The space was surprisingly roomy, but also cluttered and cozy. One wall held two eight-foot-high windows, and opposite them were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, piled to overflowing with academic tomes, bound and loose journals, and even a few works of fiction. In one corner, a tall, glass-enclosed case held dozens of artifacts of various kinds, unlabeled and arranged in no discernible order. On the back wall were a number of framed photos of people, mostly men, and all of them brown- or black-skinned. Most of the men were displaying scars on their sides, and none of them looked either prosperous or happy.
“Coffee?” Gustafson asked, gesturing to a Mr. Coffee in the corner as she settled in behind a busy, massive, antique oak desk, and in front of a six-foot-wide world map festooned with pushpins.
Ben shook his head and took the chair opposite her. There was an odd, appealing mix of intensity and serenity in the woman’s face.
“I…I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t really remember answering your ad,” he said.
“So Libby, our department secretary, told me. Well, no matter. You’re here.”
Ben looked about.
“I’m here,” he said.
“But you have no idea where here is. Is that right?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
The professor studied him for a time, and Ben sensed that she was close to thanking him for coming and sending him back to whatever rock he had crawled out from. He wouldn’t have blamed her in the least, and sadly, it wouldn’t really have mattered to him. Was he in a depression? Midlife crisis? Probably both. But that didn’t matter either. Maybe instead of the friendly neighborhood career counselor, he should pay a visit to the friendly neighborhood psychopharmacologist.
“I think you should know,” Gustafson said finally, “that you’re not the first detective I’ve interviewed for this job. You’re the third.”
“Why did you reject the first two?”
“I didn’t. Neither of them wanted it.”
“Not enough money?” Ben asked, knowing from his experience with others in his clan that there was little likelihood of any other possibility.
“A year or so ago it looked like we were going to get a grant to expand the investigative, enforcement-oriented portion of our work. That’s why I placed the ad I did—to try and line up the right people for the job. Then the source of our grant decided to spend their money elsewhere. Now another foundation actually has delivered. It’s not much, but it is something.”
“Congratulations.”
“Would you like to hear what this is all about?”
That’s okay. Whatever it is, I’m not up for it, Ben was thinking.
“Go on,” his voice said.
Gustafson took a small pile of twice-folded pamphlets from her drawer and handed one over. It was entitled “Underworld Organ Trafficking,” and subtitled “The World’s Problem.”
“Trafficking in human organs is illegal in most countries in the world,” she began, as Ben scanned the pamphlet, “yet it continues to happen at an alarming rate. The donors of these illicitly procured organs may be dead, in that ‘dead/not quite dead’ middle ground, or very much alive. But what almost all of them have in common is that they are impoverished. There are buyers, sellers, brokers, hospitals, clinics, and surgeons involved. And believe me, Mr. Callahan, the amount of money changing hands in this secret, outlaw world is considerable—millions upon millions of dollars.”
Ben set the pamphlet aside.
“Tell me something, Dr. Gustafson,” he said. “An impoverished person is desperate for money, and a person with means is desperate for a kidney or liver or whatever.”
“Yes?”
“If it is a crime for someone to broker the exchange of an organ for cash, who is the victim of the crime? And perhaps just as importantly, does anyone care?”
“I’ll answer the second of your questions first, Mr. Callahan. We care. Seldom do any of the donors end up with what they expected. As usual, they are the needy, taken advantage of by those with more. If you need an analogy, think of a poor young woman who is encouraged by a pimp with money to sell herself as a prostitute. Organ Guard is one of just two watchdog agencies of its kind, but our membership is steadily growing. Countries around the world are beginning to see the need to commit some of their resources to this problem. And as you will see, even here in the States situations are arising.”
“You say governments are committing resources to the problem,” Ben said, “but I have this feeling there may be at least some exaggeration in that claim.”
Again, Gustafson studied him.
“Progress in this area is slow,” she acknowledged grudgingly, “I’ll give you that. But it is happening. When we provide authorities in any number of countries with hard evidence of illegal organ trafficking, arrests are made.”
“Congratulations,” Ben said again, not knowing what else to say, and hoping he didn’t sound cynical or insincere.
In a world rife with disease, terrorism, dictatorships, drugs, prostitution, political corruption, and corporate vice, Alice Gustafson’s cause was fringe. She was Doña Quixote—an idealist tilting against the injustice of a crime in which there were no victims, and aside from an occasional investigative article in the Times, precious little interest.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Callahan, what made you become a private investigator?”
“I’m not sure I know anymore. I used to teach school, but the principal thought my classes were too unstructured and I didn’t discipline the kids enough. The kids loved me, and I loved them—well, most of them—but he said that really didn’t matter.”
“Nice.”
“I never read his reference letter, but the results of my search for another teaching job suggested it wasn’t exactly glowing. Reading detective novels was always a passion of mine, so I thought I’d give it a try. I sort of saw myself as the best parts of each of those guys.”
“That would be quite a man. John D. MacDonald is my personal favorite author. I think I’ve read almost everything he ever wrote.”
“His Travis McGee was the man as far as I was concerned.”
