by Jason Dean
Tatem sighed and said, ‘I keep a revolver in my work desk in my office.’
‘Then that’s where we’re going. Lead on.’
Bishop followed the doctor through the house, passing through a dining room and a large, stark living room, until Tatem opened a door and led them into a spacious office area. Inside, a single window looked out onto the backyard. A large oak bookcase filled with medical texts took up one side of the room. Framed photos took up the other walls. Many of them featured a striking young brunette with prominent cheekbones in a variety of poses and natural shots. Bishop had no doubt he was looking at Mrs Tatem.
Taking up a large part of the room was a mahogany work desk with the customary computer and accessories, and two chairs. Lining one of the other walls was a row of matching mahogany filing cabinets.
Lots of wood, Bishop thought. That would speed things along nicely.
Bishop pointed to the visitor’s chair and said, ‘Sit there. Move and I’ll shoot you in the ankle. You’re a doctor, so you know how much that’ll hurt.’
He waited as Tatem sat. Then he walked round the desk, moved the chair out of the way and saw three drawers on each side. ‘Which one?’
‘The bottom drawer on the left,’ Tatem said.
Bishop opened that one and saw a number of new and used notebooks separated into two neat piles. There was also an ornate, nickel-plated letter opener in there, which he took out and pocketed. Never know when something like this might come in handy.
Further in he saw the glint of metal. He reached in and pulled out a stainless steel .38 Special with a two-inch barrel. Not a bad choice for home protection. He could tell by the weight it was empty. Reaching in again he brought out a forty-round box of Speer Gold Dot hollow-points. He opened the box and saw it was full. He loaded six rounds into the gun’s chamber, clicked it shut and placed it in his waistband.
Tatem was staring at him. ‘So you weren’t armed.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over it,’ Bishop said as he raised the jerry can and unscrewed the top. It didn’t take long for the sickly smell to permeate the room.
Then Bishop began splashing gasoline all over the desk and carpet.
FORTY-NINE
‘Wait,’ Tatem yelled, gripping the arms of the chair. His eyes were wild. ‘Please. You can’t do this. What have I done to you?’
Bishop didn’t reply. Silence was always better in these kinds of situations. More threatening. His encounter with Addison had proved that. But at least he’d knocked the fatalism out of the guy. No good trying to get information out of a man who’d already accepted death. But possible death by fire was another matter. Nobody wanted that.
Keeping one eye on Tatem, he just kept splashing gas over the furniture. The filing cabinets. The bookcase. The drapes. The walls, too. Everywhere except the two chairs. Once he was satisfied, he shook the can. It was still about half full.
‘Please stop,’ Tatem said. ‘Won’t you just tell me why you’re doing this?’
Bishop screwed the top back on and placed the can on the floor. Then he took a lighter and an opened pack of Winston cigarettes from his pocket. ‘You a smoker, doc?’
‘What is it you want? Money?’
‘Don’t blame you. Neither am I, but I don’t mind making an exception now and then.’ Bishop took a cigarette from the pack and inserted it between his lips. ‘As for money, I already got a roof over my head, and I can afford food and clothes. What else can you offer me?’
‘I can give you enough for luxuries.’
‘Breathing’s a luxury, doc. Don’t you know that by now?’ Bishop half sat on the edge of the desk and said, ‘You got any idea where I was last night?’
Tatem shook his head. ‘No. How could I?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. I was trapped in a burning building with all the exits covered and a dead body at my feet, courtesy of some friends of yours. Now I’m returning the compliment.’
‘Friends of . . .? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Bishop took the cigarette from his mouth and began rolling it between his fingers. Looking at it, he said, ‘You know, back when I was in the service, years ago this is, me and my squad were in Mogadishu, Somalia, not long after the civil war broke out. The “why” is a long story and doesn’t matter now, but this one night we were in the very worst part of town when we got ambushed by a group of al-Ittihad al-Islami terrorists. You ever hear of them?’
