Break No Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Ryan shook his head.

  “The funeral home was removing bone from corpses without permission, and replacing it with polypropylene pipe. Alistair Cooke was reported to be one of the victims.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “It was all over the news. The stolen bone was sold to companies that supply hospitals with tissue. Cadaveric bone is routinely used for grafting.”

  “But bone doesn’t make sense. Helms was buried. Montague was tossed into the ocean. Their skeletons were intact.”

  “Maybe their bones turned out to be unsuitable for some reason.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. OK. Maybe it wasn’t a problem with the bones. Maybe the perp got spooked, the drop-off was spotted, the cleaning apparatus broke down. A thousand things could have gone wrong.”

  “What about the cut marks?”

  What about the cut marks? Lower back. Pelvic and abdominal area.

  Think outside the box, Brennan. Outside the bones.

  My mind tossed up a gruesome possibility.

  “But you’re right about one thing,” Ryan was saying. “Helms lived in a scrap-yard trailer. Montague was homeless. Aikman was mentally ill. Teal was unstable and lived on the streets. Who else is missing? Hookers. Druggies. Those on the fringe, those no one notices. The same people who fell victim to Burke and Hare.”

  It couldn’t be. The idea was too terrible to contemplate.

  “But there’s no proof anyone’s dead except Helms and Montague.” Ryan’s voice was barely registering. “So what have we learned? Cruikshank was digging into Burke and Hare. Cruikshank was staking out the GMC clinic. Helene Flynn worked there. Montague and Teal were patients there. But we don’t even know that Teal is dead.”

  “Cruikshank sure is,” I said. “Because he uncovered something that got him killed. Ryan—”

  “Shh.”

  “No. Listen.”

  Clicking off the light, Ryan pulled me to him. When I tried to protest, he hugged me tighter. I fell silent and we lay together in the dark. Sometime later, Birdie hopped onto the bed. I felt him circle, then curl at my side.

  Tired as I was, sleep wouldn’t come. My mind kept offering up the same dreadful suspicion. Kept repeating the same horrified response: It can’t be.

  I refused to think about my appalling hypothesis. To calm myself I chanted silently. Tonight, rest. Tomorrow, pursue.

  It didn’t work. My thoughts raced from topic to topic. I kept seeing the rigging and tubes pumping to keep Pete alive. I relived mopping Anne’s kitchen floor, pictured my tears falling and mingling with his blood. I went cold at the prospect of telling Katy that her father was dead. Where was Katy?

  I remembered my recent call to Emma, dreaded the awful conversation I would have upon her sister’s return from Italy.

  I considered Gullet. Was his attitude toward me resistance, or merely indifference?

  I thought of Dupree and his threats. Were they threats? What could he really do? All developers bitched to their friends in government about archaeologists interfering with progress.

  Faces strobed in unending spirals through my brain. Pete. Emma. Gullet. Dupree. Lester Marshall. Corey Daniels. Adele Berry. Lonnie Aikman. The gargoyle features of Unique Montague. The fleshless skull of Willie Helms. Pete again.

  The digits on the bedside clock glowed orange. Outside the ocean rolled, a soft, murmuring whisper. Minutes passed. An hour. Beside me, Ryan’s body hadn’t relaxed. His breathing hadn’t steadied into the rhythm of sleep.

  Share my suspicion with Ryan?

  No. Wait. Dig. Be sure.

  “You awake?” I whispered softly.

  “Hm.”

  “Thinking about Lily?”

  “Among other things.” Ryan’s voice was dusky.

  “What?”

  “Cruikshank’s code.”

  “You crack it?”

  “Except for the Helms file, I think it’s mostly initials, dates, and times.”

  “C means case closed.”

  “Breakthrough noted.”

  I jabbed Ryan with an elbow.

  “CD is Corey Daniels. AB, Adele Berry. LM, Lester Marshall. Not sure about some of the others. The dates are obvious. I think the numbers after each set of initials indicate the times that person entered or left the clinic.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “There’s more to it, but I think basically Cruikshank was keeping track of when people came and went.”

