More feelings bubbled to the surface with that realization, threatening to unleash more tears. His lower lip quivered as he considered the situation.
“This is a good thing. You know that, right?” his mother said.
Pressing his eyes closed, The Good Son made no effort to hide the tears that slid out from the corners of his eyes.
“What this tells me,” she continued, “is that nobody knows a damn thing yet. They’re desperate.”
Still, The Good Son remained silent, fearful of what might come out if he were to speak.
“And it means we’ve still got some time left.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Reed didn’t bother to wait around until the end of the interview. Grimes was doing a pretty good job of sticking to the points they had outlined in his office that afternoon, only getting tripped up once by a question that was posed in a purposely provocative manner. Despite that, he could still tell by his boss’s body language that he was not enjoying himself one bit, thinking it better to be somewhere else when it ended and everybody came filing out.
Exiting the observation room, Reed stopped just long enough to throw a wave to Jackie before heading to his desk. Given the hour, she was too preoccupied with her dinner to protest, fluttering her fingers at him, the ends of them shiny with some form of grease, before returning her attention to the paper sack in front of her.
Not a single person was at work as he made his way through the desks, a fact that wasn’t all that surprising. The sun outside had faded to nothing more than an orange ember, the day having somehow slipped away. He could see the faint glow above the horizon in the west, knowing that its absence would do nothing to alleviate the extreme heat outside.
The late hour, coupled with the ongoing shortage of detectives, had cleared the place even earlier than usual, most of his colleagues either working a case or hiding somewhere to make sure they weren’t handed another.
Having fallen victim to that very thing not 12 hours earlier, Reed felt reasonably certain he wouldn’t be the next one on the list.
“Ten minutes,” Reed said, Billie looking up at the sound of his voice as he led them to the corner desk and took a seat. “I know you’re hungry, but there’s one thing I want to check before we go.”
Billie’s tongue shot out over her nose as she settled into her position beside the desk. She remained up on her front paws, her body turned to face him, her posture reminding him that he was on the clock.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Reed replied, reaching down and running his fingers through the thick hair between her ears. Four thick furrows appeared in the fur as he pulled his hand back and turned to face the desk.
The hope was to find out if Earl and his crew had finished their report on the morning’s crime scene. He knew from watching the criminalists work that there was precious little they found on site, but he was hoping for an ID to have come back on the fingerprints. It wasn’t much - to be honest it was painfully little - but any tiny victory was enough for the night, allowing him to go home and look through his previous files a little longer before beginning again with fresh eyes in the morning.
He just needed a name.
Piled in the center of his desk was a pair of folders, much like the two from the Soto case the day before. Both were thinner than the previous ones, neither holding more than a few sheets of paper.
Starting with the top one, Reed pulled it toward him and flipped it open. At a glance he could tell it was from Earl’s lab, the top sheet a printout from AFIS – The American Fingerprint Information System. On it was a scan of every fingerprint from the John Doe found in the park that morning, his name coming back as Henry Ruggles.
The sheet listed him at 38-years-old, 5’11” in height, weighing 175 pounds.
The reason for his fingerprints being taken was listed as the acceptance of a position with a financial planning firm.
Pausing for a moment, Reed raised his gaze. Focusing on nothing, he chewed on the information, superimposing it on what he’d seen that morning.
The man who had been found was nowhere near 175 pounds, though everything else seemed to fit. Given his attire and the shaggy cut of his hair, Reed would not have pegged him as a Henry, but perhaps he went by Hank among his friends. He let the notion play out in his mind another moment before shoving it aside, clearing his head with a quick shake.
The remainder of the file was quick and blunt, highlighting what had been discovered at the crime scene, which was to say nothing of use.
Giving his head another shake, Reed closed the file and set it aside. He glanced down to Billie still standing silent vigil beside him and said, “I know. Five minutes.”
Once more her tongue passed over her muzzle, her dark brown eyes watching as he pulled the second file over and opened it. Affixed in the middle of the page was a yellow Post-It note. On it were several hand-written lines, Reed recognizing it instantly as belonging to Dr. Solomon.
Detective Mattox,
Apologies if this arrives at the wrong desk, but you were listed as the assigned detective on the case. If you’re still on it, please come see me in the morning to discuss.
I will be arriving at 7:30 a.m.
Best,
Patricia Solomon
The formality of the note surprised Reed, his eyebrows rising as he peeled it away and pressed it against the inside of the front cover. Numerous questions came to mind, each one trying to force its way forward, as he bypassed the pictures and went straight for the write-up, finding it halfway through the file.
The official cause of death was a fractured spinal column occurring between the C1 and C2 vertebrae, just as Greene and Gilchrist had surmised at the scene. The time of death was around 6:00 that morning, also in line with everything that had been gleaned prior.
His confusion mounted as Reed examined the page, nothing jumping out at him to explain the note from Solomon. Folding it back against the silver fasteners, he moved on to the next page, the paper lined with black lines for notes. More than half of the space was filled, all of it done in blue ink in Solomon’s neat script.
