Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  This one is even worse. Yeah, it looks like an inner-city women’s clinic. Lots of strollers, crying kids. But also a lot of young girls who have that casual junkie look about them. I try not to be judgmental, but seriously. They’re not as bad as the people I saw near the Tracks, but they’re clearly on their way there, or somewhere like it.

  I take the forms from the unsmiling receptionist, a mannish-looking woman with the largest glasses I’ve ever seen perched on a human face. Fuck, forms. Forgot about that part. I’m going to have to put my real name and address and such on them. If Wildey does raid this place, hopefully he can pull this and destroy it. I don’t want my pediatrician (yeah, Mom, I’m still seeing Dr. Dovaz) wondering why I was prescribed OxyContin in some dumpy clinic.

  There aren’t two seats together, so Bobby sits across the room from me, smiling like a kid. Jesus.

  I watch other “boyfriends” wait for their “girlfriends.” Ordinarily I wouldn’t think anything of it, but now that I’m here with my “boyfriend” it’s all suspicious. There’s even one boyfriend waiting for at least four different “girlfriends” to be ushered back into the doctor’s office. I wonder if D. would wait with me here, if I had a real appointment.

  From time to time Wildey texts me on the burner and I tell him to hang on. He’s impatient. I should have waited to text him. Because this is taking forever. I’m missing three classes as it is—the first classes I’ve ever missed. In my life. I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it because soon it’ll be over.

  At long last, I’m called back.

  The receptionist, Letitia, tells me to go to Room 3 and undress. I don’t look back at Bobby for fear that he’s going to give me a thumbs-up or something.

  —Wait, honey.

  Letitia points at my bag.

  —You can’t bring that back there.

  —Why not? It’s just books.

  —Leave it out here.

  —But I want to keep it with me.

  —You want me to cancel your appointment? Leave it with your boyfriend.

  Before I know it, Bobby’s up and holding out his hand. Shit. Wasn’t anticipating this. I reach inside my bag and thumb the power button on the burner to turn it off. Last thing I need is Bobby here intercepting a grouchy text from Wildey. Bobby smiles at me.

  —Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got it.

  So it’s “honey” now. Never mind that this is some drug seeker I picked up in a fucking bar. I tell myself that it’ll be okay. He wants the Oxys more than the contents of my bag.

  —Okay. Thanks.

  —It’s all good.

  I go back to Room 3 but do not undress. If the doctor forces the issue and I get this creepy rapey vibe, I’ll bolt, I swear. But surprisingly, when the thin wooden door creaks open, I see that Dr. Roosevelt Hill is pretty much just as advertised. He’s a gray-haired old white guy, timid smile on his face. I have no memories of any of my grandparents, of course. But if I did, they might look like this guy.

  —Hi, sweetie. Can you get undressed for me?

  —Why? My back just hurts.

  —Well, I need to take a look at you nonetheless.

  —Can’t you just look at my back?

  Dr. Hill puts his cold hand on my forearm.

  —You want me to help you, don’t you?

  So I have to go through with this. It’s either this, or leave and admit defeat to Wildey. I’d have to call a lawyer and watch my entire future float away and disappear. What’s a little nakedness? The doctor excuses himself, and when he knocks a few minutes later, my clothes are folded neatly on a chair and I’m wearing a flimsy fabric gown that’s way too short. I assume the position and try to tune out reality as he does the usual explorations.

  —Do you think you’re pregnant?

  —Uh … no? My back just hurts.

  —Mmmm-hmmmm.

  Is it me, or does his touch … linger? Why isn’t there a nurse here? Whenever I’ve had an exam like this before, in a legit doctor’s place, there was always a nurse in the room. They should ask if I want a nurse in the room. He didn’t even ask!

  —My back really hurts.

  —Hmmm. You should try Motrin.

  —I have, Dr. Hill. But it doesn’t even touch it.

  He stares off into the distance, shaking his head. I’m losing him. I didn’t come all this way and get naked and felt up by an old dude just to walk away with nothing. His hand is still on me.

  —Well, then.

  To my surprise, Dr. Hill rolls away then goes to a desk in the corner and begins to scribble.

  —Take this to Letitia. And don’t forget to pay her in cash.

  Bobby Ryall watches her as she emerges from the back, shy smile on her face. She gives Letitia the slip of paper the doc gave her. Letitia holds out her hand, waiting for the cash. She looks over at him, widens her eyes a tiny bit. Oh. Right. Bobby walks up to the counter, feeling like an asshole chump, and slides two twenties at the receptionist. Letitia takes it, puts one twenty in one envelope and another in the pocket of her scrubs. Finally she gives Sarie another slip in return—the actual prescription, he guesses. He wants to bolt, but he’s come this far. He can’t walk out of this situation empty-handed and forty dollars lighter.

  But, man, he was right after all. He picked up the wrong girl.

  The texts on her phone made that perfectly clear.

  Letitia answers her cell. Before she has the chance to say anything, a young voice says: “Hey, someone might be coming for you.”

  She recognizes the voice. Not by name, but by recent memory. One of the boyfriends in here not too long ago. The guy holding the girl’s books.

  “Who is this?”

