body. My recent visit with my Grandmother in Scotland had scared me into an even greater resolve to stay active and trim. Strange, I had not remembered how stocky or perhaps even stodgy my relatives had been. I resolved, then and there, to resist genetics and put off the inevitable stockiness for as long as I could.

I had not really measured myself since before Mission Foxtails, but assuming the flesh and blood I left in Southern Iraq took nothing off my height, I must still be somewhere around six foot three. If anything, I’m a few pounds lighter but I surely don’t miss the weight. At first I had been worried seven years at a desk would have promised a lot more body mass, but it had not yet happened.

When I left Norfolk it was with the intent of putting my other God given talents to good use. I had a re-sale license for some unique products, a Private Investigator’s license so I could legitimately follow real cops around and a pocketful of ideas I believed would help law enforcement in their ever-dangerous jobs. I was also bringing with me to my new home a number of patentable ideas and I intended to establish my new home in Brunswick, Georgia… the national headquarters of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. This would put me in constant contact with local and state police organizations as well as ATF officers and the multiple agency transfers from all existing agencies into what is now called the Department of Homeland Security.

I figured I should be able to work without pressure and receive a modest income from my labors. In addition, I was now receiving a retirement check from the US Navy and another bunch of bucks every year in royalty payments for my earlier patents, granted during my military service.

I was thinking about my new life, "My custom live-in office, research facility and limited manufacturing operation," as I rounded onto US 17. I began turning to my right, and a huge sailing ship-like structure rose up in front of me. Great suspension towers with long, sweeping cables glistened with a hint of a rising sun somewhere back behind me.

Things had been running smoothly. I had managed to finish an efficiency apartment on the second floor of an old haberdashery next door to the old Police Department and Jail in a little more than two weeks. The biometric security system on the doors and the glass break and intrusion devices were already installed and had been tested. Later today the security people would put the finishing touches on the CCTV color camera locations. All cameras were pan-tilt-zoom units with alarmed motion sensors built in for efficiency. The outside of the building had been sand blasted and new canvas awnings installed declaring the building now housed a business enterprise called Douglas Concepts. "The name didn’t convey much to the public, but the oversized Douglas Family Coat of Arms was in the center of an artistic flourish on the side of the building and it would draw some attention," I thought to myself.

A patch of fog appeared to be slithering beneath the 200-foot high spectacle of a bridge. I moved across the highway like a wraith in order to face the oncoming traffic, carrying tiny, blinking red warning lights through the mist. I moved rapidly up the steep incline of the East side of the Sidney Lanier Bridge, occupying the center of the wide apron of highway most often used by cyclists. Sweat was running down the back of my neck as I ascended the bridge. The suspension cables were coming alive in an attempt to camouflage themselves with the colors of a glistening new day sky. I had been running about 20 minutes and could notice few signs of any major exertion so far. The Deet was working and the mosquitoes and no-see-ums were all permitting me to exercise un-impeded.

Bruce had set up today’s meeting for 8:00. "The first meeting of the rest of my life," I had thought at the time. I would be talking in generalities with several representatives of Sheriff’s departments from Illinois in the first meeting. Bruce had mentioned they were intrigued about my new baton stick invention. Later today there would be another meeting with the ATF guys on a strictly need to know basis. I didn’t know what the later meeting was about. Bruce was the Assistant Chief of Special Investigations and Security for FLETC and the Department of Homeland Security and he seemed to be giving me some kind of special treatment. It wouldn’t do to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, Bruce came to his current post with a wealth of ATF experience and did I mention he was about the same size as Harry Potter’s half giant friend, Hagrid?