With each word Reed read, he felt his confusion grow. Before speaking to Solomon he couldn’t quite be sure what he’d been handed, but his every instinct told him it could be a game changer.
Uncertainty gave way to a tiny spark of optimism as he read the page once more before slamming the file shut and snatched them both up from his desk. The quick movement made Billie jump.
“Come on girl, let’s go get a shower and something to eat. We’ve got an early appointment in the morning.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
There were two cars in the parking lot as Reed pulled up. The first was an aging Honda Civic with condensation covering the windows, obviously having been there overnight and possibly longer. In a less chaotic time Reed might have thought to check on it, but given the situation, it failed to even register with him.
The second was an older model Dodge Dakota, a few dents showing in the side, but otherwise in good repair. The owner shuffled by as Reed pulled to a stop along the front row, a middle-aged man in matching blue canvas pants and shirt. In his hand was a key ring the size of a softball, which he used to gain entry through the front door of the building.
Another five degrees warmer and Reed would have followed him in, suffering through any necessary small talk to wait in the lobby. As it were, he and Billie were both okay, each no more than 15 minutes from a shower, having not yet started to sweat for the day.
The previous 10 hours had been almost torturous, Reed’s mind refusing to slow down, keeping sleep at bay. New information had been so hard to come by that the list of questions he had for Solomon had grown exponentially. His only hope was that she would be able to unlock something he needed, to finally begin narrowing things down.
Three more cars appeared in the lot, all parking close to an area that would eventually be shaded over. Reed watched them with mild detachment, examining them only long enough to see that they
weren’t the person he was looking for before dismissing them and moving on.
Two minutes before 7:30, a silver Cadillac SUV rolled into the parking lot. It bypassed any pretense of finding shade and drove directly to the front stall in the lot, Patricia Solomon emerging a moment later. Despite the heat, she wore a pink cardigan over a white blouse and slacks, her glasses already hanging from the chain around her neck.
Watching her approach, Reed couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had arrived out of the womb like that, the outfit a close copy of the one she wore every time he saw her. He considered the thought for a moment before shrugging it off, realizing she probably thought the same of him and the jeans-and-t-shirt attire he sported each time he stopped by.
Reed allowed her to make it halfway across the parking lot before climbing out. He opened the back door for Billie, the metal moaning once in protest, before clipping the short lead to her collar. Together they stood waiting as Solomon approached, slowing her pace as she grew closer.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Reed opened.
“Good morning, Detective,” Solomon replied. Her face betrayed the slightest hint of weariness, though her voice carried none of the same inflection. “I take it you are staying on the John Doe case?”
As she asked the question, all three began moving toward the door, Reed and Solomon on either side, Billie in the middle.
“Henry Ruggles,” Reed corrected. “Earl sent over a hit from AFIS last night.”
In the periphery of his vision he could see Solomon’s head tilt upward in understanding, though she said nothing.
“And yes,” Reed said, reaching the front door and holding it open for her, “for the time being I’m staying on. Hoping your note means you have something that might help it along.”
Solomon cast him a glance as she passed through, leading them to the bank of elevators along the side. For the first time ever Reed noticed both the front desk and the cafeteria behind it were empty, the building bearing a stillness that seemed strange.
“Just you wait,” Solomon said, pushing the button for the basement, adding nothing more to her statement.
More questions came to Reed’s mind as they rode down in silence, stepping into the hallway and going straight for her office. Overhead the lights buzzed just slightly, the only sound in the corridor, everything cast in a filmy yellow light.
“Since you’ve already had a chance to read the file, I won’t walk you through all of it,” Solomon said, using a key to unlock her door. She flipped a pair of light switches on the wall beside it, the fluorescent tubes above clicking on one at a time. “But there was something I wanted to point out to you in the event you might need it.”
Dropping her purse onto the floor beside her desk, Solomon lowered herself into her chair. On the desk beside her was a trio of folders, the top one bearing the name John Doe, though she didn’t bother to consult it. She motioned for Reed to take the only other chair in the room, waiting as he did so and Billie lowered herself to her haunches beside him.
“The official COD was a broken neck,” Solomon said, “but another week and it wouldn’t have mattered.”
A pang of excitement traveled the length of Reed’s back, pulling him forward to the edge of the chair. He pressed his palms into his thighs and leaned in a few inches, trying to force out everything he’d read before and all the thoughts it had elicited since. He needed to make sure he heard exactly what Solomon was about to tell him, uncolored by anything preexisting in his mind.
“Simply put, the man’s liver was shot,” Solomon said. “So much so that it’s a wonder he was even alive.”
It was the exact same thing, down to the word even, of what Solomon had written in her notes. Still, hearing it out loud, seeing the look on her face as she said it, brought a renewed seriousness to Reed. He had no idea how or why, but couldn’t shake the notion this was about to completely redirect every thought he’s had about the case in the previous 24 hours.
Not sure how to best articulate the cluster of new questions forming in his mind, Reed made a circular gesture with his hand, motioning for Solomon to continue.