  “Just consider me a concerned friend, okay?”

  “You were just in here, weren’t you?”

  Click.

  Wildey can’t believe this. He and his CI are arguing over where to meet. He tells her somewhere on Drexel’s campus would be easiest. Pick a bench, he’ll be there. School’s in session, plenty of kids milling around everywhere. Best place possible to meet. What’s the problem? But of course Honors Girl has a problem. What if someone spots the two of them together? She can’t be outed. Not after what she’s read about.

  “Who’s going to see us?”

  “Jesus, anybody could!”

  “Why are we meeting all the way out there, anyway?”

  “It’s important. I promise, I’m not wasting your time.”

  Wildey thinks he has it figured out. Her boyfriend, Big Red, attends a different school. Maybe they’re not as close as Wildey assumed. Maybe she needed to get him out into the open to find a vulnerability. If this is the case, extra points for Honors Girl. She’s finally come to her senses. Still, it would be a supreme pain in the ass to go out to West Philly … for what could be another Ryan Koolhaas–type disaster.

  Honors Girl finally agrees to a meeting place—her own Honda Civic, parked on the next-to-top floor of a garage off Market Street right on the fringes of the Penn campus. Wildey sees her right away, pulls into the next spot, looks over at her Civic, then realizes that’s not going to exactly be a comfortable fit. He waves her over. Honors Girl’s shoulders slump—this is not what she wanted. But Wildey stays put. After a minute she climbs out of her car, thumbing the lock—as if someone’s going to boost it while they’re sitting one space over. He notices she has a white plastic CVS bag in her hands as she climbs into the seat.

  “What’s that?” Wildey asks.

  Honors Girl hands him the bag. “OxyContin, I believe.”

  Wildey opens the bag, sees the prescription bottle, looks at the label. Her own name’s on it. The count says 50. Wildey gives it a shake. No way there’s 50 in there.

  “Where’s the other half?”

  “I had to give it to my contact.”

  “Your contact? What are you talking about? Where is the motherfucker?”

  “He left. But he’s not the target, though. It’s the doctor!”

  “Slo
w down, slow down.”

  Honors Girl slows down and starts talking. This whole thing is not what Wildey was expecting. At all. But as she explains step-by-step, Wildey has to admit: This sounds like something. And not another Ryan Koolhaas Klusterfuck. The pills in the bottle are real. The doctor’s name, Roosevelt Hill, is on the label. She didn’t just pull these out of her ass. He stops her every so often to clarify a point or a detail, but no … this is something. Not Chuckie Morphine, but Wildey is willing to put a pin in that for now.

  “I’m going to have to check this out,” he tells her.

  “Well, duh. But this is good, right? I mean, this is what you wanted?”

  Wildey stares at her for a second. “You know this isn’t what I wanted.”

  “I promised I’d find you a drug dealer. Someone dealing OxyContin. Which I did. Right?”

  “So what—I’m supposed to go and arrest CVS?”

  “But … you know this is more than just … seriously?”

  She looks like she’s about to blow a gasket. It’s almost fun to watch. At least he knows she didn’t pop one of those Oxys. She’s too pent-up.

  “Relax, Honors Girl. I’m going to check this out, see what’s what.”

  “I can’t go back in there,” she says. “I mean, I was just—”

  “I’m going in myself to take a look. If everything’s like you said, I’m going to talk to my lieutenant about the next steps. This could be big, this could be nothing. Maybe he prescribed you those things on a fluke.”

  “That’s not what my contact says. He says that—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what you said your contact said. Doesn’t do me a damn bit of good unless we observe it. We might need to build a case.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. We might have you go in again, keep making buys for us.”

  She slumps into the seat, head back, her skinny body appearing to deflate. Wildey almost—almost—feels bad for her. He reaches out, touches her shoulder.

  “Hey. Give me a hand.”

  She looks at him.

  “With what?”

  Turns out Wildey has a bag he keeps in the trunk of whatever car he’s using. I swear this is a different make and model than the shitbox we were driving around in this past Monday. Old shirts, caps, gloves, scarves, hoodies, whatever. He calls it his disguise bag. He wants to look like whoever would be in that waiting room.

  —You need to be about a hundred pounds lighter.

  —Is that a crack about my weight?

  —No! But I’m saying, you don’t look like a junkie.

  —What do I look like?

  A three-hundred-pound suck on my life, I want to say. But I don’t know if that’ll come off as mean, and I feel like I’ve already started digging myself a hole with that weight comment.

  —Forget it. Just go in there pretending you’re looking for your girlfriend or wife or something. There are lots of guys in there. You can probably sit for a while without anybody raising an eyebrow.

  Wildey chuckles. I wonder if I should be insulted.

  —What? What’s wrong with that?

  —Nothing.

  —Then … what?

  —It’s just that you’d make a pretty good cop. You ever consider changing your major to criminal justice?

  —Uh, no?

  —Never mind.

  The moment the big guy in the dark gray hoodie and ratty baseball cap steps into the waiting room, Letitia Braly knows he’s the one.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yo, just looking for my girlfriend.”

