The Midwife Murders

by James Patterson

  My escort and I practically fill the entire space. There is a very creepy sense of intimacy. It is at once frightening. I could be killed here—he could molest me, abuse me, rape me. All of those things, some of those things.

  Within a few seconds I realize there is a small window in the little room, too. A pretty young blond woman is looking at us. She smiles at the guard; he smiles at her. Then she nods and mouths the word okay. The guard holds a small plastic card up to a minuscule black dot on the new door. As expected, the door opens. A tall, dark-haired woman stands in a slightly larger room.

  She speaks to the guard. “Thank you, Carl.”

  “She’s all yours now, Nina,” the guard says.

  Nina—I am stunned. I try to get a closer look at this woman. Of course this is not the Nina from the video or the cemetery or the surveillance photos.

  I think for a nanosecond that perhaps the original Nina has been transformed by plastic surgery and hair coloring, or … Oh, what the hell is wrong with you, Lucy?

  The guard leaves, and New Nina opens another door behind her. There’s no electronic code or card needed to open it.

  When the door opens, our little space is flooded with light, pouring in from the new room. We step into that room, which is big and so stunningly bright that my eyes require some blinking and rubbing in order to adjust. Within a few seconds I see that everything is painted a traditional office color—a soft pale blue. The ceilings have industrial white cork. The floors are black-and-gray spattered white tiles. Of course it looks just like a hospital. In fact, with a few minor adjustments of space and color it could be the maternity floor of GUH.

  New Nina and I stand in front of a huge glass viewing window. Behind the window, at the far wall are two women and a man. Their backs are to us. The three of them are wearing blue hospital scrubs, and all three are bent over a PC that seems to be fascinating them. Of even more intense interest to me are the many other human beings in the room. The babies. Babies and babies and babies.

  I estimate roughly fifty high-tech-type cribs. It looks as if each crib holds a baby.

  Even more fascinating and frightening are the wires and tubes and electronic monitors that run in and out of all these cribs. These wires seem to feed into some wall monitors displaying charts and numbers and letters and graphs.

  New Nina suddenly raps hard with her knuckles on the vast glass nursery window. One of the women—a doctor, nurse, biochemist?—turns toward New Nina and nods, a wisp of annoyance on her face. That annoyance immediately disappears when New Nina gestures in my direction. The woman says something to her colleagues. I think at first she is walking toward the door to meet me, but instead she stops at one of the cribs near the window. With her back to me she removes a syringe from her pocket. It looks like she’s about to thrust it into the infant’s stomach. Then she hesitates and seems to change her mind. She looks flustered, nervous.

  The second woman turns and looks at her colleague. In a voice loud enough that I can hear it through the window, she says, “Oh, for Chrissake, Bobbie. I’ll get the sample myself,” and she marches sternly toward the first woman. This tough-acting woman grabs the syringe from Bobbie.

  I look away from the scene, and New Nina seems to sense my discomfort. “You obviously find watching this very upsetting,” she says. “We have a room where you can wait for your host. You’ll be better off there.”

  In what seems to be a standard GIH technique, she takes my elbow to lead me. Her grip is a bit stronger than the guard who brought me in.

  “Not so tight,” I say.

  “I apologize, but I want you to go quickly. For your own sake. It will only be a moment,” she says.

  I turn a bit and look back through the nursery window. Now all three of the people in blue scrubs—the two women and the man—are leaning over the crib. The first woman, Bobbie, who failed to take the sample, lifts the infant from the crib. She holds the infant while the other woman pierces the baby’s little belly with the syringe. I turn away again. When I look back, the woman with the loaded syringe is walking toward one of the doors, which she opens. In a moment the first woman places the screaming baby back into the crib and rushes to the door herself.

  The two women are suddenly standing with me and my escort. Back inside, the man leaning over the crib seems to be poking around in it. A few seconds pass. Then the man looks up from the crib. He turns and faces the glass window.

  I see his face. I pull my elbow away from my escort. I push quickly past the other two women and rush through the open door. I move toward the man. He smiles at me. I know him.

