by J. A. Kerley
“Some lab moron whose ass he’s personally gonna kick when we leave here, sir,” Gershwin said.
“I should drag you over here to apologize to Mr Ocampo in person,” I snarled. “You will?” I held my hand over the cell and turned to Ocampo. “Excuse me, sir, would it help if we had the guy responsible for this—” I pulled the phone to my mouth “AMAZING FUCK-UP”, then re-aimed it at Ocampo – “come over here and apologize to you in person?”
Ocampo looked confused. The invaders had become the protectors. “I’d prefer if you let me in on what was going on.”
“We’ll talk later, Pedersen,” I hissed into the empty phone and went to Ocampo, my face set on full contrite. The phone call had been an act, the contrition wasn’t. I saw a heavy wooden chair beneath a table in a dining alcove between the main room and kitchen.
“May I sit, Mr Ocampo?”
He nodded and I pulled the chair to the bedside. Gershwin leaned against the wall.
“There have been two recent sexual assaults, sir. The assailant left his DNA, which, it seems, was mistakenly identified as yours.”
Puzzlement on the round face. “How do you have my DNA?”
“It seems you consented to have it tested two years back, sir. You were part of a university medical study, correct?”
“I remember signing several consent forms, one having to do with DNA.”
“All DNA samples can be evaluated as part of a national database, sir. Somehow yours was obviously screwed up somewhere along the line.”
He sneezed again and grabbed a wad of tissue, blowing his nose and hawking mucus into the cloth. He wadded the tissue in a fat palm, put his left hand over the right like a foul shot and tossed the wad toward a can beside his bed, a meter to my right. The shot went wide and the ball of tissue rolled to the floor. I shot a downward glance at the tissue thinking a fresh DNA reading might not be a bad thing.
“Are you all right, Mr Ocampo?” I asked.
“Allergies. It’s hay fever season.” I looked to the window, closed tight against pollen, I assumed. Ocampo’s frown morphed into a face fighting a sneeze and losing. He grabbed another wad of tissues from the box and wiped the fleshy plains of his face and cheeks. I reached out a toe and nudged the tissue closer.
“Look, Mr Ocampo, can you accept our apology? Given the DNA indication, well, we had to check you out. We had no idea you were, uh …”
“Too fat to move much farther than the toilet? It’s OK, Detective. I’m quite aware of my body mass. I’m also aware that it makes me a poor criminal.”
Ocampo’s anger was draining away as, hopefully, were headlines saying, FCLE Arrests Bedridden Man for Violent Assaults.
When Ocampo turned away to catch another wet sneeze, I reached to the floor and snapped up the wadded tissue with my fingertips, slipping it into my pocket.
“Then I think we’re set to go,” I said. “We’re truly sorry, Mr Ocampo.”
Ocampo nodded quietly. It seemed a good exit note, hoping my ass-reaming of an unconnected phone and our gestures of kinship might keep Ocampo from contacting his lawyer.
12
We exited the store and cut between the buildings to the alley, finding Canseco in the cruiser. “Where’s Ocampo?” Canseco said as we walked up. “He wasn’t there?”
“Yep,” Gershwin said. “He was there.”
“He’s not going to the lockup?”
“Not unless you’ve got a flatbed truck, amigo,” Gershwin said.
I put the soaked tissue in an evidence bag, then called Roy and told him we were coming in empty-handed and we’d explain when we arrived. We entered his office and I gave a thirty-second rundown.
“You’re certain it’s impossible?” Roy asked. “Absolutely?”
“I pulled away the covers to make sure it wasn’t some kind of trick.”
Roy shot a look at Gershwin for his take.
“I doubt Ocampo’s dick pokes out of his fat far enough to, uh, make the journey,” Gershwin said. “And even if he tried to sneak up on someone, they’d smell him coming.”
“Bad BO?”
“Like he was sweating onions. I figure the only way Ocampo gets a full bath is if he goes through a truck wash.”
Roy turned to me. “He sells stuff right? How’s he run the shop?”