Tatem shook his head and said nothing.
‘Most of them are born sadists. At least, the ones who caught us were. They love to watch their enemies die as painfully as possible. It’s like a game to them. So what they did was take us all to an empty warehouse and four of them held me down while the others tied the rest of my men up. Then I was forced to watch the youngest man on my squad being drenched in gasoline. Then they threw a lit book of matches at him and watched him burn. They were laughing all the way through it.’ He paused. ‘You know how long it took for him to die?’
Tatem shook his head again.
‘They timed it for me. Sixty-three seconds, although it seemed a lot longer at the time. Probably felt even longer to him, don’t you think?’
‘I’m really sorry, but why are you telling me this?’
‘Because that’s what you’ve got to look forward to unless you answer my questions.’
‘That’s all you want?’
‘That’s all I want. And I should add that the first time you lie to me will also be the last. You understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ Bishop placed the cigarette and lighter on the desk next to him and said, ‘These people you work for. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bishop picked up the cigarette again. ‘What did I just say?’
‘Please, I’m telling the truth. I really don’t know. The only person with whom I’ve had any contact is Abraham. That’s why I questioned this Tyrone giving me instructions all of a sudden. It’s never happened before.’
Bishop put down the cigarette. That made sense. The guy was a surgeon, after all. A specialist. It would be tactically unwise to tell him any more than was absolutely necessary.
‘So this Abraham. What’s his full name?’
Tatem shrugged. ‘I only know him as Abraham. I don’t even know if that’s his first or last name.’
‘Tell me what he looks like, then.’
Tatem closed his eyes. ‘I’ve only met him twice, but he’s about six-three and well built. Dark brown hair, but balding on top. He wears a Van Dyck beard, or he did.’
The guy in the video. The one who’d tried to kill him. And probably did the job on Hewitt and Rutherford, and God knows how many others.
‘Okay. So start by explaining to me what your role is in all this.’
Tatem glanced briefly at the framed pictures on the wall. Then he turned back and said, ‘Abraham calls me in to do work on female patients every now and then. They’re always young. Sometimes it’s just one woman a month. Sometimes two or three. Mostly facial work, but it can sometimes be more than that. And I always work from instructions handed to me by one of the two male nurses Abraham assigned to me.’
‘Yeah, I met them. What are their names?’
‘Robert Claiborne and Stephen Hedaya.’
‘And you’re only given written instructions? You never talk to the women at all?’
‘Never. They’re always under heavy sedation by the time I arrive. But the instructions are always very detailed and very specific.’
‘Tell me about Mary Eastman in room 4–29. The woman with the bandaged face.’
‘You know Mary Eastman?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Bishop touched his upper arms and said, ‘Did she have acid burn scars here or here?’
Tatem’s eyes widened a little, but he said, ‘No, nothing like that. I just did some work on her cheekbones and chin, which all needed time to heal. I also removed some facial acne scars left ov
er from her youth. I applied the bandages as a safety precaution while the skin healed. The room wasn’t as sterile as I liked and I couldn’t risk infection.’
So Mary Eastman can’t have been Selina. But the eyes didn’t lie. And Tatem’s had shown recognition at the mention of the burns. Bishop thought back to his first visit to Garrick hospital. And the one name he’d seen on the database without a doctor’s initials next to it. ‘But you did work on the woman with the acid burns, didn’t you? Angelina Eccles, right?’
Tatem was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. ‘How could you know that?’
‘I know lots of things. Tell me exactly what you did to her.’
He swallowed and said, ‘Well, as you can guess, I removed the welts and burn marks from her arms. The bad ones required minor skin grafts, but most of it I was able to accomplish with straightforward scar revision surgery. That’s all I was instructed to do. She left the hospital after a week. I gave her a course of hyperbaric oxygen treatment so I imagine the surgery scars have entirely healed by now.’
