Weapon of Opportunity
Part Five: A Willing Pupil
Mac woke up with a mild start when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. "Wha…?"
A voice came out of the warm darkness. "It's just me, Mac. It's Pete."
"Oh ... what's going on?" Mac sat up and noticed the clock on his nightstand. The digital readout said 11:25 a.m. He bolted upright in a panic. The curtains had been drawn to block out the midday sunlight. "Why'd you let me sleep for so long? Where's Mahey?"
"Relax, Mac. I spoke to Mahey earlier; he's on his way here but he had something he had to do first. You needed the rest, anyway."
Mac winced as Pete's words sank in. "'Something he had to do first'... don't tell me ... the killer struck again last night!"
"No, not that!" Pete said quickly. He patted Mac's shoulder. "I know, I was a little worried when he called to say he'd be delayed. He had a court appearance this morning. He should be here shortly. I told him your theory, by the way. He said he was ... 'intrigued by the prospect'."
Mac flopped back down on the bed in an excess of relief, throwing one arm over his face. He sighed, then peeked at Pete from under his elbow. "'Intrigued by the prospect', eh? Well, I'm intrigued to see how this pans out myself." Mac rose with a groan and stretched, wishing he could go for a run to wake up properly.
"I also sent for some things that I thought you might need," Pete added. He pointed to the table, which had been tidied up, papers straightened and folders neatly stacked and set aside. A tray covered with a napkin sat on the desk as well, and beside it lay a battered knapsack.
Mac picked up the knapsack with a grin. "My old friend!" Looking inside, he found a pair of binoculars, a compass, and a roll of duct tape. Then he lifted the corner of the napkin and found that Pete had also sent for some food. His stomach urgently demanded his attention for the next ten minutes.
The paint that they used on the walls in the Institute resembled melted vanilla ice cream. Winder always tried to avoid touching anything because he was sure that it would be as sticky as it looked. The floors, worn but spotlessly clean, were tiled and the color of pistachio. Someone else might have called it 'avocado', but it was always cold enough here to reinforce the ice-cream metaphors.
He swallowed his anxiety and walked on. He'd gotten past the front doors with his Civil Service ID, but getting into the secure ward would be a bit trickier. He had managed only one previous visit, by convincing the orderlies that he worked for the patient's law firm and had brought documents requiring signature (no pens or pencils allowed; a soft chalk-like crayon was provided by the security staff for such things). He was glad that he had possessed the foresight at the time to disable the telephone switchbox at his place of work. He had given them the phone number for his office, and when they couldn't verify, he charmed the duty nurse until she permitted him a short visit.
The conversation had taken place in a small room that was divided by a plane of shatterproof glass. Chairs were set facing each other, with red handsets to permit private communication.
The thickness of the barrier did nothing to dilute the powerful presence of the Doctor. Winder barely spoke at all; the Doctor did all the talking. He seemed to know, through some magic or intuition, just what Winder had needed to hear. He advised him, he taught him. The Doctor gave his pupil a direction and a purpose.
And then he gave Winder a target.
That meeting had taken place nearly six months ago. It had taken Winder a long time to work up the nerve act on the Doctor's instructions, even though he wanted to carry out all the things that the Doctor had encouraged him to try. He wanted to clean the world of filth ... as a man might pick up trash in the park. It was logical, just like the Doctor said in his book, for a man to grow weary of helplessness and find comfort in action.
Finally, the time had come to act. The first kill had been so easy: a junkie who would probably have been dead within the week anyway. It was chance that Winder had been watching when the pathetic man had made his first weak suicide attempt; but Winder told himself that it was not chance, but Fate – showing him the path he was meant to take.
Winder had watched through his telescope, located the apartment, and waited for the right time to move. What he intended to do was for the good of all good people, but he had to protect himself. The law was blind, crippled by ignorance and corruption. He knew that his acts would be considered criminal now, but one day he would be known as a hero.
So he had crouched outside of the window, having already jimmied the lock open. When the man returned to his apartment, strung out and unwary, it had been child's play to kill him. And just as the Doctor had predicted, when the body was discovered, no one questioned the death as anything but the inevitable result of a wasted life.
It had become much easier after that.
Winder pulled himself out of his reverie as he approached the enclosed office guarding the secure ward. He needed to talk to his mentor again. It was going badly. MacGyver was not being contained, but employed by the police. The Doctor had warned him about MacGyver; he knew it would only be a matter of time before MacGyver put together the pieces.
Winder remembered the Doctor's words perfectly. 'He has the intelligence to match you, Dennis, but his heart is dead to Truth. He would save all the world; anyone ... no matter how corrupt or undeserving, to ease the pain of his own guilt. He's like a good dog that has turned rabid, Dennis. You must neutralize him. If you have the chance, you must kill him.'
He knew that it would be only a short time before the dog led the hunters to his den. He was prepared for the possibility. The Doctor had taught him to be always ready. Before he had come to speak to the Doctor again, Winder had closed down his office and left through the back. Then the identity of Dennis Winder went into the incinerator with all the papers and personal objects from his office. Only the necessary things were left behind.
Only the things necessary to bring the animal to the trap.
In the room behind the bars and glass, the duty nurse looked up as Winder approached her station. He gave her a short, businesslike nod; his anxiety was gone, hidden in the dark place where his conscience now lived. He smiled and remembered all he had been taught.