“A clerk. Ocampo seems tied in via cameras and microphones.”
Roy paced for a few seconds, pausing to stare out his window at the glittering skyline of Miami. The sparkling Biscayne Bay was visible between buildings, bright pleasure boats cutting white swaths through the blue water. Roy clapped his hands, turned to us. “Still, lab fuck-up or not, we need a DNA rule-out sample from Ocampo. Think he’ll consent?”
“Not necessary,” I said, pulling the bag from my pocket. “The guy has allergies and was pouring from his nose and eyes. This tissue went straight from his face to my pocket.”
“You’re beautiful,” Roy said.
We headed to the lab, cursorily flashing ID at the security check-in. I’d been working with the FCLE for nine months and was known by everyone. Gershwin was known as well, especially by the young woman at the front desk, pretty and Gershwin’s age, twenty-six.
“I’ll run the sample back,” I said. “You go fill in your dance card.”
He trotted to the desk, me to the lab, a maze of offices opening to a wide expanse of tables topped with microscopes, centrifuges, computer monitors and the like. A large overhead door opened to the lot, useful when entire vehicles had to be inspected. I stopped at the day-officer’s cubbyhole and was pleased to see Deb Clayton. I tossed the bagged tissue on the desk.
“Part of the rapist case, right?” she said. “You want results in a couple hours?”
“Take your time, Deb. It’s gonna be exculpatory.” I explained the circumstances.
“This happen much?” Gershwin asked, stepping into the room. “A mix-up?”
Deb leaned her small frame against a table. “Big testing labs handle thousands of samples daily. Sometime whole batches get screwed up.”
“What if it got mixed up at the test site?” Gershwin asked. “At the university.”
“Happens less often, since protocols tend to be tighter. But it’s a possibility.”
I saw where Gershwin was going: instead of thousands of candidates for the mix-up, it might be dozens.
“Let’s head to the U,” I said.
Medically oriented studies were handled, naturally, by the medical department, a complex of buildings with related disciplines. We were directed to the Office of Experimental Research and entered a room looking more business than academe: russet carpet, peach walls hung with color-coordinated abstracts, a half-dozen chairs along the wall.
We announced ourselves to a receptionist and wandered the office, footsteps suctioned into the soft cushion of carpet. Dr Marla Roth appeared seconds later, a slim woman in her late fifties with short and graying hair and intelligent brown eyes that stared over the tops of half-circle reading glasses. When we produced badges she hid the surprise and led us down a short hall to her office, more cluttered than the entrance, three walls holding bookshelves arrayed with binders. Her voice was warm, but precise, like a friendly accountant. She directed us to sit, and I outlined the reason for our visit.
“Yes,” she said. “I was in charge of that survey. May I ask what you’re looking for?”
I gave her the Reader’s Digest version and she frowned, probably at the implication of a mistake. She went to a shelf, fingers flicking over files until pulling one and bringing it to her desk.
“Since you’re alluding to a potential mix-up in our process, I want to be exact.” She read for a minute, looked up over the glasses. “The study involved two phases. The first was purely observational, accruing data from participants ranging from moderately to morbidly obese. Eligibility criteria included repeated attempts to lose twenty per cent or more of body mass, but failing. A major percentage of those who lose that much weight regain it within two y
ears.”
“Were you looking at factors other than obesity?”
“Psychological factors were a second eligibility requirement. Participants depressed by the inability to shed weight, with resultant problems. Insecurity, self-directed anger, that sort of thing. If you’d attempted suicide because of weight-related issues, you were automatically chosen. Group therapy was part of the study, both moderated and off-site, much like AA meetings.”
“What was phase two?”
“That was more quantitative and involved study of caloric intake and so forth. That’s when the DNA sampling was done, the intent being to determine whether obesity has genetic markers.”
“Who sponsored the testing?”
“The National Institutes of Health. Total enrollment was one hundred fifty-seven, males and female, about equally split.”
I looked at Gershwin. We could eliminate the females from the study, obviously. But investigating seventy-five potential suspects was a huge task.
