GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “All mine,” she replied. She turned to Sir Drystan. “Daddy, you never said he was so debonair.”

  “Tut, Cambie,” he replied. “We’re here for boats not boys.”

  “You’re here for boats,” she murmured.

  “I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a time crunch,” said Pembroke with a sideways glance at his daughter. “I wonder if we couldn’t see the models we discussed?”

  “Of course,” G said. “You won’t find a more complete selection anywhere in the world.”

  “Very good,” he replied. “If your inventory is as complete as you indicated in our previous discussions, this shouldn’t take long at all.”

  G led his lordship on a flourishing tour of the best racing yachts Spinnaker Sales had to offer. He knew he’d impressed father—and daughter—with his voluminous knowledge of each boat’s details: draft, keel, fuel capacity, overall beam, water displacement, etc. Facts and figures, delivered with shark cunning, and a few devastating winks for Cambie—G thought sure he’d made the sale. Ha, he laughed to himself. Made the sale. I’m charming without even trying.

  But at the edge of his senses, every now and then, an odd, unpleasant odor made itself known. Neither Sir Pembroke nor his gorgeous daughter seemed to notice it, but G did. He wondered if perhaps a gull had found its way into the building’s ventilation system and summarily died. Most unsavory, he thought. And bound to get more unsavory.

  Still, Sir Pembroke and his daughter were all smiles as they boarded boat after boat. “I must admit, Mr. Vasquez, I didn’t really expect your selection to live up to your rather glowing description.” Pembroke paused a beat. “But honestly, I have never seen anything like this. So much quality at my fingertips. I should like to flood your showroom and take each and every hull out for a spin.”

  “Thank you, Sir Drystan,” G said. “There are still more to see, if you wish?”

  “I believe we’ve seen more than enough to close the deal. I’m going to add four additional hulls to my order,” Pembroke said, giddy with the purchase and the assets he had which allowed the purchase. “And Mr. Vasquez, I am very good friends with New Zealand’s captain, Charles Draper. I plan to recommend your establishment—wait a moment.” Pembroke stared behind G. “That’s a Jeanneau frame if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Ah,” G said, “the 42DS.”

  “Is that the one, Daddy?” Cambie clutched her hands together and bounced.

  “I believe it is,” Pembroke replied. He leaned conspiratorially towards G and whispered, “I promised Cambie I’d get her a 42 if you had it in the showroom. Well done, Mr. Vasquez.”

  “Would you like to go aboard?” G asked, winking at Pembroke and taking Cambie’s hand.

  “Yes, oh, yes I would,” she said.

  They covered forty yards of showroom floor in an instant. “Watch your step,” G said, giving the shapely daughter a hand up. He let Sir Drystan board next and then clambered up after them. The moment he set foot on deck, G knew something was wrong.

  The odor was there, like a wall. From the sour look on Sir Drystan’s face, it was clear his lordship had scented it as well.

  Apparently, Cambie wasn’t too worried about it. “I’m going to go below,” she said.

  “No, wait,” G called after her. “Let me…” But she was already down the stairs.

  G let out a dreadful sigh. He was greatly fearful that she’d find a dead seagull. When he heard her scream, he felt sure she’d found something worse.

  Lord Pembroke ran to the below-deck stair just in time to catch his daughter as she leaped and tripped over the hatch. Her eyes bulged and she could barely breathe. “Blood,” she gasped.

  “What in the world?” Sir Drystan exclaimed as she dragged him to exit the deck. “What did you see?”

  “Wait!’ G cried. “I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. Wait for me at the front desk. I’ll see to this!” G bounded down the steps and saw nothing at first. He looked in the bedroom behind the stairs and found nothing. There was nothing amiss anywhere in the main cabin. The smell was another matter. Each breath was like being hit with a sickly sweet, scented hammer.

  G knew where it was. The fore cabin, the master bedroom. G stepped around the small dining table, passed the galley, and stumbled into the room. Sprawled across the king bed was a very bloody corpse.

