The Angel Maker

by Ridley Pearson

  Shoswitz struck out. He flashed Boldt an angry look and asked, “How many vets in this Tender Care clinic?”

  “Four years ago—note that the date coincides exactly with the disappearance of Anna Ferragot—there were three partners in the practice. They broke it up. Two of them went their separate ways. Three clinics now: Tender Care, Lakeview Animal Clinic and North Main Animal Center.”

  “So if you’re right about this—and there’s no saying you are—the cutter could be one of those three vets. So you and LaMoia nose around a little. You shake them up. I just told you: I have no problem with that.”

  “Asking questions isn’t going to do any good. I need to kick the place. I need to locate a pair of snippers that did both Anna Ferragot and Peter Blumenthal. That’s our hard evidence, Phil. That’s our way to lock this guy up, to stop him while Sharon Shaffer is still alive.”

  Shoswitz stopped batting. He asked, “Were Ferragot’s tax records obtained legally?”

  “You know they weren’t. A formal request to the IRS can take weeks. We don’t have weeks.”

  “They’re your only link to this animal clinic, I take it. So in point of fact, you’ve got zilch.” Shoswitz tripped the pitching switch again. High and inside. He swung and missed.

  For no reason at all, Miles shrieked at the top of his lungs. Shoswitz scowled.

  “Look at it this way,” Boldt said amiably. “You can blame all your strikes on Miles and me.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.” Shoswitz hit a grounder past third and seemed pleased with it. Boldt played with his son’s fingers attempting to distract him. Shoswitz wanted them out of there. Good. He took his foot off the pitcher’s switch, turned to Boldt, and said, “You’ve been away from this too long, Lou. You’ve gone soft. What’s the next step? Think about it.” The lecture mode. Perfect. “You need warrants, right? Either that or you’re talking about bringing these vets in and chatting them up, and we both agree that’s no good. Am I right? So if you’re going to get paper on this, you’ve got to have probable cause, you’ve got to have a nice clean chain of evidence. And what have you got? You’ve got squat! Some suture? Some drug that’s been on 60 Minutes! Come on! Four-year-old skeletal remains? What? Exactly which judge were you going to take this to? Or maybe you intended to run it by Bob Proctor, our broom-up-the-ass prosecuting attorney. You know what Bob would do? He’d laugh you right out of that office! Swear to God.”

  As Shoswitz turned to face the plate, Boldt smiled behind his back. Daphne had coached him on how to handle the lieutenant: “Let him be right. Let him tell you what you need.” Boldt said, “We have those tool markings linking the victims. If we could only raid all three vet clinics at the same time … If we come up with the surgical shears responsible for those tool markings, we’ve got a conviction.”

  “You’re ahead of yourself,” Shoswitz advised. “It’s a Catch-22, Lou. You need those shears in order to obtain the necessary warrants to find those shears. Come on! You can’t conduct search-and-seizures based on hunches. I shouldn’t have to be telling you this. We shouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m saving you from eating a lot of crow. You know that?”

  He swung again. Cracked one way the hell out there. The automated crowd let out a deafening cheer.

  “But you see how close we are?” Boldt encouraged. “What more do we need?”

  “You’re close, yes, but you’re not there. You need a witness—an employee, maybe.” Boldt heaved a sigh of relief. He was so close now. A little more … “What about those numbers in the database?” Shoswitz asked. “Were they flight numbers as you suggested? Maybeck and that database—now there is some good evidence. Fuckin’ judges and juries just love anything to do with computers. Can you link that to any of these vets? You do that, you’re one step closer.”

  This was the reason for Boldt’s being here. Without knowing it, Shoswitz had stepped into the trap. “Each of the four-digit numbers that are unique to the laptop database corresponds to a NorthWest Airlines international flight that originates in Vancouver, B.C. Over a dozen flights, but to only two countries: Argentina and Brazil. Both are known markets for donor kidneys. The fact that all the flights are with the same two carriers indicates …”

  “A courier,” the lieutenant answered. “A flight attendant, a pilot. Someone hand-carrying the organs for them.” Shoswitz lost interest in the baseball.

  Boldt felt his skin prickle. So close now. “Exactly. They arranged and kept track of the flights well ahead of schedule because time is an issue with these organs.”

  “If we identify this courier, you’ve got your witness. We just might bust this thing.”

  Boldt could hear the door of his trap slamming shut. Shoswitz was starting to see front-page headlines. “Close, but no cigar,” Boldt said.

  Shoswitz considered this challenge. He said, “There may be two couriers. One transporting the organs between here and Vancouver and then passing the thing off to a second who carries it onto an international flight. The international courier would never know the harvester’s identity.”

  “The harvester remains insulated,” Boldt agreed. “But more importantly, they get the organ to someone who is acceptable for bringing in an organ. Flight crew personnel courier UNOS organs all the time. Passengers never do.”

  “Which means we need this other courier—the one making the trips between Seattle and Vancouver. “It would be a courier, wouldn’t it? If they shipped the organs, they’d leave a paper trail.”

