Body Broker

by Daniel M Ford

  The teens will surprise you if you give them half a chance.

  “Liza, I can’t let you go in. And I’m guessing your friends already scattered.”

  “Probably.”

  “My friend the cop and I, we have to stay here till this shuts down. So I’m calling you a ride, and I’m putting you in it, and the driver’s payment is going to be dependent on watching you go into a building where they judge you are safe. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll make sure to request a woman driver.”

  She was silent a minute. “Thanks.”

  I got out my phone and opened a ride-share app, input the appropriate info, using the address of one of the school’s residence halls as given me by Liza.

  “Are you gonna find Gabriel?” More worry coming through now. But not panic.

  “Well, based on what you’ve told me, I just got a lot closer. You could’ve told me this on Tuesday.”

  “I didn’t think he’d really be gone for more than a day, then. I thought he just…needed some space or some time. He feels pressure and it boils over.”

  “Pressure?”

  “Running. Cross-country. Track. The coaches and recruiters are all over him and he hates it. He only does it because he’s good at it, and feels like he needs it to pay for college.”

  “His dad could probably buy some colleges.”

  “Doesn’t want his dad’s money. Doesn’t think his mom should have to pay after everything she’s already done for him. So he’s determined to get it himself and running seemed like the best way.”

  “I know a little bit about what that kind of pressure is like,” I said. “When I find him, I’ll try to talk with him about it. But I’ve got to find him.”

  “Are you going to tell anyone?”

  “About you carrying these?” I took the pack of needles out of my pocket, kept one for myself, and handed her the rest.

  “Why are you…”

  “Giving you these back or keeping one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need one to confront Thalheim with. Don’t worry,” I said, as I saw the panic rising in her eyes. “I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  “But he’ll know.”

  “I think he’ll have bigger worries than who snitched, Liza. This could mean his license, his career, jail time.”

  “But that’ll come back on me.”

  “I promise it won’t.” There my mouth went again, writing a check I didn’t know if I could cover.

  “How?”

  “I can be very persuasive.” I felt that black edge in my vision come back. My instant dislike of Dr. Thalheim was crystallizing now. I should’ve listened to my gut right away.

  I was alerted by my phone that Liza’s ride was here. “You need a hand walking there?” I gestured to the headlights that had just swept up the gravel road.

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  I extended my arm, bent at the elbow, and she leaned on it. I walked her to the car, put her in it, and explained the situation to the driver, a slightly sleepy-eyed fortyish woman. She looked like a mom, probably driving for extra cash, in sweatpants and a t-shirt. The car was an older model Ford, a little loud, but scrupulously clean. My gut trusted her.

  “You get your pay, and a fifty percent tip, when she’s safely indoors and texts me proof of that fact. Okay?”

  “For a fifty percent tip all the way to Furnace Bay, I’ll carry her up the stairs to her dorm.”

  I eyed Liza, who was frantically shaking her head. She sat in the back of the car like the cheap upholstery might bite her. “I don’t think we need to go that far.” I gave the both of them one of my cards, and went back to the door.

  The crowd had dispersed, since it had reached capacity. A few kids, without backup plans or just really desperate to get inside an old barn, milled around. Bob leaned against the front door.

  “You get the first shift inside for leaving me in the lurch,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, man. I really am. That was important.”

  “The Kennelly kid?”

  “Might be a break.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Give me till Monday. I haven’t gotten anywhere by then, I’ll have something for you to follow up on.”

  “Fine. Get in there and watch the crowd.”

  Chapter 27

  The rest of the night was generally awful. I gave dirty looks to any of the kids who seemed to even think about getting rowdy. I was agitated. I wanted to be working my case. Maybe kicking down Thalheim’s door and redecorating his office by tossing him vigorously around it.

  I was deep in a particularly violent visualization when Bob finally tapped me for his inside shift. Being back out in the night air calmed me down a little, and by the end of the night I had a rational plan of action.

  I tried to give Bob a hundred bucks out of my envelope at the end of the night but he wouldn’t have it. We didn’t talk much on the way back to the marina. Bob could read that I was angry and also that I didn’t much want to talk about the case, just work it. So we left it alone, listening to the crackle of his radio and the minor calls that came in around the county on a Friday night.

  I didn’t even have a cocktail that night. I both barely slept and slept well; I popped out of bed at seven a.m. without needing an alarm, got dressed, and started walking.

  I was standing outside the firm’s office when somebody came to open it up at 8:45.

  “Matthew,” I said, as my lunch partner of the other day eyed me strangely, keys in one hand, steaming travel mug in the other.

  “You’re not usually here early. Or on a Saturday. Or at all.”

  “We must be ever-vigilant and willing to do without the mortal pleasures of sleep and breakfast in the pursuit of our calling.”

  “What?”

  “I got up extra early and walked here. Now open the damn door.”

  I barely waited for Matt to clear the doorway before I’d grabbed a set of keys and taken the same company car I’d driven earlier in the week. He yelled after me, something about paperwork and permission, but I didn’t have time for that.