Bishop breathed a mental sigh of relief. Up till now, he’d been working on the assumption that Selina was still alive, but he hadn’t known for sure. But these people wouldn’t be performing intricate scar removal surgery if they were then planning to kill her. That would make no sense at all. So she had to be still alive somewhere. But who exactly were ‘these people’? And what was their purpose? These were the big questions. And ones Tatem clearly couldn’t answer, that much was clear. But he had to know something more than he was telling.
‘Other than the scars,’ Bishop said, ‘was there anything about Eccles that stood out?’
Tatem gave him a quizzical look. ‘Yes. Her looks weren’t too dissimilar to a patient I worked on two months before. Hardly in the monozygotic twin territory, but the similarities were there, nevertheless.’
That had to be Samantha, Bishop thought. So what had happened to her? Had she escaped her captors somehow? It was one possibility. He was about to ask Tatem her name, but didn’t see much point. It would be fake, like all the others.
Instead, he said, ‘What changes did you make to her?’
‘Very little, I recall. I removed some moles from her chest area and buttocks and a small tattoo from the back of her neck. Also a hanging piece of skin from her left earlobe. Obviously a birthmark.’
‘Uh huh. Is 4–29 the only room you use, or are there more?’
‘We’ve got the next two along, 4–27 and 4–25. I think Claiborne and Hedaya sleep in 4–25. It’s one of the bigger rooms in the hospital.’
‘Which means somebody high up in the hospital administration is involved. There’s no way something like that could stay under the radar for very long.’
‘Oh, I agree. Somebody has to know. Don’t ask me who, though.’
‘And you’ve been working for them since you came out here three years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how many patients have passed through your hands in that time? Sixty-five? Seventy?’
Tatem nodded. ‘Maybe a little less. I don’t know exactly. I’m not allowed to keep records of any kind.’
‘Tell me, doc, doesn’t it bother you, these things you do? Performing surgical procedures on patients without their knowledge? And without question?’
Tatem looked at the floor and didn’t answer.
‘How much do you get paid for this kind of work? A lot, I imagine.’
Tatem shrugged. ‘Three hundred thousand dollars a year, deposited into an overseas account I set up years ago.’
Bishop frowned. Compared to what he must have made in Hollywood, that wasn’t a whole lot. But it was still nothing to sneeze at. ‘I guess a figure like that must go a long way in easing your conscience,’ he said.
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Tatem finally looked up, his eyes blazing. ‘It doesn’t even begin to. And if I had the guts, I’d tell them where they could stick their goddamn money.’
‘Why don’t you, then?’
‘Because they’re also holding my wife as hostage.’
FIFTY
Bishop saw fury combined with helplessness in the man’s eyes. That depth of emotion couldn’t be easily faked. Not in Bishop’s experience. And the claim fitted in with the evidence. The missing wife. The pictures of her all over the walls. The wedding ring Tatem still wore. His self-imposed seclusion. It also explained his overriding pessimism and lack of will. This wasn’t a man going through a trial separation. This was a man already very close to the edge.
‘How long have they had her?’ Bishop asked.
‘You mean you believe me?’
‘Let’s say it would explain a lot of things. How long?’
Tatem sighed. ‘So far, they’ve held Patricia for twenty-nine months and eleven days.’
‘How do you know she’s still alive?’
Tatem gave a sad smile. ‘Because we get to spend the night with each other once a month. That much they allow us. Those two nurses I mentioned? They drive me to a different motel each time and take me to a room where Patricia’s already waiting. The last time was a week ago. They’ve warned me that there’re always four men on guard duty and that if I even think of trying to escape with her, she’ll die.’
Bishop didn’t doubt it. It was a brutally effective method to keep Tatem on a very tight leash. ‘She must have family, though,’ he said. ‘Aren’t they kind of curious as to why she’s no longer taking their calls?’
