The Prince of Beers by Alex Berenson Page A

justice comes in many guises, and that loneliness and depression can shrink a mansion until it can feel like a prison cell — though just the sort of spacious, comfortable prison cell that befits a rich, troubled heir to a legendary American fortune.

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    Wednesday, Aug. 1, 2012. 7 p.m.
    I stepped out of my aged Dodge minivan and found myself in an open-air furnace masquerading as downtown St. Louis. 101 degrees. Another three-digit day in a scorching Midwestern summer. I'd driven here from New York, burning gas at four bucks a gallon, doing my part for global warming. Driven when I could have flown and I couldn't quite explain why, not even to myself. I'd wanted to rumble through Pennsylvania and Ohio in the midst of another sullen American July, the fifth straight summer of our discontent, even the movies taken away by a dull-eyed, orange-haired psychopath.
    I didn't see much, though. I rolled down the awful Pennsylvania Turnpike after dark and then chased a hotel room on I-70 until I hit Columbus at 4 a.m. Show Us The Real Birth Certificate, a billboard in PA urged, but aside from that cri de droite, I didn't see many Obama or Romney bumper stickers, didn't detect much interest in what either side was selling.
    Maybe folks were just too hot to care. The next afternoon, as Ohio turned into Indiana into Illinois, the air dried out and the corn stalks shrank. I started to understand why I'd been reading about a modern Dust Bowl. In southern Illinois the streams were mudholes. I pulled off the highway at a barbeque joint a hundred miles east of St. Louis and heard from the high schoolers behind the counter that they hadn't seen rain since early March. March, I said, stupidly. Five months without rain seemed impossible. Yep, March. I shut up and ate my barbeque and got back on the road.
    The Mississippi was still flowing, though, still a mile wide. The Mississippi's a magnificent river, the second-longest in the world, the freshwater link between the Midwest and the Gulf of Mexico. The Mississippi is home to Huck and Tom, the birthplace of the blues. In theory, anyway. In reality the Mississippi looks like a pot of refried beans that should come with a side of hepatitis vaccine. Ocean liners cruise the Hudson. The Mississippi's ship traffic runs more to grain barges. Its bridges are equally dull, jumbles of steel, Erector sets thrown together by a particularly lazy kid. On the plus side, they probably don't encourage jumpers the way that the George Washington or the Golden Gate do. Who wants to spend eternity being nibbled by Asian carp?
    I cruised off the Martin Luther King Jr. Bridge, parked, trudged toward my hotel. Have I mentioned the heat? I found myself surrounded by cheery-looking white people dressed in red: red shorts, T-shirts, caps, pants, socks. Red underwear for all I knew. They walked south, moving about as fast as the river. Aha! The Cardinals must be in town. After I check in, I'll head over to Busch stadium — the name of yet another reflection of family's impact on St. Louis. I hadn't been a New York Times reporter all those years for nothing.
    I'd come to St. Louis to investigate the death of Adrienne Nicole Martin, a 27-year-old ex-waitress, wannabe model, and all-around good-time girl. In December 2010, Adrienne was found dead at the mansion of her boyfriend, August Busch IV, the former chief executive of Anheuser-Busch — called The Fourth, to distinguish him from his dad, The Third. Adrienne had left an eight-year-old son behind.
    In truth, I knew I wouldn't be solving a crime. Toxicology reports showed that Adrienne had died of an overdose of oxycodone, a powerful prescription opiate that kills thousands of Americans every year. After a short investigation, local police and the St. Louis County prosecutor's office had concluded that Adrienne's overdose was accidental. The prosecutor declined to charge Busch IV, or anyone else, in the death. Despite mutters locally about Busches buying justice, no