  The man is Dr. Rudra Sarkar.

  CHAPTER 74

  AN ERUPTION IN MY brain. An explosion of confusion and anger and fear. I can almost feel my mind clicking madly, trying to sort out what I am seeing, and what it all means.

  Sarkar. Rudra Sarkar. Dr. Sarkar.

  Then comes an extraordinary surprise. Something else explodes inside me. Along with my rage I experience something completely shocking: I feel my heart breaking. At what? The horror of what surrounds me? The screaming of the innocents? The jungle of tubes and wires and monitors? Yes, of course, and also the astounding betrayal, from, of all people, Dr. Sarkar. This is a man who delivers life, and he is now standing before me, a monster, even beyond a monster. Who the hell is this guy? The devil himself.

  “This had to happen, Lucy. It was only a matter of time before your nimble mind figured it all out. I knew that one day you’d find it.” The voice is the warm, reassuring voice I have always liked, the voice that soothed so many expectant mothers.

  “But I never dreamed I’d find you here, Dr. Sarkar. Never. It absolutely never crossed my mind.”

  Sarkar’s charm has not at all disappeared. He smiles. His eyelashes flutter. “This is simply the arrival of the inevitable,” he says.

  “No. No. This was never inevitable,” I say.

  “Let me tell you something wonderful, Lucy.” A pause, a smile. Then, “Your visit could not have occurred at a better time. Only last week I had to dismiss my assistant, Nina. I believe you knew her.”

  I am stunned, now speechless.

  Sarkar continues to talk. “Because, you see … Well, Lucy, this might be a wonderful opportunity for you. This might …”

  Yes, I am shaking, but I am also hoping that deep inside I will find the strength to confront this horror.

  The explosion travels from my brain to my lips. “Stop! Stop talking!”

  “Lucy, please. This is a professional space,” he says.

  “You are a fucking madman,” I yell, as if this observation was a revelation.

  He laughs, then turns deadly serious. “No, I am a pioneer. What we are doing will aid, no, cure infants with congenital heart problems. We are isolating those genes that—”

  “Don’t talk anymore,” I yell.

  Our argument seems to have woken every infant in the nursery. The wailing is almost overwhelming. Sarkar and I stand alone together in the nursery.

  His eyes twinkle, but it is a watery, distant, peculiar twinkle.

  “Let me explain the procedure. Tell me if you don’t see the value,” Sarkar says, as if we are two colleagues chatting over a cup of coffee.

  The babies continue screaming. I glance at the door to see if the women will return.

  Where is Troy? Swimming in the river? Where is anyone?

  I say, “When I thought the babies were being harvested for childless couples, I thought it was disgusting. The word itself, harvested, is awful. But I thought at least the babies would have homes, probably good homes, probably good parents, advantages. But this. This is kidnapping and murder rolled into one. And the pain. The infants are suffering, being tortured.”

  I move closer to Sarkar, who continues to smile in a hateful, condescending manner.

  I intend to continue yelling. I don’t know when I’ll stop, when I’ll run out of words that reach beyond anger.

  Then I look down into the crib beside me.


  A tiny baby, wearing a tiny plastic brace on his tiny shoulders. The baby has lots of beautiful dark hair.

  It is, of course, the Morabito baby, the very infant who only a few hours ago Dr. Sarkar helped deliver.

  Then I hear a voice. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  The door has opened. The two women who’d left a few minutes ago have returned.

  I begin to reach into the crib.

  “I’ll handle this,” Sarkar shouts at the women. “Get out. Get the hell out.”

  The two women scurry back through the door and close it behind them. As soon as I hear the door click, I hear a loud sound, a human grunt.

  Suddenly rough hands grab me by both my shoulders. I’m thrown to the ground. My head hits the floor. Hard.

  I am lying on my back. Sarkar is on top of me. He is like a schoolboy who has won a schoolyard fight. His knees have pinned down my shoulders. A punch to my right cheek, followed by a harder punch to my other cheek. The teeth in the back of my mouth crackle.