  “Staff only?”

  “I think some were patients. Helms is another story. Those notes must have to do with research rather than surveillance since Helms disappeared before Cruikshank was hired to find Helene.”

  “If Cruikshank’s system is so easy, why didn’t Pete get it?”

  Earlier, Ryan wouldn’t have missed an opportunity for a dig. Not tonight. “When Pete was working it he didn’t have the names of the clinic staff. Or Willie Helms. What time is it?”

  I looked at the clock. “Three ten.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think the notes will yield much.” Ryan pulled me to him. “You sleepy?”

  “I’m not in the mood, Ryan.”

  “I was thinking of Cruikshank’s laptop.”

  “Gullet wants it back tomorrow.”

  “Want to take one last run at the password?”

  “Yes.” And there was something else I wanted to check into. Could it be?

  “Did you find Cruikshank’s police ID number?” Ryan asked.

  “There’s a badge, but the Charlotte PD doesn’t number them.”

  “Did Cruikshank keep any other police equipment? A holster? Handcuffs? A handcuff key?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Contrary to our glamorous public image, we in law enforcement aren’t all that complex. Old cop trick: use your ID number as your password. Older cop trick: scratch your ID number onto your belongings.”

  Boyd and I set a land speed record bolting down the stairs. Ryan followed at a more dignified pace. By the time he’d joined us I’d hit pay dirt.

  “Cruikshank scratched digits beside the keyhole.” Thrusting the handcuffs at Ryan, I dashed to the desk, opened and booted the Dell. “Read them off.”

  Ryan did. I hit the keys. Black dots appeared in the little white window, then the screen changed to the Windows desktop.

  “We’re in!”

  “Mailbox first?” Ryan asked.

  I spent ten minutes poking around.

  “The PC’s set up for wireless, but there’s no e-mail. I doubt Magnolia Manor’s plugged in, so Cruikshank probably used coffee shops or libraries to access the Net. He’s got hundreds of downloads. You might as well go back to bed.”

  “You sure?”

  “This is going to take a while.”

  Ryan kissed my head. I heard footfalls on the carpet, then his tread on the stairs. Boyd stayed at my feet.

  Everything faded from my consciousness but the softly lit monitor of a dead man’s PC. Beyond its glow, Anne’s picture window was a shiny black rectangle of glass. As I read file after file, a hard knot formed in my gut.

  When I finally sat back, the window had gone gray, and the vast Atlantic was emerging from an early morning mist.

  The hunt for explanations was over.

  My guess had been correct. I knew. And the reality was as ruthless as any I’d imagined. But that would have to wait.

  I had my own reality to contend with. I called the ICU. No change. No obvious improvement, but Pete was stable.

  Try Katy again? No point. She’d get my message if she had her cell on. If she didn’t, another call would just result in another message. If I didn’t hear from her within a few hours, I’d call the university and ask for help in locating her.

  I stretched out on the couch.

  31

  “YOU AWAKE?” I WHISPERED.

  “I am now.”

  “People are being murdered for their organs.”

  “Uh-huh.�
� Ryan stretched out a hand. I took it.

  “Cruikshank figured it out.”

  Ryan propped himself up onto one elbow. His hair was tousled, and the baby blues were heavy with sleep.

  “The idea crossed my mind, but it seemed so far out there I didn’t even mention it.”

  “It’s true.”

  “A drugged traveler wakes in an ice-filled bathtub? A college student comes to sporting stitches after a wild party?” Ryan’s tone was beyond skeptical. “Organ theft stories have been making the rounds for years.”

  “What Cruikshank stumbled onto is far worse than any urban myth. People are being choked to death, Ryan. Their organs are being carved from their bodies.”

  “No way in hell.”

  I ticked off points on my fingers. “Inexplicably dead MPs. Skeletons with cut marks.” Ryan started to speak. I blew past him to ring man. “Cut marks consistent with scalpel nicks. A sketchy doctor in the United States, with a med school classmate who’s dropped off the map. A mysterious health spa in Mexico.”