  “Agreed.”

  Abandoning the bat, Shoswitz tripped some buttons. The screen died, and the lights came on. Compared to Yankee Stadium, this room was tiny. Shoswitz looked foolish in his batting helmet and scuffed wing tips.

  Boldt explained quickly, “We need to identify any passenger who is making roundtrips to Vancouver on the dates of the harvests. We’re lucky there because the dates are in the database.”

  Shoswitz was catching on. He said, “You’ve already done this, haven’t you?”

  “We ran Maybeck’s name first—I was all but positive that he was the courier. He was the one with the laptop, with the database, but I was wrong. We came up blank. It’s not Maybeck. We ran the names of the three vets—also blank. I want to run the names of the employees at all three clinics next—past and present—through the air carrier manifest lists, but it’s an enormous job. Dozens of carriers—dozens of dates. It’s a logistical nightmare.”

  “Is it even possible? The courier would travel under a different name each time, wouldn’t he? Pay cash. Travel light.”

  “Not different names—we’re lucky there. SEATAC to Vancouver is international—you have to show legal identification. That helps.”

  Massaging his elbow, Shoswitz asked, “What about driving?”

  “It takes too long. Every hour counts with these organs.” You’re warm, Boldt wanted to say.

  “Checking flight manifests for a name common between them? How many carriers between here and Vancouver? A dozen? More? How many flights a day? Fifty? Sixty? How long to cross-check them all? Jesus! A week? A month? I’d say Anna Ferragot died for nothing. We’re no fucking closer.” Shoswitz displayed the same frustrations that Boldt had felt. Daphne had anticipated this. According to her, this was the turning point.

  “Impossible,” Shoswitz mumbled.

  “But if we were to narrow the field,” Boldt suggested. He actually crossed his fingers. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done that. Miles started kicking.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Shoswitz asked, sensing he was missing something. “Give me a second. Just give me a fucking second.”

  “Seattle to Vancouver,” Boldt hinted.

  Shoswitz didn’t want any hints; he glared at Boldt then snapped his fingers in realization. “Immigration! We can search the fed’s Immigration computers—it’s a single database. We can search by date, by the names of the clinic employees. We don’t have to deal with a dozen different carriers. How hard ca
n that be? How long could that take?”

  “A matter of minutes, if we go in the back door.” This was Boldt’s moment of glory: Shoswitz had arrived. Boldt said, “It’s the federal government. It’s red tape a mile long. If we go after it legally, it could take weeks. Months, even.”

  “Why not an end run?” Shoswitz asked. Boldt thought: Why not! Such tactics were fairly common practice: You asked a contact at a credit agency or the phone company—or Immigration—to do a search for you; if something useful was discovered, you were told to make it a formal request, knowing in advance that the formal request would net what you were after. It saved you from jumping through all the legal hoops only to come up dry. Shoswitz finally understood, finally saw his role in all of this. “You want me to make the call, is that it?”

  For Boldt, it was like fireworks going off. A home run. “You’re the only one with the necessary contacts at Immigration. I don’t have them. LaMoia doesn’t. But you do. I know you don’t like this kind of thing, Phil, but we need some help here.” Boldt had Daphne to thank for this; this technique had been all her doing.

  Shoswitz said, “You could have just asked, you know.”

  Boldt offered an inquisitive expression.

  The lieutenant considered this a moment. “No,” he conceded, “I suppose not.” Miles squirmed. He clapped his hands against Boldt’s chest.

  Boldt said, “LaMoia’s working on getting the employee lists. Three clinics in all: Tender Care, North Main, and Lakeview. With any luck, we should have those names by morning.”

  THURSDAY

  February 9

  7 A.M.

  39

  With one day in which to find Sharon alive, Daphne, having slept for only three hours, marched into Boldt’s of-rice at seven o’clock Thursday morning and announced, “We overlooked something.”

  Wearing the same clothes as the day before, Boldt looked up from his desk with glassy eyes and replied, “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  “I know how to identify the harvester.”

  He sat up, suddenly more alert, and watched as she passed by him, heading directly to one of several large stacks of paperwork. “Didn’t you pull the drivers licenses on the three Tender Care vets?”

  “Other stack,” he directed. “But it’s no good. Shoswitz agrees that we’d be tipping our hand, that we’d give the harvester a chance to close up shop, to destroy evidence, if we interview them. Although the way Maybeck behaved with the laptop, I’m starting to think we’re already too late.”

  “It’s not an interview I’m after.” She dug through the next pile over and extricated three sheets of paper. “He can tell us who he is without our ever asking a question.” She added, “The thing is, Dixie told us the harvester is left-handed. Remember? We weren’t thinking.”

  “But how—?”

  “His signature, dummy.”

  She placed the first sheet in front of him. It showed a poor-quality photocopy of a driver’s license, complete with name, address, height, weight, eye color, and identification number. Her fingernail ran across the signature. “Right-handed,” she stated. “See the slant to the characters and the way the dot on the ‘i’ trails to the right?” She placed the next sheet in front of Boldt. She was leaning in close to him, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair. “Another rightie,” she declared. “He’s the one who retained the Tender Care name, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see how—”

  She interrupted again, “This is my training, Lou. Not yours.” She delivered the last sheet to the table.