“May I ask the name of the person you’re talking about?” Roth asked.
“Gary Ocampo,” I said. One name in seventy-five. “Do you recall him?”
A brisk nod. “Gary was as troubled as he was intelligent – and he’s very smart. He used self-deprecating humor to mask very deep insecurities, the result of a rather nasty childhood as well as a lifetime of being mocked about his weight. As with most of our larger participants, we did the tests and interviews at his home. For the support-group work he had to come to our facility. He was hesitant at first, but something changed and he really got into it.”
My breath stopped. Had we caught a break?
“How is sampling accomplished?” I asked.
“A nurse hands the patients a swab and explains how to gather material from between gum and inner cheek. The swab is immediately put into a vial and labeled with name and patient code. One swab, one pre-labeled vial. Swab to volunteer, to mouth, to nurse, to vial. No way to make a mistake.”
I sighed, the precise chain-of-custody not what I’d wanted, hoping the nurse tossed Ocampo’s spitty swab into a purse with a half-dozen others and didn’t think to label them until getting back to the U. I thanked Roth and stood to leave.
“Happy to help,” she said. “By the way, how much does Gary weigh these days?”
“About five hundred pounds.”
She looked down at her records and brightened. “Five hundred? Wonderful.”
“Why wonderful?”
“He must have gotten motivated. He’s lost over a hundred fifty pounds.”
13
Patrick White sat at the desk in his apartment, its surface covered with books: Gray’s Anatomy, Human Musculature, Medical-Surgical Nursing. An ironing board was opened at his back, three fresh-pressed nursing uniforms hanging from the board. Music played at low volume, études by Debussy. Outside his window the setting sun had turned the sky into layers of purple and orange.
Patrick’s cell shivered an incoming call. He studied the caller’s name and rolled his eyes.
“Hi, Billy,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“You going to Kevin’s birthday party on Saturday, Nurse Goodbody?”
“Hunh-uh. Gotta study.”
“Bitch. All you do is work anymore.”
Patrick leaned back and tossed his pencil on a book. He spun his head in a circle to loosen his neck. “I have to hit the books, Billy. Got a major anatomy final next week.”
“If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, you’ll see lots of anatomy.” A wicked chuckle. “Take notes.”
“If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, I’ll have a two-day hangover. Can’t do it.”
“Gawd … when did you get so serious? Listen, a few of us are going to the Grotto tonight, just a few drinkies. Here’s an idea: close the fucking book and grab your pretty ass.”
Pictures of the Grotto flashed through Patrick’s head: dark corners, flashing lights, splashing drinks and sweaty dancing bodies, eyes scoping from every direction. It was a pick-up bar, raw sex seeping from the dingy, paint-peeling walls, the bathroom air bitter with the scent of amyl nitrite, any conversation quashed under waves of bass-heavy dance tunes.
The Grotto was Billy’s kind of place, but not Patrick’s. Not any more.
“I’m not doing the Grotto, Billy. No way.”
“You want a study break, Nurse White, have a real one.”
“How about D’Artagnan’s instead?” Patrick said.
“Oh, puh-lease,” Prestwick pouted. “Darts is so lame. All people do there is talk.”
“I’ll go to Darts, Billy. Not the Grotto.”
“Oh, all right, little Miss Picky. if you’re not there, I’m gonna strangle you with your own stethoscope.”
Patrick flipped the textbook closed. “I’ll see you around nine, Billy. But when the clock strikes ten-thirty …”
“You’ll become a pumpkin and mice will pull you home. Buh-byeee.”
Gershwin and I were grabbing a fast taco from a downtown street vendor when word arrived that Gary Ocampo’s DNA sample was running through the new machine and the results were nearly analyzed. We used the siren to move traffic aside and I think there were a couple times I cornered on two wheels.
At the lab we found Roy frowning at the ceiling, arms crossed as his fingers twitched the need for a cigar. Deb Clayton had turned away to take a phone call.
“Who is it?” Gershwin asked Roy.
Roy shook his head. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”
“Out with it,” I said. “Who’s the perp?”