  It was a man, someone G had seen before in the company of one of his “private” clients. But this man’s skin was seven shades of vile. Blood had pooled on the bed beneath his skull. And his arms and legs were spread as if he had died while making a snow angel.

  G doubled over and heaved on the floor. He clambered out of the room, vomiting as he lunged toward the stairs. He needed to get containment on this, but he had no idea how he could. Pembroke and his daughter had seen the body. What would they tell the authorities? Maybe, just maybe, G thought, he could put a spin on the whole thing and persuade his Welsh visitors not to go to the police. Let G handle it, he would say. After all, it would be a Spinnaker Sales affair.

  But worse than that task was the circumstances around the body itself: how it had gotten there, why it had been left there, and who could have so thoroughly dispatched such a capable…employee. As he descended the ladder to the showroom floor, G cringed inwardly. He thought of the big guy with the silver case. Spector.

  His stomach already roiling, G found no one at the front desk. Pembroke and his sexy kitten of a daughter…had gone. Things were spinning out of control. It was a vortex, and G felt he was caught in its relentless pull. He stared at the phone. He had a call to make, but he knew very well it could be his last call. His employer didn’t like loose ends.

  He punched in the number but hesitated to hit send. In the span of just a few minutes the vision of his mega-commission party had vanished. Pembroke’s car was long gone. He took a deep breath and hit send. Losing a commission paled in comparison to other things he might lose.

  Chapter 14

  The fake brunette and the fake blonde charge nurses sang a different song when I entered the Cardiology wing this time.

  “Dr. Shepherd’s procedure is running a little long,” said Nurse Pelagris, the blond. “But please wait in his office.”

  “Can I get you a coffee…soft drink?” Nurse Brandywine asked. She wore her lustrous brunette hair in a decidedly grandmotherish bob.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied. “A Dr. Pepper, if you have it.”

  I was barely in Shepherd’s office five minutes before Nurse Brandywine showed up with a large cup of ice and a tall Dr. Pepper.

  “Here ya’ go, officer,” she said. Technically, I’m not an officer of anything. Not in the sense she was using the word. But I was okay with her flawed assumption.

  I was also okay with her change in attitude. There wasn’t a hint of resentment in her manner, but I knew she had to be feeling it. Doc Shepherd must have had a few more words with his charge nurses after I left the last time. I hadn’t known the good doctor for very long, but what I’d learned of him so far, I liked.

  I sipped my soda and scanned the quilt of awards and diplomas on the office walls. I noticed that the dates on most of them were current, this year even. I considered all the recognition, all the awards, etc. I felt sure it wasn’t ego-stroking. Not for Doc Shepherd. The guy seemed about as humble as can be. Old school humble.

  I laughed to myself. I should have figured it out sooner. After all, I was sitting in the office of a heart surgeon. Those diplomas, certificates, and awards weren’t for Doc Shepherd at all. They were decorations of comfort for his patients. If someone was going to have a doctor cut into his heart, it would be more than a little peace of mind to have a surgeon as qualified as Doc Shepherd. Each one of those framed pieces of paper was a security blanket.

  The office door opened. “Ah, Officer Spector!” Doc Shepherd shook my hand. His bow tie was bright red today. He wore a traditional white lab coat, and his mustache was waxed into a gleeful curl. “I’m dreadfully sorry about the delay.�
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  “Complications?”

  “Not with the procedure,” he said. “Laser angioplasty is fairly routine. The problem was the Westing excimer laser was not the one I requested. Those Westing catheters are unwieldy as heck. I much prefer the Irwin implement and had to wait close to thirty minutes for its delivery.” He instantly realized he’d gone over my head and smiled. “All jargon,” he said. He closed the office door and waddled over to his seat behind the desk.

  He folded his hands on the blotter and stared thoughtfully. “I must confess I was a bit worried about you,” he said. “All that ruckus on the phone and then the abrupt disconnect…I almost called the police. Of course that would be redundant, wouldn’t it? And you look none the worse for wear.”

  “Unexpected visitor is all,” I said. “He thought it would be funny to jump out and surprise me. Joke’s on him, I guess.”