The traffic didn’t seem abnormal to me this morning. Actually, there was no traffic. It was only 5:15 on a Monday morning, and no traffic probably was the norm. As I crested the top of the Eastbound lanes I noticed a car stopped at an angle in the Westbound lanes. The hood of the car was dented and seemed to be pushing at the outside barrier. The driver’s side door was open but there was nobody inside the car. I slowed my pace and my eyes carefully searched about twenty yards ahead of the car and then 20 yards behind the little gray Mini Cooper. I thought I saw someone between the two runs of cables who was crawling toward the concrete retention railing. The person appeared to be attempting to climb, erratically, over the top of the railing. I yelled Hey and saw the person was a woman and she seemed to be startled by my voice. The woman hesitated, then began a frantic, spastic, attempt to scale the low concrete wall. She seemed to be too weak or she was just unable to force her arms and legs do her bidding. She grappled with the railing but pieces of her clothing caught on a connector plate on the concrete.

I leaped onto the top of the concrete center barrier next to a light pole and crossed over to the Westbound side in just a few strides. Before the woman could continue her Quixotic attack on the railing, I had grasped her firmly and pulled her into my arms. She collapsed almost at once, and quit struggling.

What I had in my possession now was nearly a woman. She appeared to be a late adolescent, late teens or early twenties, I guessed. She was clothed, if you could call it clothing, in a flimsy, Victoria’s Secret kind of see through night gown and was wearing a crème colored lace thong. No shoes. No watch. No purse.

I carried her to her car and gently laid her in the passenger seat and reclined it to the lowest catch. Then I checked the ignition, expecting to see keys still inserted and they were. There was also a cell phone in the right hand corner of the dash. Scratches on the dash and a chip on the inside of the windshield glass were evidence from where the phone had obviously been angrily thrown. "In recent minutes," I suspected. The battered phone would not respond to my hurried attempt to call 911.

I checked the glove compartment and removed the registration and went around the car to the driver’s side and got in. There were two other cars coming up the inclined approaches to the bridge, one on either side of the bridge. I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. By the time the Westbound car had reached our position I could see it was a dusty, dented and old Toyota pickup truck. It slowed slightly and then went on. It was possible its two occupants just might be thinking offering a helping hand would not be an acceptable reason to be late for work. The Mustang convertible in the Eastbound lanes didn’t even slow down to look.

I drove to the end of the bridge and did a uey and headed back Eastward, following the signs to the hospital. The dented hood did not seem to affect the alignment of the headlights, or the interior lighting system so while I was driving I checked the registration. After a number of glances between the registration and the road ahead, I was able to determine this car was registered to Olivia Hamilton, who had a Brunswick address. There was a telephone number listed but I figured I should get her to the hospital before trying to get in touch with any family members.

The Brunswick Campus Hospital was only a few miles away and we arrived at the emergency entrance in less than ten minutes. The Brunswick Campus Hospital was a part of the much larger Southeast Georgia Health System and exhibited the kind of architectural chaos often accompanying bureaucracy. The Hospital was a sprawling pink monstrosity set in a mostly residential area, blocks away from main streets in Brunswick. The emergency entrance was around the back of the building and featured a smallish circular driveway approach. There was barely enough space in the driveway for two cars. I parked as far to the left as possible.

I left Olivia Hamilton in her car, still unconscious and hurried inside to seek help. The duty nurse called an orderly to meet me outside with a gurney. We both manipulated Olivia’s body onto the gurney and then back inside the hospital. I supplied the information from the vehicle registration to the admitting nurse. Another nurse stared daggers at the orderly who, up to this time, had been doing some staring of his own at the nearly naked body of the pretty young woman on his gurney. The nurse covered Olivia with a sheet and breaking his concentration. He disappeared somewhere up the hallway. The first nurse must have called security when she realized I had mentioned the word "suicide" and the fact I was not a relative of the patient and further, I had no means of identification. I did notice the nurse had surreptitiously removed the keys to the Hamilton car from out of my reach.

After having completed the admission forms and re-stating most of my information to the night security chief, I asked to use the telephone. The admitting nurse would not permit me to use her phone myself, but she did dial the number for me.

The area 912 number I called was answered at once. A tentative Hello was followed by a pregnant silence. Is this the Hamilton residence? I asked.