Gustafson’s laugh was natural and uninhibited.
“Well, who wouldn’t want to live on a houseboat in Florida and rescue beautiful women in distress?”
Ben flashed on Katherine de Souci.
“The problem is I forgot that all of my role models and their beautiful women were fictional.”
“Living in the real world is often a daunting task for all of us.” The professor leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingertips together, clearly trying to decide if it was worth continuing or whether she should simply move on to detective number four. “So,” she said, the decision apparently made, “speaking of Florida, are you still interested in learning about the job? Because that’s where we would be sending you.”
“Professor Gustafson, I would be lying if I said I have any real interest in your cause.”
“I admire your owning that, Mr. Callahan. Candor is always appreciated here.”
“There’s a fine line between candor and just not caring, Professor.”
“I see…. Well, take a look at these photos. They were sent to me by a coroner in Fort Pierce, Florida, named Stanley Woyczek, who used to study medical anthropology with me. He knows all about Organ Guard. You may be right about illicit organ trafficking being a victimless crime, but then again…”
Over the years, Ben had seen a number of coroners’ photos, in black and white and, as these were, in color. Still, these images caused him to inhale sharply. The cadaver, a man in his twenties, had been bludgeoned to a pulp.
“He was wandering across a largely deserted highway at three in the morning, when he was hit by a tractor-trailer,” Gustafson explained. “According to Stanley, death was instantaneous.”
“I imagine so.”
“When you’re ready, take a look at the bottom three photos.”
“His buttocks?”
&n
bsp; “Actually, the area just above the buttocks. Stanley writes that he is absolutely certain this man was a bone marrow donor within a day of his death.”
“So?”
“So he’s called every hospital and clinic and hematologist in the area, and as far as he can tell, this man was a patient of none of them.”
“Identification?”
“None.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No match.”
“Goodness. And there is no doubt in the coroner’s mind about him being a marrow donor?”
“For the moment, you can make that unwilling marrow donor.”
“I’ll bet there’s a simple, logical explanation.”
“Perhaps. But take a look at this.”
Gustafson passed across a file folder with a single word, RAMIREZ, handwritten on the tab. The contents included a tape cassette, typed transcript, several photographs, and two newspaper articles, one carefully cut from the Hallowell Reporter in Hallowell, Maine, and the other from the National Enquirer. Both articles were from about fourteen months ago. Ben chose to start with the more spectacular of the two.
VAMPIRES SUCKED MY BODY DRY
MODERN-DAY VAMPIRES USE RV TO SCOOP UP VICTIM, NEEDLES TO SUCK OUT BLOOD
The brief article, complete with photos, recounted the claim of Juanita Ramirez, a fifty-year-old motel housekeeper, that she had been drugged, blindfolded, kidnapped, held prisoner in the back of a motor home, then experimented on by vampires claiming to be doctors. A physician who examined Ramirez after the alleged abduction found evidence that her bone marrow had been sucked out through large needles twisted into the bone of her hip. One of the photos from the paper, allegedly a shot of the skin just above her buttocks, bore a striking resemblance to the one sent by Gustafson’s former student.
“Stanley Woyczek didn’t know anything about this other case when he sent me the photos,” Gustafson said.
“How on earth did you learn about it?” Ben asked.
Gustafson’s smile was enigmatic. “Some people read newspapers when they’re not working, some watch television, some play around on eBay. I Google things. Lots of things. It relaxes me. That other article—the smaller one—quotes an osteopathic doctor in the north woods of Maine as saying that this woman’s bone marrow may have been taken. I went up and interviewed both Juanita and the doctor. She describes a big gray motor home with some sort of dark decorations on the side. Even before this packet from Stanley, I believed someone had, in fact, kidnapped this woman, aspirated her bone marrow, and subsequent to her procedure, blindfolded her and dropped her off someplace.”
“But why?”
“That, Mr. Callahan, is why we need a detective. I would do this myself, but I have courses to teach. And besides, my arthritis is giving me a devil of a time. Sneaking in disguise into hospitals in Turkey or Moldova or South Africa in order to expose organ traffickers may be a thing of the past for me.”
“I truly hope not, Professor.”
“Why, thank you.”
“So why Florida? I thought your interest was focused on Third World countries.”
“Mostly because that’s where the action is right now. If we can come up with something organized in this country, anything at all, I suspect we wouldn’t have to worry nearly so much about funding. And even though having bone marrow taken might not be as debilitating as losing a kidney, or liver, or heart, it’s still organ theft.”
The woman’s story and flimsy evidence didn’t leave Ben any more taken with Organ Guard or its mission, nor did he believe there was anything more sinister surrounding the young man’s death in Florida than the grille of a tractor-trailer, but he was absolutely impressed with Alice Gustafson, and in truth, jealous of her passion as well.
“I’m afraid the foundation grant we have is not very large, Mr. Callahan.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Would you be willing to go to Florida and see if you can find the identity of the unfortunate man in that photo, and perhaps piece together what happened to him?”
“I’m not licensed in Florida.”