  He twirled his mustache. “Quite.”

  “The blade,” I said, wanting to divert his keen eyes and keener mind. “You know something about it?”

  He blinked. “Yes, yes I do. More than I ever wanted to know, in fact.”

  I leaned forward, rested my forearms on his desk.

  “I didn’t waste my time with database queries,” he said. “Coming from a long line of surgeons, I had much better primary sources, my Uncle Timothy being the best. I sent him a scanned image, and he called me straight along. Surgical steel, he confirmed, as I suspected he would. Somewhat inferior grade cutting steel of its day, but nonetheless effective given its use.”

  “What kind of instrument is it?” I asked. “What’s it for?”

  “Well, it’s the length of the instrument that gives it away…that and the retractable blade. It was used mainly in the late 1800’s and is probably one of a very few still in existence. My uncle recognized it from a particularly gruesome assortment called the Grisham Collection. It is called Cain’s Dagger, and it was used for abortion.”

  Abortion. The word sat hard in the pit of my stomach. I swallowed down bile and drifted back in my chair. For the moment, all association with the Smiling Jack case disintegrated.

  Beyond all sunrises and sunsets…beyond all magnificent storms and the myriad intricacies of life in the natural world, there was nothing so beautiful and precious as a child. I had held a newborn once, a baby girl. I cradled her protectively in my arms and stared down at her in awe. Barely a handful and yet, a person. A thinking, feeling person. One who would work and play, hope and dream, love and weep.

  And not just priceless for what she might become but for what she already was. From the most minute cells and their organelles to the major body systems, respiration, circulation, even the spectacular nervous system…all designed to work synergistically—she was a miracle of life. And yet, how many like her had been carelessly destroyed? Public and private industry measurements make the number at approximately 42 million children slain worldwide through abortion.

  But my sources were more accurate, and I knew the number was higher. Much higher.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the rage surge begin to bubble up inside me. I can abide all manner of ignorance, but not this kind…and not with so much at stake. Those who would scream to heaven for justice if someone broke into the Louvre and slashed paintings or took a hammer to the sculptures—those very same—would smugly affirm that murdering an unborn child was some kind of right.

  How I longed to visit wrath on any who commit such crimes. Maybe, someday I could. And yet, I knew that behind this scourge was a foe beyond my means. One who, perhaps more than any other, deserved the hand of judgment, and yet I had not the power or authority to render the due sentence.

  “Officer Spector, are you all right?” Doc Shepherd asked. “You…you’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but my voice was so tight and clipped I was sure Doc would know otherwise.

  He stared at me and twirled his mustache. Finally, he said, “I’m fine too.”

  I took his meaning instantly. More points for Doc Shepherd in my book.

  “We swear to do no harm,” Doc Shepherd said, muttering as if I wasn’t even in the room. “Hippocratic Oath, it’s what doctors are supposed to stand for. Some of us still do.” He fell silent, and his eyes took on a level, faraway stare.

  I shook my head at the madness of it all. There was a black-soul out there somewhere killing young women with a 19th century abortion knife. A theory about the killer’s motive began to emerge, but I was reluctant to go there.

  “Can you tell me anything else about the blade?”

  He nodded, seemingly relieved to exit a room full of dark thoughts. “The knife is old,” he said. “And a far cry from modern quality. But this was no crude instrument used in back alleys on prostitutes who found themselves pregnant. The Cain’s Dagger was used by surgeons on anyone who could pay. And this was high-end technology, at one time, of course.”

  “Surgeons,” I repeated.

  “Surgeons.”

  Again, the motive whispered at my door. I had to go there this time. “Some sort of religious statement?” I asked Doc Shepherd. “Some so-called Christian…killing with an old abortion knife to show that abortion is murder?”

  Doc Shepherd leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. “Not sure it’s as simple as that.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The age of the instrument,” Doc Shepherd said. “Why not use a modern abortion device? There are plenty to choose from, unfortunately.”

  The freight train of motive I’d been growing more certain of…just derailed. Actually, it slammed into a brick wall.