Tatem shook his head. ‘Her mother died about five years ago, after which her father moved to Vegas, married a dancer and promptly forgot about any notions of parental sentiment. Patricia’s got a sister, but they fell out over something a decade ago and haven’t spoken since. There’s an aunt in Indianapolis, but all they do is exchange cards at Thanksgiving. Fortunately, I’m able to do a pretty good imitation of Patricia’s signature.’
‘Maybe you should tell me how the hell you got into this mess in the first place.’
Tatem sighed. ‘You recall an actor called Barrett Schaffer?’
‘Sure. Big star in the seventies and eighties. Made some decent movies, I remember.’
‘He did until he got old. And he was one of those that don’t age well. Too much fast living and too many addictions. Well, he soon became addicted to plastic surgery and what it could do for him. After a while it only made things worse, but nobody could tell him that. Three years ago, I was called in to see if I could reverse the mistakes that had been made.’
‘And something went wrong,’ Bishop said.
‘Badly wrong. So much had been done to his face that it practically fell apart when I went near it. Well, I got the blame, of course, even though it wasn’t my fault. Everything was hushed up, as usual. Prime didn’t dare fire me, but I was persona non grata around town, which means I was essentially unemployed. And then a man came into my life, offering to pay three hundred thousand a year for my services if I were to consider moving to Arizona.’
‘Abraham,’ Bishop said.
‘Abraham. I was obviously very interested, especially as Patricia was desperate to get away from L.A. So I said yes at our first meeting. That’s when he laid down the rules. I couldn’t talk to the patients, although I’d be presented with signed authorization papers in every case. I’d be assigned two male nurses, and I was forbidden to discuss my work with anyone else in the hospital but them. And I’d work from written instructions, from which I wasn’t allowed to deviate in any way.’
‘And that didn’t raise your antennae at all?’
Tatem shifted in his chair. ‘It did, but the money quickly overrode any objections I might have had. I’m only human, and three hundred thousand a year’s hard to ignore when you’re unemployed.’
‘So what changed? You see something you weren’t supposed to?’
‘No, I just started getting bad feelings about what I was doing. I knew there was something very wrong with the situation, but I didn’t know what exactly. For a start, I couldn’t escape t
he possibility that I wasn’t the only surgeon working on these patients.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I started noticing laparoscopic marks on many of the women, and they weren’t my doing.’
‘Laparoscopic?’ Bishop asked. ‘You mean the fibre-optic scope they use for keyhole surgery?’
Tatem nodded. ‘It doesn’t have to be for surgery, though. Sometimes it’s used merely as a diagnostic aid, but it’s always in the abdominal or pelvic area. You see, lapar is Greek for—’
‘Abdomen,’ Bishop said. ‘Yeah, I figured that part out. And you’re telling me all these women had those marks?’
‘Well, I don’t know for sure. Most of my work was done on the upper body so I really had no reason to look below the chest area, but once I did I started noticing these small insertion scars and after that I always made a point to check. And I’d say about eight in ten of the women had them.’
Bishop looked out the window. Stranger and stranger. ‘And they were all in perfect health otherwise?’
‘They seemed to be. I wasn’t allowed to do much in the way of tests.’
‘They must have had something your employers were interested in, then. Something specific to the female anatomy.’ He paused, thinking. ‘What about ovaries?’
‘What? You mean for illegal transplants?’
Bishop nodded. ‘Why not? I figure there must be plenty of rich, infertile women around who’d pay through the roof for the ability to have kids of their own.’
Tatem gave a pained smile. ‘I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree there.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the only successful ovary transplants have been between identical twins sharing the same genetic material. Anything else is doomed to failure. The host body will instantly reject the new tissue. I do remember there was a surgeon out of New York who claimed he’d come up with a theoretical model for successful transplants using non-relatives as donors, but he died a few years back and he left no papers behind to back up his claims.’
‘Okay. So what’s the alternative? What are they really doing over there?’