  I drove straight to Farrington Academy, reasoning that a school with that big a boarder population had Saturday office hours, and likely enough nurses and guidance counselors on duty all weekend as well. Maybe I’d get lucky and Dr. Thalheim would be right there.

  Without a suit I had fallen back on my rather small stock of collared shirts and unstained jeans. But it was a Saturday. Besides, the cut of this particular polo shirt emphasized my shoulders and my arms. Amy Riordan might be on the desk.

  I knew the instant I buzzed that she was, because her voice sounded surprised. Perhaps even delighted.

  “Mr Dixon!” The door buzzed and I swung it open, hopping eagerly up the steps to her office. I smiled, but it was a cold smile, for all that she looked lovely in a red half-sleeve sweater shirt, jeans, and matching red flats.

  “Amy,” I said, laying one hand on the edge of her desk. “I don’t suppose Dr. Thalheim is in today.”

  She held up one long finger and flicked a few keys. “Looks like he’s on call but not on campus. I can call him. He’s got a private practice and consultancy in his home office.” She was already reaching for the phone.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. Maybe just give me his number and I’ll call him myself.”

  “Of course.” She grabbed a Post-it and a pen and quickly wrote it out. “This is his practice number, and probably the one he’s more likely to answer.”

  “Great.” I brushed my fingers against hers as I took the note, smiled wider.

  She blushed, but only a little. Fetchingly.

  “You any closer to finding Gabe?”

  Her use of the nickname gave me a moment’s pause. Everyone e
lse who knew him — his mother, Liza, even Gen as an employee of his dad — called him Gabriel. Maybe she wasn’t as close to the pulse of the place as I had thought.

  “I hope so. Just one or two things maybe Dr. Thalheim can clear up for me.”

  “Well I hope we’ll be seeing him back here soon.”

  “Me too, Amy. Me too.”

  I won’t deny that a part of me definitely wanted to ask if she might like to see me, soon, here or elsewhere. But I had blood in my eyes and the scent in my nose, and there was, as they say, no time for love.

  Chapter 28

  It took only a moment to find the address associated with Thalheim’s private psychological practice. Or consultancy. Or surgery. I didn’t much know or care about the term, just where it was. It was on a residential street not far off a golf course, one of the more well-to-do edges of the county. The kind of place a big paper would call a leafy street if big papers ever wrote about Cecil County.

  I drove around the development. Broad lawns, big houses, two and even three-car garages. It looked new. I drove past a few For Sale signs. A quick glance at Zillow while I parked in a cul-de-sac revealed some eye-popping numbers.

  Then again, I lived on a boat that only cost me the price of gas and marina space and labor, but that was only when Marty could catch me. How was I to know what was expensive or wasn’t?

  But it seemed to me that, driving a Porsche, owning a house that went nearly half a million, a twelve thousand-dollar watch, it didn’t add up. I wasn’t sure what Liza considered pocket money, but if her parents could pay the freight for Farrington, it was more than the three dollars and seventy-eight cents in my pockets at the moment.

  I looked at the address. There was a sleek car shape, complete with spoiler, under a car cover, with the Porsche mark or badge or heraldry bright and yellow all over it.

  “What an asshole,” I muttered. The second time I drove past I heard the distinctive rumble of bikes. Loud bikes. I turned onto a cross street and pulled up to the curb, and they roared past behind me. Looked like standard suburban biker cosplay: leather cuts, shiny helmets, wallet chains, the works. It was Saturday morning, and a couple of guys who’d gotten tired of golf wanted to feel bad. I got a glimpse of the cut as they roared on; the patch on the back read Aesir, but I didn’t get a good look at the design.

  I pulled back around and parked in front of a house just across from Thalheim’s. No sign of anyone stirring, not even to mow their lovingly tended lawns.

  An addition on the side of Thalheim’s house had a separate entrance, and light blocking curtains on all the windows. That had to be the practice. There was another car in the driveway, a standard SUV of some kind, this one with a sticker from some other local prep school on the back. I paused between that and the shrouded sports-car, doubting my approach for a moment.

  If he had a receptionist, I’d have to make it on charm and bullshit. I could deal in both with the best of them, but I was running a little hot.

  I could, if he was busy in the practice, quietly burgle his house in the pursuit of anything incriminating.

  I looked to the front of the house. There was no camera, no shield-sticker in a window, no sign warning me off.

  I wanted to. Boy did I want to. But I decided on the direct approach.

  I sidled up to the practice entrance and tried the handle. It slid open. It led into a small sitting room, no one in it, just a row of IKEA chairs against the wall, a low coffee table with magazines spread on it, and a mini-fridge against the far wall. There was a door with a sign dangling from a nail by a cord that read “Session in Progress.”

  I glanced at my phone. It was 9:54, so I doubt I had long to wait. I glanced at the magazines: Time, Sports Illustrated, Highlights, the like. If I strained, I could hear the murmur of conversation in the other room, but that seemed intrusive. I picked up Highlights and flipped through it.

  I was studying a page for the third or fourth time — really engaging with it — when I heard the conversation break up and a door open on the far side of the other room. Then the door facing me opened.