What have you done with my sister! Exclaimed the voice on the other end of the line.

I demand to know! Neither statement had been framed as a question.

I sensed I might be late for the very first meeting of the rest of my life.

Chapter 2

I waited another half hour for the troops to arrive. Just as I was about to ask the security chief to re-call the police and emphasize this incident was an attempted suicide, not an automobile accident, the sister arrived.

Over the years I have learned to re-shape my six foot three inch frame and to merge into my surroundings. There was no blending in for me this morning. Sister Hamilton had focused her attention on the man dressed in all black running attire who was sitting off in a corner of the emergency waiting room. There was no doubt she only had eyes for me as she stormed through the doors. I guess if you attempted to mix anger, anxiety, frustration, grief and fear into a single emotion it might be expressed in a semi-loud hiss like the Douglas! sort of aimed in my direction. I nodded and stood to face her onslaught.

How is she? The woman asked, a real question this time. Before I could answer she asked a second question, still in a loud hiss. Where did they put her? Before she could ask a third I gently took her elbow and gestured toward the door.

Do you think it would be better if we talked outside? It was said in my most gentle voice.

She did not resist my hand. However, the speed at which she made her decision to agree was so abrupt she seemed to jump away from my hand and begin moving toward the door, leaving me just standing there.

Somewhere in the thirty feet between the emergency waiting room and where she had parked her car, I could see her gain her composure. It was big and silver and new. Not her composure, her BMW. By the time I had reached her side, Ms. anger, anxiety, frustration, grief and fear had morphed into Ms. Cool, composed and aloof.

Before I could get started on my answers to Ms. Hamilton, the Brunswick police cruiser showed up, with officer James Fields at the controls. He went inside to talk with the admissions nurse. My conversation with Ms. Hamilton continued, with me attempting to answer her previous questions.

I can’t really tell you how your sister is. She was conscious when I first saw her, then she collapsed into my arms. I just brought her here and they took her away to the emergency doctors. It is my impression she will be OK and they have now taken her to a semi-private room on the second floor. It’s all I know. My last statement was made while looking directly at Ms. Hamilton, with questions of my own clearly evident in my inflection and in my eyes.

She seemed to accept my answers at face value. And who are you, Mr. Douglas and what were you doing on the bridge at this time in the morning?

I told you on the phone my name is Patton Douglas. I am new to this area, having just retired from the military. I am starting a new business selling things to law enforcement. As for what I was doing on the bridge, I was out for my morning jog.

Her eyes took in the ATF tee shirt and my ball cap. There was suspicion in her voice when she said, Then you are not with the ATF?

Its sort of a getting acquainted present from one of the ATF guys.

I hear you can’t even buy an ATF tee shirt if you can’t prove you are an active agent and on assignment. Her suspicion hadn’t diminished.

Didn’t know, I said and waited for her to change directions. While I was waiting I took my turn at scrutinizing my opponent. Suffice it to say, she had a nicely turned ankle… as well as some other high quality parts. You could tell she was related to Olivia. Same face, except one of her lovely blue eyes, the left one, was set slightly lower than her right one. She had the same lithe body, only a more mature version and the same short, streaky blonde hair.

Forgive my manners, Mr. Douglas, she said formally. I am Nyla Hamilton, the older sister of Olivia, whom you appear to have just befriended. It was an act of befriendment, wouldn’t you say?

Sounds about right, the way you say it. But from what I saw on the bridge, your sister may need some more help… of the professional kind.

Her manner became stiffened and her speech clipped. What kind of professional are you talking about?

As I began to answer her newest question I heard my name being called from the doorway to the emergency room. A moment please, Mr. Douglas, called out Officer Fields.

I finished my answer to Ms. Hamilton as I turned my attention toward the officer, Psychiatric, or maybe psychological. Perhaps she already is under professional care, I still faced toward the officer, but hesitated before saying, It surely looked like she was under the influence of some kind of substance and I would swear in court she was terrified but yet she was trying frantically to climb over the outside railing on the bridge.