  Ryan scootched up and put a pillow behind his head. “Show me.”

  Crawling under the covers, I sat Indian style, opened Cruikshank’s laptop and rested it on my crossed ankles.

  “Cruikshank spent a lot of time researching transplantation, black marketeering in organs, Charleston MPs, and a place called Abrigo Aislado de los Santos near Puerto Vallarta.”

  “The Mexican resort in the brochure?”

  “Yeah,” I snorted. “Last resort.”

  I nibbled a cuticle, debated how to take Ryan through this since I’d just begun to comprehend most of it myself.

  “Since the early fifties, transplantation has become relatively common. A kidney or a portion of liver can be given by a living donor, even a single lung, though that’s rare. Heart, cornea, double-lung, or pancreas transplants have to come from cadaverous donors.

  “The problem is there aren’t enough organs to go around. If you can use a live donor, you’re better off. You might be compatible with a family member, a friend, or a charitable donor, though those are few and far between. If you need a cadaverous donor, you could sit for months, or even years.”

  “And die waiting.”

  “In the United States, those needing cadaverous donors become part of OPTN, the Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network, operated by an independent nonprofit organization called UNOS, the United Network for Organ Sharing. UNOS maintains a database of eligible transplant recipients, as well as information on all organ transplant centers throughout the country. UNOS also establishes policy with regard to priority and who gets which organs.”

  “How does a patient get into the network?”

  “You have to find a transplant team qualified with UNOS. That team decides if you’re a good candidate, physically and mentally.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s complicated, but drug and alcohol abusers and smokers are usually disqualified, for example. UNOS also ranks potential recipients based on health, urgency of need, compatibility, length of time on the list, that sort of thing. They want available organs used where they are likely to do the most good.”

  Ryan cut to the core. “So those rejected and those tired of waiting go outside the system.”

  “So-called brokers arrange sales of human organs to patients who can pay. Usually the sellers are willing participants. Kidneys are the most commonly traded, and, in most cases, it’s poor people in developing countries selling their organs to the wealthy. The cost can run over one hundred thousand dollars, with the donor receiving only a fraction of that.”

  “This is widespread?”

  “Cruikshank had tons of research on his computer. Some of his sources describe the kidney trade as a global phenomenon. Nancy Scheper-Hughes, a Berkeley anthropologist, has established an NGO called Organ Watch, which claims to have documented organ harvesting in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba, Israel, Turkey, South Africa, India, the United States, and the United Kingdom. Cruikshank also found information on Iran and China.”

  I clicked a few keys, and Ryan and I skimmed a report on the use of executed criminals as donors in China.

  “You can actually purchase package deals.” I opened a series of files and we both read in silence.

  An Israeli-led syndicate offered transplant tours to Turkey and Romania for $180,000 U.S. A New York woman bought a kidney from a Brazilian donor, then traveled to South Africa for surgery at a private clinic at a total outlay of $65,000 U.S. A Canadian went to Pakistan in a cash-for-kidney deal costing $12,500 Canadian.

  “Check out this Web site.”

  I clicked to another download. A Pakistani hospital described itself as a fifty-bed private facility in operation since 1992. The site offered a package that included three weeks’ lodging, three daily meals, three presurgical dialysis sessions, donor expenses, surgery, and two days’ post-discharge medication for $14,000 U.S.

  “Tabarnac!” Ryan sounded as appalled as I felt.

  “Most countries outlaw this, but not all. In Iran, for example, it’s legal but regulated.” I opened another file. “The U.S. National Organ Transplant Act of 1984 prohibits payment to those providing organs for transplantation. The Uniform Anatomical Gift Act allows individuals to specify that some or all of their body may be donated after their death. Nineteen eighty-seven revisions to the act prohibit the taking of payment for donated parts.”

  “OK. Cash for kidneys. But murder?”

  I opened several downloads.

  South Africa. June 1995. Moses Mokgethi was found guilty of the murder of six children for their organs.

  Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua, Mexico. May 2003. Hundreds of women had been killed since 1993, and bodies continued turning up in the desert. Federal investigators claimed to have evidence the women were victims of an international organ trafficking ring.