  Thalheim was dressed in home-office casual. Neatly pressed khakis, tan loafers, a light purple shirt with simple silver stud cufflinks. He started to flip the sign when he suddenly registered my presence and did a double-take.

  I saw a flutter of fear in his eyes, but he calmly attempted to resume control.

  “Mr. Dixon. What are you doing at my home office? Any inquiries should go through the school.”

  “Really I’m just here for Goofus and Gallant, doc.” I held up the page I’d been studying. “I’m wondering about a Utilitarian critique of the simple moral binaries of the strip. You know. What would Jeremy Bentham think? What if Goofus’ actions lead to a larger sum of pleasure?”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “What, sharp philosophical dissections of legacy children’s American pop culture not your thing, doc? It’s just, I’m thinking of going back to school, and I’m looking for a thesis topic.”

  “What do you have to say to me that would require being in my home office?”

  I set down the magazine and stood. I put my hands on the back of my hips as I walked till I was within just a foot or two of him. He smelled like too much cologne and a healthy dose of talc. His skin looked fake-tanned, but there was a trickle of sweat on his brow.

  I pulled the capped hypodermic of Naloxone from my pocket and held it up.

  “What? You use opiates, need some more of a drug you can’t pronounce because you think it’ll save you? You won’t be able to use it on yourself.”

  I let him go on, just staring at him with the needle in hand. “Doc. I took this off a kid. A minor, who was trying to get into a party that had hired me to work the door. A pretty crazy break in my case, I know, but the kid told me they’d gotten it from you.”

  “That’s nonsense. I don’t distribute medication to minors without parental knowledge and consent, and certainly not something like that. A wild accusation.”

  “Is it, though?” I turned the needle around in my hand, tracing a bar code, some numbers. “Prescription drugs have pretty significant traceability, Doc. Would not be hard at all to find out what pharmacy this came from, who it was dispersed to, when, for how much, in what batch. Or at least, where it was meant to go.”

  That single bead of sweat became a trickle. He went a little pale under his tan.

  “Bullshit,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t know how to find any of that out. They wouldn’t release that information to some two-bit redneck hood pretending to be a detective.”

  “Just because I live in Cecil County doesn’t make me a redneck. And where would that leave you? Anyway, my best friend’s a physician’s assistant who can find the information in moments.”

  “What do you want? Drugs? Cash?”

  He’d gone from fear to anger to bribery and deal-making in record time. I decided to get more direct.

  “Doc,” I said, “what color would you call that shirt? Lilac, maybe?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a nice color. The blood’ll ruin it.”

  “Is that a th — ”

  He didn’t get the words out. I didn’t go for the face because I didn’t actually want him bloodied. What I did do was drive a right hook straight into his stomach. He crumpled over the blow, turning whatever words he’d been about to say into a muffled oomph.

  I grabbed the back of his collar with my left and dragged him through the open door into his office, dumped him onto the floor by sharply twisting him over my out-flung leg.

  “I don’t like hurting people, doctor,” I said, a little shaking edge in my voice. “But now I know you sell drugs. To kids. To kids who are supposed to be in your care. So I’m having a little bit of a hard time thinking of you as people.”

  He had a little fight in him. He came up to his
feet, heavy and slow, and looped a fist at me. I caught it, turned his wrist and ran his arm up behind his back. I duck-walked him over to his desk and pressed him face down against it.

  “Gabriel Kennelly. You sell him anything?”

  “No.” His voice was muffled, with his cheek pressed against the wood of his desk.

  I twisted his arm a little harder. “Are you absolutely certain about that?”

  “I prescribed him drugs, yes, but those are on record.”

  “What kind?”

  “That’s privileged,” he protested. Somehow he managed to sound aggrieved with his cheek mashed against the edge of his desk.

  I could break his arm. I could twist his shoulder joint right out of the socket and leave him screaming in pain.

  I hadn’t been lying when I said I didn’t like hurting people. I felt the band of a wristwatch on his hand and pulled his cuff up.

  “This one cost twelve thousand dollars too, doc?” It wasn’t the same one as earlier in the week. Instead of leather, this one was all gleaming stainless steel, or so I thought.

  “It’s a Breguet Type XXI,” he said. “You could sell it for six or seven thousand easily. Take it. Take it and go.”

  “Doc, I’m not here for your watch or your money. I want you to answer the question I just asked, and if you don’t, I’m going to pull this watch off your wrist and stomp it into splinters.” He’d stopped fighting and gone limp against his desk. I pulled the watch free and threw it on the ground.

  “What kind of medication did you prescribe for Gabriel Kennelly?”

  “Pain pills. Anti-anxiety medication. I don’t know the specifics of type or dosage. I’d have to check the school records.”

  “Why’d he need them?”

  He shrugged. “Kids complain. Pain, stress, the usual.”

  “And isn’t your job to treat them?” He didn’t answer that. “You know anything about where he’s gone? Ever heard of something called Ladders? Maybe it’s a kind of rehab place?”

  He raised his other hand in the air, started tapping it frantically against the side of his desk.