She opened her mouth before pausing, extending one finger straight up in the air. “Actually, this might be easier if I show you.”
Without waiting for a response, she stood and exited the room, leaving Reed seated in her wake. He sat there for a moment, his brow pinched in confusion, before glancing down to Billie. “Stay.”
The dog dropped herself flat to the floor as Reed rose and exited, jogging a few steps to catch up with Solomon just outside of her lab. Together they entered the chilly room, the space almost completely dark as Solomon crossed the floor, her shape receding to just a shadow, her shoes the only sound, before flipping on a bank of light switches.
Unlike the bulbs in the hallway and her office, these were of a much lower wattage. A pale haze settled over the space as Solomon crossed to the cold lockers along the back wall, raising a finger, signaling for Reed to follow.
“The liver is the largest internal organ in the body,” Solomon said, “second only to the skin overall in terms of actual size.”
She reached for the far right drawer in the middle row and unclasped the steel handle, a rush of refrigerated air escaping as the door swung back. Reaching in, she grabbed the end of the tray table inside and pulled it back.
A pair of pale white feet was the first thing to exit, a small tag wrapped around the big toe. Halfway up the calves a white sheet appeared, covering the majority of the body, stopping just shy of the armpits. On either side the arms lay atop the sheet, Solomon continuing to pull until Henry Ruggles was on full display.
Stripped naked and lying prone, the man looked even smaller than Reed remembered. His features were well past gaunt, his body appearing nothing short of skeletal.
“The main functions of the liver,” Solomon said, her teaching voice now in full effect, “are to prevent infections and remove toxins from the blood. An extension of that is, of course, controlling immune responses, processing nutrients and medications, things like that.”
She paused and looked up to Reed, who only nodded in response. The information sounded vaguely familiar, the kind of thing he had read long ago and not given much thought to since.
The kind of thing most people prayed they never had to give a lot of attention to.
Stepping back a few feet, Solomon extracted a pair of blue surgical gloves from a box on the steel countertop behind her. One at a time she pulled them on before returning, using her right index finger as a pointer.
“All the telltale signs are present,” she began, motioning first to his exposed arms and shoulders. “See all this loose skin here? How thin his arms are?”
Rising onto his toes, Reed peered down. When he’d first encountered Ruggles, he’d thought the man was extremely skinny, but hadn’t given it a second thought. “Yeah.”
“Common symptoms are decrease of appetite, loss of muscle mass, weight loss, weakness,” Solomon said, rattling off the list in quick sequence. Stepping to her left a few inches, she pulled back the sheet, exposing Ruggles’s pale bare legs to mid-thigh. Green and blue blotches mottled both extremities like spots on a leopard, the ratio of bruised-to-unbruised flesh extremely high.
“Damn,” Reed whispered.
“When a person’s liver is damaged,” Solomon said, “their blood doesn’t clot. That’s why all the bruising.” She put the sheet back into place and said, “I’ll save you the visual, but suffice it to say his digestive system and bowels were full of blood as well.”
Reed watched the sheet slide back into place, his face wincing, a sharp breath passing over his lips.
“This is the big one, though,” Solomon said, moving to Ruggles’s head and peeling back an eyelid. Keeping himself several inches back from the body, his hands folded behind him, Reed leaned in to look, another sharp breath entering him.
Henry Ruggles had brown eyes, that part coming as no surprise. What caught Reed�
��s attention was the tissue surrounding it, all the color of straw, not a trace of the usual white visible.
“Jaundice,” Solomon said, holding the eyelid one extra moment before letting it fall back into place. “If he wasn’t so pale, or so bruised, you’d see his skin probably has a yellow tint to it as well.”
Taking a step back, Reed left his hands behind him, his fingers laced tight. “Yesterday, the sun was so bright I didn’t even think to notice.”
“Nor should you,” Solomon said, returning to the foot of the tray and sliding it back into place. The apparatus worked in near silence, Henry Ruggles disappearing from view, locked away once again.
“Find a body like this in a park, you’re not looking for signs of liver failure.”
“No,” Reed agreed, shaking his head once before moving his eyes over to the drawer containing Ruggles.
Of everything he had expected to find when he arrived, this was not near the top of the list. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling he’d been given an important piece of information, even if he had no idea what to do with it yet.
“Drugs?” he asked. “It would certainly be a motive.”
“It would,” Solomon said, “but unfortunately in this instance, there’s no evidence of that at all. Alcohol either. Aside from the failing liver, the guy was a pretty healthy 30-something.”
“So...?” Reed asked, leaving things open ended.
“Hemochromatosis,” Solomon said, “excessive iron in his blood. Completely genetic, it builds up in the liver, eventually becomes too much for it to handle.”
Reed nodded. Like most of what he’d been given this morning, he had no idea what to do with the information. His hope had been that Solomon had left out some small detail in her report that would present him with a proper motive, giving him a heading that would allow him to develop a suspect list.
This seemed to be doing quite the opposite.
“So what are you telling me?” Reed asked.
The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2) Page 13