  Even if she hadn’t received that strange phone call, warning her, she’d like to believe alarm bells would have gone off anyway. The hoodie and cap don’t look right. Like he doesn’t wear them every day. She can tell by the body language.

  This is why Dr. Hill hired her almost five years ago, to be the gatekeeper that he couldn’t be anymore. Not at his age. Plus, with their new sideline, the Good Doctor needed an enforcer posted out front. He paid for the training and license and everything. Dr. Hill assured her it would never come to this, that there were good people in this neighborhood. But Letitia knew this area better than that. Word had a way of spreading. Sooner or later, this was bound to happen.

  She kept the Glock clipped under her desk, within easy reach.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait outside.”

  The Big Guy turns and sweeps his hand through the air, as if to point out the number of empty seats available. “Can’t I wait in here?”

  “This room is for patients only. Now please step outside.”

  “Those dudes over there patients? Thought this was a place for ladies.”

  “Please …”

  “Yeah, yeah, hold on …”

  Letitia watches as his hand goes into the pocket of that hoodie. There’s a bulge there.

  So many people shot in this city because they don’t know it’s coming. Letitia swore to never, ever be one of those people.

  Which is why she pulls the Glock now, raises it over the counter, and begins to squeeze the trigger.

  Of the many things Wildey thought might happen today, getting shot in the face wasn’t one of them.

  As it turns out, that doesn’t happen.

  But fuck—it sure comes close.

  The receptionist, apparently some kind of Dirty Harriet, squeezes off a shot that goes a little high and wide and lands with a thuh-chunk in the drywall behind him. The people in the chairs scream and start to scramble. Wildey drops to the floor and rolls up against the underside of the reception area, betting (praying) that she won’t shoot through the wood blind.

  “Police officer!” he shouts, pulling his own piece. “Drop your weapon!”

  Wildey thinks he hears Dirty Harriet curse. Though it’s tough because of the sudden din in the waiting room—people cursing, praying, crying.

  “Drop that fucking gun!” he shouts. “Now!”

  Behind the reception area, a door thumps open. Hinges squeak.

  Damnit, she’s running for it.

  Wildey rolls, then scrambles to his feet. Kicks open the door leading into the receptionist area, kicks open the second door, leading to a hallway lined with exam rooms. Where did she go? Wildey’s been in gun situations before. Never been in a jam inside a building, though, and in such close quarters. Feels like he’s doing battle inside a fucking cereal box, with these flimsy dirty walls and flakeboard doors. Any second a bullet could come slicing through and nail him.

  But there’s nothing in the exam rooms, as he clears them. Nothing in what he presumes is Dr. Hill’s office—including Dr. Hill. As Wildey moves deep into the building, he starts to see the bones of the place. This whole medical suite was built up in what used to be a small grocery store. There are still meat cases and, more importantly, two swinging metal doors leading to a cooler. The doors are still swinging slightly. Wildey feels like he has no choice. If they’re running scared, they’re up to some shady shit. This could be the break he needs. He goes in.

  A few seconds later, Wildey wishes he hadn’t.

  After what feels like five or six forevers, Wildey calls my burner.

  —Go home, Honors Girl.

  —What happened?

  —I’ll catch up with you later. But for now just go home. Don’t talk to anybody. Just wait for me to call. Don’t watch the news, and if you do, don’t say or think anything until we talk.

  —Seriously? You’re going to leave me hanging like that? What happened?

  —Yeah. Seriously. I gotta go.

  Whatever. I hang up and drive back to campus, even though the classes I’ve missed are long over. But I have to be back here, because I have to turn on my cell phone. And just in case Dad’s tracking my iPhone, I can’t be popping up in University City. I’m supposed to be in class.

  When my phone comes to life, I see that he’s called four times and left three voicemail messages.

  “HOUSE OF MEDICAL HORRORS” FOUND NEAR UNIVERSITY
CITY

  Dr. Roosevelt Hill Sought for Questioning

  Anonymous Tip Leads Police to “Something Out of a Nightmare”

  Wildey doesn’t even know which body parts are supposed to be which. They float in amber fluid, little flecks of skin and what appears to be … seasoning? No, couldn’t be, Wildey thinks. A deep voice bounces him out of his reverie. “Officer—your superior wants to talk to you.” The homicide dick hands the phone over to Wildey.

  “Loot.”

  “Jesus Christ, Wild Child—what did you step into?”

  He isn’t sure if she sounds incensed or bemused. Kaz’s ordinary speaking voice sounds a little like both.

  “You’re not going to believe this. Not entirely sure I believe it.”

  “I don’t. But I want you to listen to our friends from homicide and let them take it from here.”

  “Why? This is ours!”

  “Wildey, I’d say the body parts of a dozen missing girls trumps the little Oxy ring you were investigating.”

  The Roosevelt Hill case would soon become Philadelphia legend. Dozens of articles, three books, and a cable movie would be based on it. But it would not become their legend. In fact, NFU-CS wouldn’t be mentioned at all. They weren’t in it for the glory; they were in it for the busts. That’s the point, she reminded him. They’re the secret investigative arm that tees up the ball so the strike teams can swing the bat. Wildey’s involvement will be little more than a “tip to the police.”