Officer Fields and I met in the driveway between the Mini Cooper and the entrance door. Ms. Hamilton remained leaning on her expensive looking car while a number of people walked by, openly gawking at the striking woman in the adversarial pose. Some of the observers were in nurses uniforms and some obviously were doctors in suits and smocks, ready to begin their morning rounds. To my surprise officer Fields nodded good morning to Ms. Hamilton and she returned a cordial, Good morning Officer Fields.

I was beginning to think this town had more than its share of very young people playing significant roles in polite society. Officer James Fields was wearing a visored hat and carried a note pad. There was a pencil in his slightly pudgy hand and a pen in his short-sleeved uniform shirt pocket. Officer Fields had clearly not lost all of his baby fat when he went through the police academy or whatever indoctrination program Brunswick put its officers through, prior to unleashing them on the public.

I couldn’t tell the color or styling of his hair because of the hat and the visor, but the officer was freckled and complected similar to most redheaded folks. There appeared to be some strain in his eyes as he spoke apologetically. I’m officer Fields. Sorry about the timing. I was just about to go off shift and I had a vehicle accident report to finish up before I could get over here. If we are going to go past 7:00, I’ve got to call in to get overtime approved.

I was worried about my 8:00 with Bruce. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we give the keys to the mini Cooper to Ms. Hamilton so she can have it moved, then you give me a ride to the station office. I just bought the building next door to the city hall. You will be helping me out and I can fill you in on the particulars on the way to the station. This way you might not have to do overtime and I can come close to making my meeting as well. If there are any loose ends we can get together later to finish everything up.

We walked together around the Mini Cooper and Fields produced the keys intentionally moved out of my reach, earlier. Miss Hamilton, he definitely said Miss not Ms. I distinctly heard him. Miss Hamilton, here are the keys to the Mini Cooper. Sorry you had to come out so early in the morning. We are holding off on assigning a case number, unless we really need to do it later.

I’ll take note of your help, Officer Fields. Officer Fields was somehow uplifted by the idea Nyla Hamilton would remember his lack of action on the incident.

Fields said, We’ll let you know if anything changes.

She walked around the BMW and opened the driver’s door. Thanks again, she said and slid into the car. Oh, Officer Fields, would you mind letting me know how I could get in touch with Mr. Douglas if I needed to? Thank you. And she closed the door.

Fields pointed to the white Crown Vic occupying a no parking space along the entrance to the driveway. We continued to walk toward the cruiser. Nice lady, I said in an attempt to elicit conversation from Officer Fields. We parted and got into the vehicle on opposite sides. He scribbled a few lines in his notebook and put it on the seat beside him. He held his hand microphone sideways up to his mouth and reported in to the station. He was station bound and down. 10-4. He didn’t mention to the dispatcher he had Patton Douglas here in the cruiser with him. As he reached to turn the ignition key he started talking about the Hamiltons as if he hadn’t even been slightly interrupted by his routine procedures.

Nyla Hamilton is a real lady. He said it with some emphasis on lady. Ollie, that’s Miss Olivia to most of us common folk is really classy but she ain’t a real lady like Ms. Nyla. It’s a shame. Sassy and classy Ollie has been really hard for Nyla to control. Shit, I didn’t mean control. I shoulda said hard for Ms. Nyla to take proper care of. The girls lost both parents about a year ago. A year ago about now, I suppose. They had all the money in the world and now Ms. Nyla’s got to chase around trying to take care of her baby sister.

Officer Fields shifted his words from conversational to a tone more consistent with interrogation. We were finishing up by the time we reached the police station. Officer Fields had no suspicion of foul play. He had personal knowledge of Ollie’s penchant for elicit excitement and this was not the first time he had visited the Hamiltons with disturbing news about the youngest daughter. Patton suspected there were no incidences involving the Hamilton girl on record at the Brunswick PD., then or now. It must have been what Nyla had been thanking him for, earlier.