  I taste the blood filling my mouth.

  Sarkar gets up from me quickly. Standing over me, he looks a mile tall. Then he—I don’t believe this—kicks me. Over and over and over.

  I am screaming.

  I think I’m going to pass out. And then …

  I hear a gunshot.

  I move my aching, bleeding head ever so slightly. I see it all happen. I see Sarkar’s feet stumble and hesitate and stumble again.

  He falls. He falls to his knees. Then he completes his collapse. He’s on the floor. On his back right next to me.

  We must look just like a boyfriend and girlfriend sleeping on a blanket at the beach.

  I do not know what makes me move. I do not know what motivates me. I do not know why anything is happening the way it is happening. I find the strength to kneel. I look at Sarkar’s face. His eyes are open, but they look like the eyes in a corpse. I push him onto his stomach. Blood is soaking his blue scrubs. Nothing will stop the flow of blood here. What makes me want to try to save him? Who would want to save the devil?

  I find the strength to push Sarkar onto his back again. I push hard on his chest. Compression. Exertion. I lean in and hold his chin with one hand, his nose with the other hand. I put my lips on his lips and try to breathe life into him.

  “Take a deep breath, and just push, one big push, just give me a short breath and then a big push.” That is what I am thinking or hearing or saying. I am in a great confusion. Is this birth or is this death?

  “Lucy, it’s no use,” I hear. It is Leon Blumenthal who is speaking.

  I am still hearing the word push. If I could only get Sarkar to give one good push.

  Hands reach down and touch my shoulders and arms. The hands must be those of Leon Blumenthal.

  Those hands lift me gently, and I am forced to remove my lips from Rudi Sarkar’s lips.

  CHAPTER 75

  NEW JERSEY STATE POLICE. FBI. Harrison Police.

  Officers and more officers and more officers.

  Blaring sirens and flashing red lights.

  Vehicles. Helicopters overhead.

  Medics and sharpshooters and doctors and nurses.

  It is the whole rich crazy symphony of fear and noise and general bullshit that accompanies something so awful and huge and shocking.

  “Get her into the ambulance right now,” I hear.

  Blumenthal? Wait. Of course not. No, I guessed wrong. They weren’t his hands. It can’t be. Blumenthal was never called. I said don’t call him. I was arrogant. I didn’t need him.

  Troy. Of course it was Troy. Troy called Blumenthal. Troy ignored my orders. Thank you, Troy. Thank you, God.

  “Don’t move, miss,” says a police medic. “Don’t move. You’re injured.”

  “No, I’m not. But thanks for caring,” I say, and I start to stand. I’m up. I’m good. I’m better. I feel the bulky bandage that encircles my head. Then I hear a voice.

  “I had to do it, Lucy. I had to call Blumenthal and Cilia,” Troy says. We hug like two siblings who haven’t seen each other for years.

  “Well, of course you had to call. That’s exactly what I told you to do,” I say.

  “No. You specifically said not …” And then he smiles. “You are a lying bitch. Always have been. Always will be.”

  “No, buddy. It’s just my compulsion to always be right,” I say. And we hug again.

  The medic makes one more attempt with me. “You really should be checked by a doctor, miss.”

  “Doctor?” I say. “I’ve seen all the doctors I wanna see today. I’ve got doctors on the ceilings and the floors.”

  I look around the crazy, noisy nursery. Pediatric nurses and doctors, probably from the nearest hospitals, are spreading out among the cribs. Infants are being disengaged from tubes and monitors and wires. Infants are being handed from one medical person to another. Some are being rushed out of the room, presumably to emergency stations. Other babies are simply held and patted and soothed and fed and changed.

  It’s a mess, but as my mother used to say every Christmas and Thanksgiving, surrounded by her noisy, sloppy relatives, “Yes, it’s a mess. But it’s a joyful mess.”

  Then I see Blumenthal approaching me. He’s barking into his cell phone. He’s shooting orders at police officers. He looks stern as he comes near me. But in only a moment I can tell that his anger is all pretend. He tries hard not to melt into someone gentle. But he manages to keep the angry face.

