“God gives life,” Allman said. “Strictly speaking. If you’re a religious sort.”
“A church?” Dixon asked. “Doesn’t fit with drowning the truth.”
“Now there’s a whole other philosophical question,” Allman said.
“Hell with philosophy,” Burden said. “Forget religion. None of that fits. Read the rest. What’s it say? Can’t sink or swim, but you can float?”
“A bath tub,” Scheer said. “Too small to sink or swim in. But you can float.”
Burden gave him a dirty look.
“Hey, I was wrong about the bank. I get that. But what do you want from me? I’m just trying to help.”
Vail held up a hand. “Let’s go with that.” She checked her watch. How much time they had left, she had no idea. “A mud bath. You can’t sink, you can’t swim in it, but you can float in it.”
“No mud baths around here that I know of,” Dixon said. “Back home in Calistoga, but nothing here in the city. You guys know of any?”
Allman, Burden and Scheer shook their heads.
“Wait a minute,” Dixon said. “Float. You can’t sink in a flotation tank. And you can’t swim in it, but you do float because of the salts.”
“Come again?” Vail said.
“Alternative medicine clinics. There are a couple on Mission, I think. They put you in sensory deprivation tanks. You float in heavily salted water for hours.”
Vail shuddered while thumbing her BlackBerry. “That would definitely creep me out. Why would someone want to do that?”
“Didn’t the Trib do a story on that once?” Burden asked.
“A few years back,” Allman said. “When that sort of thing was big.”
Dixon held up her iPhone. “It’s supposed to reduce the levels of stress hormones in the body, according to Wikipedia.”
“There’s the medical angle,” Vail said.
Dixon tapped and scrolled. “We’ve got one on Mission. SDL Incorporated-Sensory Deprivation Lab, 2944 Mission.”
“Let’s go.” Burden got into the car, twisted the key and turned over the engine.
SENSORY DEPRIVATION LAB’S FACILITY STOOD in a nondescript brick building that looked like it had been a remnant from decades past. They entered through worn wood doors and consulted a posted sign that directed them to Suite 201.
Vail held out a hand. “Why don’t you two wait down here.”
Allman tilted his head. “But-”
“There’s no reason for you to come up. This is still an investigation. If we’re on the right track, we’ll let you know. If not, we’ll be back down in a couple minutes because we-and Inspector Friedberg-will be in deep shit.”
Neither Allman nor Scheer appeared pleased with this arrangement-or they were not happy with the prospect of having to keep one another company while they waited.
“I’m gonna go take a walk,” Scheer said.
That answers that question.
Vail encouraged Burden and Dixon to take the stairs, and moments later, they were heading into an office with a scripted “SDL” in gold leaf, above the phrase, Empowering your health through sensory vacuum therapy.
“No one’s vacuuming my senses, thank you very much,” Vail said. “I mean, really? Who thinks that shit up?”
Although the building’s shell and lobby showed its age poorly, the clinic sported high-end granite counters, sleek stainless steel wall accents, and halogen downlighting. “Apparently,” Vail said, “sensory deprivation therapy not only vacuums your senses, but your bank account, too.”
“Can I help you?” Walking up to the front counter was a woman in her thirties, with radiant skin and a natural beauty that Vail instantly found unfair.
“Yes,” Burden said. He stopped and looked at Vail and Dixon, apparently unaware of where to begin.
“We were told to come here,” Dixon said, “by a friend.”
“We certainly appreciate referrals. And who might we thank?”
Vail held up her creds. “Special Agent Karen Vail. Look, Miss-”
“Veronica.”
“Veronica. We’re working a case. And honestly, we can’t tell you why we’re here. But we need to ask some questions and they may seem a bit odd. Go with it, okay?”
“Are these questions about patients? Because Dr. Tumaco set some very progressive rules many, many years ago about the sensitive nature of doctor-patient confidentiality. He was ahead of his time in many ways. I’m afraid we can’t disclose that type of information.”
That name’s familiar. Tumaco. Where’ve I heard it?
“We don’t need patient information,” Dixon said. “We just need you to answer some questions.” She hesitated, then said, “Did someone tell you to expect us? Or-did anyone leave a message for us?”
Veronica shook her head. “I’m sorry-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Unfortunately, neither do we. “Tell us about your facility,” Vail said. “Actually-tell us about Dr. Tumaco.”
“Oh,” Veronica said, her face brightening. “One of the pioneers in the field of flotation sensory deprivation therapy. He first realized the benefit of meditation and sensory attenuation about thirty years ago. The pioneer, John Lilly, started the movement in the mid-1950s and did much of the groundbreaking research on the origin of consciousness.”
This isn’t helping. “Okay, yeah,” Vail said. “That’s great. But I think I may’ve heard Dr. Tumaco’s name before. Any idea why?”
Veronica nodded silently, then took a seat behind the granite desk. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, prompting Vail, Burden, and Dixon to move closer to hear.
“Dr. Tumaco was found in one of his flotation tanks. The police believed he’d been murdered.”
Vail slammed a hand down on the granite counter. “That’s it!” She turned to Dixon and Burden. “One of the old cases Clay gave us. Martin Tumaco. Killed in ’95. Strangled with a life preserver.” She swung her head back to Veronica. “Right?”
Veronica, her head bowed, nodded without comment.
“But wasn’t he found at some other place? Something with ‘dream’ in the name?”
“The clinic’s name was changed when Dr. Tumaco was killed,” Veronica said. “People were freaked out about getting back in a flotation tank after someone had been found dead in one. It hurt the business. So Dr. Tumaco’s wife changed the name, and she changed the focus of the facility from dream and sleep research to a therapeutic-based referral business.”
Dixon gestured with her head for Vail and Burden to join her a few paces out of Veronica’s earshot. They huddled in the far end of the waiting room.
“I think we’re on the right track,” Dixon said. “But-now what? How would the UNSUB know?”
Burden jutted his jaw forward. “That’s a great goddamn question. How did he know when we ended up at the bank? Was he watching?”