  “I suppose it’s not out of the question for Pro-Lifers to use violence to make their point,” Doc Shepherd continued. “There are hypocrites everywhere, of course. Do you happen to know if any of the victims were abortion docs, surge-techs, or any kind of clinic employees?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” I said. “But we can’t rule it out.”

  “I see,” Doc replied. He made a thoughtful humming sound and twirled the end of his mustache. “Officer Spector, are you at liberty to share the number of victims so far?”

  I nodded. “Thirteen to date.”

  “To date?” Doc Shepherd echoed.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It might be,” Doc Shepherd said. “Increasing the number of variables can do that. But, once a connection asserts itself, the variables have a way of falling into tidy columns.”

  “Doctor Shepherd,” I said, edging my voice. “Do you have a theory about these killings?”

  “Like I told you before,” he said, “I don’t care to speak in theories. I like to be sure. But I like to ask questions.”

  I almost laughed. “I’d be very interested in hearing your questions.”

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll begin with, why do the extremists use violence?”

  “To shock people…to frighten.”

  “Or?” Doc Shepherd waited patiently.

  “Or…to get attention.”

  “Precisely,” he said. “So who gets attention from these killings? Thirteen grisly killings, and yet, I’ve not heard anything in the news.”

  Actually, I thought he probably had heard of these murders before. The Smiling Jack case had created a media frenzy several years back. If I connected those dots for Doctor Shepherd, there was a good chance he’d know the FBI had declared the case a hoax. There was a good chance Doctor Shepherd would accept the FBI’s assessment. And, there was a very good chance, Doctor Shepherd would wonder why a law enforcement officer would be looking into a closed case. It might even be enough to get Doctor Shepherd to question my identity.

  “Serial murders make for good TV ratings, unfortunately,” Doctor Shepherd went on. “But given the absence of such coverage, I am led to wonder: are these murders getting the attention the killer thinks they deserve?”

  “I doubt it,” I blurted out.

  “Why not?”

  “That,” I said, “I am not at
liberty to share.”

  “Well, then, I suppose the question becomes: who does the killer expect to provide the attention?”

  “Explain that.”

  “Right,” he replied. “So let’s assume the killer is a deranged Pro-Lifer. If he kills abortion docs and clinic employees, who’s supposed to notice?”

  “The other abortion docs,” I replied. “The other clinic workers. Scare them. Make them think twice about coming to work.”

  “Certainly,” he replied. “And?”

  “And…uh…I suppose the public conscience. Open eyes to the horror going on behind the scenes.”

  “Yes,” Doc Shepherd said. “And if, the victims aren’t abortion clinic employees or surgeons who perform abortions?”

  “Then, the intended audiences shifts.”

  “Seems likely,” Doc Shepherd said. “Do the victims have anything in common?”

  “Young women, early twenties…that’s all we’ve got so far.”

  Doc Shepherd twirled his mustache.

  “What?”

  “All young women,” he said. “That…that’s problematic.”

  “How so?”

  “If you murder young women with an abortion knife…it certainly seems like you’re trying to scare off other women…women who might be considering abortions. Still…the age of the knife doesn’t fit with that.”

  “At the very least,” I said, thinking aloud. “the killer has to be trying to send some kind of message…something related to abortion.”

  “Oh, he’s sending a message all right,” Doc said. “He wouldn’t be using Cain’s Dagger if he wasn’t.”

  “So what’s the message?” I asked absently.

  Doc Shepherd winked. “I suppose, Officer Spector, that’s what you need to figure out. But, I would begin with the intended audience. Discover the nature of who’s supposed to pay attention and you are very close to motive. And once you establish the motive, I suspect, you will find your man.”

  “Thank you, Doc,” I said. “I don’t know that I could have gotten this information anywhere else.”

  He fluttered a hand like he was brushing off the comment. “Officer, as you no doubt recognize, this blade is no common instrument in this day and age. It would be something of a collector’s item today. A very disturbed collector, that is. You might consider that thread as well.”