  Bukhara, Uzbekistan. No date. A family named Korayev was found with the passports of sixty missing persons, an enormous sum of money, and bags of body parts in their home. Their company, Kora, promised visas and overseas jobs. Instead, according to police, the Korayevs killed their clients and, working with a doctor, pipelined their organs to Russia and Turkey.

  “Jesus.”

  “Theft from fresh cadavers is even more common,” I said. “And not just in the Third World. Organ Watch has also reported on U.S. cases in which families of brain-dead patients have been offered as much as a million dollars to give organ harvesters access to the bodies immediately upon death.”

  The room was brightening. I got up and slid open the glass door. The smell of the ocean made me think of boogie-boarding with my kid sister, Harry, beach blanket gossip with high school best friends, sand castle construction with Katy and Pete.

  Pete. Again, that pang deep in my chest.

  I wanted to go back to one of those long summer days, to forget putrefied bodies, and scalpels, and wire nooses.

  “So you believe someone at the GMC clinic is snuffing street people to harvest their organs.” Ryan’s voice brought me back. “And that Cruikshank was about to blow the whistle.”

  “I think Cruikshank was killed to keep him quiet. And I’m wondering about Helene Flynn, too.”

  “Suspects?”

  “I’m not sure. The operation would have to involve several people, and a clinic has to be at the core. The average guy on the street can’t just yank out a kidney.”

  Returning to bed, I opened another file.

  “Removing an organ isn’t all that complicated. In the case of a heart, for example, the vessels are clamped, and a cold, protective solution is pumped inside. The vessels are then severed, and the heart is placed in a bag filled with preservative. The bag is packed in ice in an ordinary cooler and flown or driven to its destination.”

  “How long do you have?”

  “Four hours for a heart, eight to ten for a liver, three days for a kidney.”

  “Tight schedule for a heart. But plenty of time for transport to kidney recipients.”<
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  “Waiting in pre-op at some sterile facility tucked away in the hills.” I clicked some more keys. “Cruikshank was looking into Abrigo Aislado de los Santos. Know what that means?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Isolated health shelter. Read the language on their Web site.”

  The more he read, the more deeply Ryan frowned. “ ‘Unique therapeutic regimes available to individually qualified customers.’ What the hell does that mean? You need a pedigree to get a pedicure?”

  “It means call us. Provide background. If your story and portfolio check out, we’ll get you a kidney.”

  “I’m guessing putting organs in isn’t as simple as taking them out.”

  I looked Ryan directly in the eye. “Implantation requires a surgeon working in a relatively sophisticated facility.”

  Ryan’s expression told me he was careening along the same deductive pathways I’d followed, speeding toward the same appalling finish. After a full minute, he spoke.

  “You’ve got the GMC clinic on this end, serves druggies, crazies, the homeless. A few patients disappear now and then, no one notices. You would need a small plane, a cooler, a pilot who doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Or maybe the mule’s actually in the loop. You’ve got an experienced surgeon operating in an isolated location, catering to those needing organs and willing to pay a substantial price.”

  “Lester Marshall and Dominic Rodriguez attended the same med school, dropped out of sight around the same time,” I said. “Rodriguez is a surgeon.”

  Ryan picked up the thread. “Two old classmates hook up, hatch a cash-for-organs scheme. Marshall comes here. Rodriguez goes to Puerto Vallarta, sets up a clinic disguised as a spa.”

  “Or Rodriguez might have left San Diego to practice medicine in Mexico. Could be Marshall got into some kind of trouble, went south, and the two reconnected,” I said.

  “Marshall takes the organs out, Rodriguez puts them in. Donors don’t complain because they’ve been paid or because they’re dead. Recipients don’t complain because what they’ve done is illegal. A hundred thousand a pop buys a lot of margaritas.”

  “Illegal drugs are flown to the U.S. from Mexico all the time,” I said. “Why not organs going the other way? They’re small, easy to transport, and the payoff is huge. It explains the nicks, the garroting, the hidden bodies.”