“That shouldn’t get in your way. I’m sure at one time or another, you have followed people into other states.”
“I have.”
“Besides, my former student, Stanley, knows the police in his area well. He has promised to put me in touch with them. I don’t think he’ll have trouble doing the same for you.”
“Haven’t the police been working on the case?”
“Technically, there hasn’t been a crime committed, so I don’t think they are devoting too much energy to identifying the victim. Besides, they have many cases going on at the same time. You will have only one. Are you interested?”
Ben was about to say something about how busy he was, but there was nothing about this woman that suggested she’d believe him in anything but the truth.
“How long do I have?” he asked instead.
“We can afford your plane fare—coach—and eight days at one hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. Make that reasonable expenses.”
Ben tried to keep his black humor in check. Katherine de Souci had been paying him a hundred and fifty an hour.
“I understand why you’re having trouble getting someone,” he managed. “I would think that anyone who would work for that little wouldn’t be someone you’d want.”
“You are someone I want,” Gustafson said. “You have the honesty to tell me you don’t care for our cause and the intellect to have succeeded, at least by my standards, as a teacher.”
“What if I need more time?”
“I doubt the Organ Guard committee on enforcement would authorize any further expenditure on you.”
“Who’s the committee on enforcement?” Ben asked.
Alice Gustafson grinned modestly.
“That would be me.”
Four
There can be no doubt that the elder must rule the younger.
—PLATO, The Republic, Book III
The St. Clement’s high school track, a four-hundred-meter rubberized oval, was Natalie’s favorite in the city. Because it was near neither her apartment nor the medical school, she didn’t run on it as much as she would have liked. Today, though, reexperiencing the pleasures of working out on such a near-perfect surface, she promised herself that situation would change.
From as far back as she could remember, she had known that she could run fast, and at times over the year before she entered Newhouse, when she was putting herself in one unsafe situation after another, the ability was life-saving. A gym instructor at the school timed her at several distances, and quickly referred her for training to a friend who just happened to coach track at Harvard. By the time she was accepted into the college, she had broken several high-school records, and had established herself as a star at the middle distances.
Sometime in her junior year, following publication in the Globe of an article about her, Doug Berenger came to watch her train. He had been a decent runner at Harvard, though far from a record-breaker. After lunch together the following week, he invited her to work in his lab, provided she could do so without interfering with her running. The two of them had been a team of sorts ever since.
At eleven in the morning the air was warmer than she would have preferred, but the track seemed to absorb the heat and hold it at bay. After just ten minutes of easy jogging, her Achilles was already thanking her for the relief from running on the roads. Wearing maroon warm-up pants, a narrow-strapped tee, and a white sweatband around her forehead and ebony hair, she loped effortlessly through a turn, searching for Terry Millwood.
She was almost three weeks into her four-month suspension from school—an unmerited punishment, she believed, that effectively moved her back a year from the class with which she started, and ended her residency appointment at White Memorial. Not a day had passed without recurrent sparks of anger directed at Cliff Renfro, his surgical chief at White Memorial, or Dean Goldenberg. At thirty-fi
ve she had precious little time to waste getting to where she wanted to be professionally. Now, thanks to them, she had no choice but to hurry up and wait.
Up ahead, Millwood slipped through the gate and onto the track, waving when he saw her. At six feet, he was four inches taller than she was, but whereas her physique was willowy—wiry, many would say—his was burly and almost overly muscled. Millwood was a better than decent tennis player, and good at most other sports as well. But what he really excelled at was surgery. At Doug Berenger’s urging, Natalie had begun hanging about the OR even before she entered medical school. Her mentor was urbane and composed in almost every circumstance, and was respected and revered as a cardiac transplant surgeon. But during especially tense times in the OR, he could be a madman—hyper and quite tough on the surgical crew.
Millwood, Berenger’s protégé on the transplant team, was quite the opposite—calm and positive even in the most critical, gut-wrenching crises. Natalie’s first case observing the man was the twelve-hour replacement of a leaking aortic aneurysm and dysfunctional aortic valve. He sang opera softly throughout the grueling, eventually successful procedure, not once raising his voice or losing his composure. In her heart, Natalie knew she wanted to emulate Millwood when—make that if now—it was her turn in the number one position at the table, but in her head, she suspected she would be more like the flamboyant, volatile Berenger.
“So, how goes it?” Millwood asked, moving in next to her midway down one of the straightaways.
“Ever had road rage?”
“Maybe once.”
“Well, I have it all the time now, whether I’m in a car or not, and it’s directed at virtually everybody. It’s a wonder I haven’t ground my teeth down to nubs.”
“Have you seen someone?”
“You mean like a dentist?”
“At least you’re still funny.”
“I love that you appreciate that I’m funny. You’re like the only one. If you mean am I seeing my therapist, Dr. Fierstein and I are having mini-appointments almost every day. Ten or fifteen minutes. They’re all the same. I tell her I feel like I’m going to kill someone, anyone, and she tells me that would probably only make matters worse. Sadly, I’m not sure she’s right.”
The Fifth Vial Page 5