  “You did everything wrong. You did exactly what I told you not to do.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I guess I’m sorry, but I’m not really sorry,” I say. Then, full of arrogance and sarcasm and peace, I add, “Listen, Detective. You had the right town. Unfortunately, you had the wrong state. But you came close. I just had to step in.”

  Then he says, “And everything turned out all right. Thank you. Thank you, Lucy.”

  With that, we throw our arms around each other and hug. And it is then that I begin sobbing. Loud. Relentless. Uncontrollable.

  “Goddamnit,” I say. “I’m the biggest baby in the room.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re the smartest grown-up in this room. And you’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

  Blumenthal tilts his head back and looks at me. He shakes his head back and forth. He holds my shoulders. We hug again, and then, after a few moments, he says, “We’ve figured out a lot in the last half hour, Lucy.” And he explains—in that concise, brief, logical way of his. He explains that Dr. Barrett Katz was framed, set up by Sarkar. Sarkar falsified records and invoices. Sarkar thought the Katz scandal would be a distraction from the kidnapping scandal. Katz’s insistence that he was innocent was absolutely true.

  “I guess I should be happy that Katz isn’t going to prison for thirty years,” I say.

  “Yes, you should be. Katz is a good man.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to be happy about it. But I’m not predicting my success at that. Once an asshole al—” I begin. But my voice is drowned out. Sirens and shouting and screaming babies.

  A few seconds later, above the din, I hear a woman’s voice.

  “Leon,” the voice calls. “Leon.” The voice shows up with a very pretty woman attached to it. “Detective, I’m going down to the Harrison police station. Then I’m heading to Newark’s Children’s Hospital. Most of the babies are being taken there. Then …”

  The woman looks at me, and with genuine warmth and enthusiasm in her voice says, “Oh, my God. It’s you. It’s Lucy. You’re the hero of the year. God bless you.”

  Blumenthal says, “Lucy, this is Barbara Holt.”

  Of course! This is the flashy woman with the fancy shoes who spoke to me so casually, so intimately about “Leon.” I didn’t recognize her without a floral sundress and nine-hundreddollar Louboutin heels. Barbara Holt. The girlfriend.

  “Barbara is a new UC. UC means—”

  “I know, Detective,” I say. “UC means undercover.”

  Wh
at I don’t know is where she gets the money to buy those shoes.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to introduce the two of you.”

  Barbara and I look at each other and smile a smile that says, I know what you’re thinking. Then we laugh.

  She walks quickly toward the door. And I survey the room. It is still a noisy madhouse. The room seems twice as crowded as it did fifteen minutes ago. What I’m guessing are media helicopters can be heard hovering outside, invading like a sloppy army. The babies who have not been rushed off to medical facilities seem to have turned up their volume to a deafening decibel. A few well-dressed politicians are being allowed into what must be considered a crime scene. Mr. Mayor. Ms. Police Commissioner. A woman introduces herself to me and Blumenthal as the “lieutenant governor.” More officers. More doctors. The sirens don’t stop.

  Yes, Mom. I know. A joyful mess.

  CHAPTER 76

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, a new group of four NYPD police cars pulls into the dirt parking lot of the pharma facility. Blumenthal and Troy and I watch them from an office window. Men and women pour out of the cars and rush toward the building.

  “It’s the mothers, the fathers!” Troy shouts. “I recognize some of ’em.”

  I do, too. I see Katra. I see Katra’s father. Bella and Marco Morabito are rushing closer as well. A blur of familiar faces and not-so-familiar faces.

  “This is wonderful,” says Troy. I agree.

  “Wonderful for some,” says Blumenthal, who has been reading the screen of his iPhone. “We’re allowing in only the parents of the babies who made it through alive. Other moms and dads will have their hearts broken.”

  Silence. Then we take a collective deep breath and go to meet the parents. The lucky ones.

  EPILOGUE

  DR. KATZ AGREED TO my taking a one-month leave of absence with salary.