Shawn Stanton, I learned, worked as a pharmacist in Norwich, Connecticut. I also learned he had no idea as to why his sister had killed herself in the middle of the street.
The man was not especially distraught to learn of his sister’s passing. I found him at work, ordered a compound from him, and enjoyed a bite to eat at a local restaurant while he finished his shift. He was not a particularly perceptive man, which made it easy for me to follow him to the small house he owned off Washington Street.
I wondered what made him useful to the organization, and when I broke into the house and had him trussed up, I learned why. The man was hoarding medical supplies. Bandages, medicines, even prosthetics. He even had a surgeon’s kit for field work, and I discovered he had served as a medical man in the local sanitary train during the war in Europe.
Since I was rather tired from the extensive amount of hunting and killing, as well as traveling and recuperating, I looked for an alternative to the usual butchery I relied upon. In the man’s well-stocked medicine cabinets, I found my relief.
There are a great many compounds which can cause pain, and I enjoyed my experimentation on the man. By the time midnight came around, I knew all I could want about the organization, and about everything Mr. Stanton had ever done wrong in his life.
In the end, I fed him as much poison as I could, untied him, and watched him vomit his stomach lining out onto the floor of his bathroom. It was a vile smell, but well worth the experience.
I had a plethora of information, a new respect for chemicals, and the opportunity for a good night’s rest.
In the morning, I would travel to Middletown, Connecticut to meet a group known as the Raiders.
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