I figured buried somewhere in his penciled notes were my office phone and cell phone numbers Miss Nyla had asked him about.

The Old City Hall and the police headquarters building are next door to each other on Howe Street. The two buildings share an alley between them, with the rear of the City Hall opening directly onto the alley. The main entrance to the Old City Hall is on the far side of the building and faces Newcastle Street, the same as the main entrance to my building. I could see the side of my own building when I exited the cruiser. The large Douglas Concepts coat of arms made for a striking sight on the side of the two-storey brick building. The recently installed red and white window awnings with gold trim brought new life to the more than 100 year old structure.

Years ago there had been another building, or maybe two, standing between the Old City Hall and the Douglas Building. The ravages of time probably took the other buildings. Now, in their places, was one in a series of niche plazas typically found up and down the length of Newcastle Street. Other niche plazas held monuments or special plaques describing historical events. This niche was partly usurped with a three-storey elevator addition to the Old City Hall. "There was no stopping the progress of the Americans With Disabilities Act," I thought. An extensive lawn with a huge oak tree fronting Newcastle was all there was left in the plain looking niche next to my building.

As I jaywalked behind the Old City Hall and across the lawn toward the front of my building I noticed one of the limbs from the monster sized oak tree extended in front of my building, a little higher than the windows and about three feet lower than the top of the front ridge of the roofline. I made a mental note to re-configure my security system to accommodate the limb as a possible point of entry or exit to the building.

I pressed my hand to a dark gray plate nearly hidden behind a hardened plastic cover. The plate exhibited the Douglas Coat of Arms. The doors to the building were always locked. Although Douglas Concepts’ actual profit center was the sale of personal armaments, we were actually profiting from our unique products and inventions. It was unlikely we would ever have large amounts of cash on hand. However we would always be in some secret phase of product ideation, design or prototyping on the premises.

There was about a two second delay between the time the computers had read my palm and the outward opening of the door. I went through the door and it shut and locked behind me. I was now in a small cubicle featuring video cameras at the front and rear of the cubicle. They were at ceiling height and out of the reach of normal humans. As soon as I had heard the lock engaging behind me another door opened into the main building. I re-entered the building to a unique greeting. Welcome to Douglas Concepts where we work in harmony with the universe and support world peace, seemed to come from both sides of the room. The temporary greeting is in a sultry voice of a woman with an accent from the deep South.

Shen Chen, whose business cards read Shenzhen Chen, Number One Boy was responsible for the welcome. Our biometric security system was also tied into a visual recognition system and after the system acquires enough data points to permit recognition, Shen Chen programmed the audio to be able to play person specific greetings. He said the main reason for such a greeting was so whenever he was loafing in a container in the back he could tell when I came into the building and he could pretend to be working by the time I got to his workspace. I told him it was a good thing I hired him for his sense of humor instead of his ability and intelligence.

We have had no customers so far and the only people who have passed through our doors have been construction workers and security technicians. When Shen Chen put together the temporary greeting as a test of the system I tentatively gave my go ahead. We can change it later if we ever need to impress some million dollar client, I had told him.

Seconds were slipping by. I crossed the waiting room and official office area and turned right at the paired staircases going upward to the apartments. I thought, "There would be no harmony in my universe if I didn’t get my act together and get to FLETC in a hurry." I had always prided myself on punctuality and held the belief that tardiness demonstrated both a lack of personal discipline and a lack of respect for the appointee. I rushed into my apartment and hung my cap on one of the hooks inside the door, next to my bucket hat. I removed my running shoes then placed them deliberately into their slot in the row of running shoes beneath my bed. I kept five separate pairs of running shoes and rotated them on a daily basis. I had never experienced a problem with either foot odor or fungus. The system worked, why change it?

I completely stripped down and tossed the soiled running clothes into