“The DNA says it’s Gary Ocampo,” Roy said, passing me the printout of test results. “Still.”
“No way,” I said, staring at the report. “No way in hell.”
“The perp’s DNA matches Ocampo’s DNA,” Roy said. “Somehow your quarter-ton comic-book salesman has abducted and assaulted at least two healthy men.”
Gershwin thought a moment, snapped his fingers. “Maybe Ocampo’s got some crazy accomplice who’s … it’s too weird.”
“What?”
“Squirting Ocampo’s juice into the victims. Ocampo jacks off and puts it in a turkey baster. The rapist …”
Roy held up a hand. “Let’s wait for Deb to get off the phone before we spin off the planet. She’s checking with a DNA expert.”
She hung up and turned to us. “It can’t be Ocampo, Deb,” I said, feeling like the world was upside-down. “There is no way the guy could assault anyone.”
“Yet it’s his DNA, Carson,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “And at the same time, it isn’t. Ever study biology?”
A long-ago memory interceded. I slapped my forehead.
“What?” Roy said, cigar-denied fingers twitching like he was typing.
“He’s a twin,” I said. “Ocampo’s got an identical twin.”
We were back at Gary’s Fantasy World in twenty minutes, the time almost nine o’clock, the shop window bright against the dark. Ocampo was sitting and tapping at a laptop, setting it aside as we entered. The room had recently been dosed with a pine-scented air freshener, but nothing removes the undertone of too much body in too little space.
I pulled a chair to his bedside. “You have a brother, right, Mr Ocampo? An identical twin.”
Ocampo’s mouth dropped open. “How on earth can you know that?”
“I, uh … took another sample of your DNA yesterday – a tissue. Legal, but perhaps a bit, uh, covert.”
He frowned and I feared another verbal assault. Instead, he crossed his arms in justification and arced an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with my brother?”
“Your DNA still matches the samples taken from the victims.”
“What?”
“There’s only one answer: the DNA came from your brother. Do you have any idea where he is?”
Ocampo looked like I was speaking backwards and he had to translate my words into forward. “Wait … what you mean is … you’re saying my brother, Donnie Ocampo, i
s the one doing these terrible things? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Beyond a doubt. Your brother’s name is Donnie?”
Ocampo nodded. “It was. I guess it still is.”
“He changed his name?” I asked, puzzled.
“Donnie died a week after he was born, Detective,” he said quietly. “He’s been dead for over three decades.”
14
Gershwin and I extracted as much information as possible from a confused and distracted Ocampo. He was born in a Texas border town, his father dead by the time Ocampo hit the world. He hadn’t known about the brother for years, until one day a drunken and teary-eyed mother spoke of a dead twin. At first he’d disbelieved the story as an alcoholic’s mutterings, but his mother had produced photos of two babies on a bed – home birth by a midwife – and the two children as exactly alike as, well, identical twins.
There was only one thing to do: go to the town of the Ocampo’s birth and check the records. Though Ocampo had lived the first ten years of his childhood in Laredo, Texas, he had been born across the border in Mexico, Nuevo Laredo. I took it that his father was a Filipino who’d been working a construction project in the town when Ms Ocampo went into labor. I also took it that Ocampo’s father only worked sporadically owing to a problem with alcohol.
Two alcoholic parents, I thought. No wonder the guy’s got problems.
“So there are these four boys in a gay bar and they’re arguing about who has the longest dick …”
Gerry Holcomb moaned. “Gawd, not again.”
Billy Prestwick reached across the table and slapped at Holcomb. “Don’t stop me if you’ve heard it. Just shut uuuup.”
Patrick leaned back in the upholstered booth. The place was half full, the crowd older and more professional, more paired. Several men wore suits or sport jackets from a day at a bank or ad agency. A couple of dykosauruses sat at the bar, rugged-looking women in their fifties, drinking shots and beers and grumbling about jai-alai teams. The bartender, a tall and balding man with a beret and a John Waters mustache, cradled a phone to his neck as he polished his nails with an emery board.