  Her finger traced along the signature. “A leftie! See the posture of the ‘l’ and the ‘d’? It’s him!”

  Reading the name from the license, Boldt asked, “Elden Tegg? How sure are you about this rightie/leftie business?”

  “Put him under surveillance,” she instructed, taking charge. “I am going to find out who the hell this bastard is.”

  At eight forty-five she re-entered Boldt’s office and took a seat across from him. “Dr. Elden Tegg is Canadian by birth—a U.S. citizen now. You want to guess what city in Canada he’s from?” When he failed to answer her she said, “Vancouver,” and left it hanging in the air like a bomb.

  “How do you know any of this?” he asked skeptically.

  She slid the faxes over to him, her heart beating quickly. “Just got these.” She could feel Boldt’s anticipation. “He’s a board-certified veterinarian. I obtained his curriculum vitae from the Seattle Veterinary Medical Association. It gets real interesting on page two. Prior to veterinarian school here in Washington, Elden Tegg attended medical school in Vancouver.”

  “As in humans?” Boldt’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “As in. He didn’t make it through his residency, which is not unusual in itself, the dropout rate being what it is. He came down here to Seattle and studied to be a veterinarian—also not that unusual. But it sure as hell fits the profile. Page three: There’s a doctor listed as an attending physician: Dr. Stanley Millingsford. Lives outside Vancouver. I called him. What is unusual about Elden Tegg is that he was at the very top of his class. He didn’t leave his residency; he was asked to leave. Dr. Millingsford was reluctant to give me that. In fact, Dr. Millingsford is an ardent supporter of Elden Tegg, or was until I told him about the nature of our investigation.” She added, “Would you like to guess Elden Tegg’s special interest in residency?”

  Boldt answered, “Transplants?”

  She nodded. “Transplantation surgery. Millingsford is willing to talk but not over the phone. He has a dislike of phones.”

  Understanding her situation, Boldt stated, “You need a travel voucher signed by Shoswitz.”

  “You’re such a good cop,” she said.

  “We’ve established surveillance of the clinic and Tegg’s residence. You’re on your way. Now!”

  She jumped up. They stood only inches apart. It seemed he might try to kiss her. Something inside her hoped that he might at least hug her, but the moment passed. He hurried out the door, running toward the lieutenant’s office. “Lieutenant!” she heard him shout, “We’ve got him!”

  Nestled in a shoreline forest of giant cedar, madronas and pine, Dr. Stanley Millingsford’s gray clapboard home was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence with a stone pillar gate. It had a horseshoe driveway made of crushed stone and gave Daphne the impression of an English manor house. As the taxi dropped her off, she faced a nine-foot-high black lacquer door with a polished brass knocker in the shape of a half moon. The sun shone brightly but was not hot. She tapped the moon gently against a polished brass star.

  Mrs. Stanley Millingsford, who introduced herself as Marion, was in her late sixties, with pale blue eyes. She wore a riding outfit, complete with high black boots. She led Daphne into the cozy living room where a fire burned in the large fireplace. She seemed upset with Daphne coming here, bothering her husband, and she communicated this in a single, intense expression. She offered tea and went off to prepare it before Daphne had a chance to answer.

  Dr. Millingsford walked with a cane. He wore a blue blazer, khakis, white socks, and corduroy slippers. A pair of bifocals protruded from the pocket of his Stewart plaid shirt. He had silver-gray hair and eyes the same color as his wife’s. He motioned Daphne to the couch and took the leather wingback chair by the fire for himself. He placed his bad leg on a footstool and leaned the cane within reach. “Sorry to make you come all this way.” She didn’t say anything. He had that air about him: You didn’t interrupt his thoughts. “Your generation is more comfortable with the telephone than mine.” He sounded American, not Canadian, but she wasn’t going to ask.

  “Elden Tegg,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Organ harvesting?” He glanced at the fire. “Which organs?” he asked.

  “Kidneys. Lungs. We think it is mostly kidneys. Two of the victims are missing a kidney.”

  “Victims?”

  “At least three of the donors hemorrhaged and died.
”

  He lost some of his color and looked at her gravely.

  “He was asked to leave his residency,” she reminded him.

  “Yes.” He collected his thoughts. “You don’t forget a man like Elden Tegg. There aren’t many that good, which makes them stand out all the more. I don’t mean just talent. Talent and intelligence abound in the residency programs. But rare is the individual who rolls the two together and achieves something of a higher level from this combination—call it creativity, call it confidence—when you see it, you know.

  “Elden Tegg has as sure a pair of hands as I have ever seen. Brilliant control. He had the eye—that’s the thing so many lack. Oh, they’ve read all the texts, they are founts of technical information, but they can’t see. A surgeon must be able to see that which is there. Not just that problem for which he operates, but everything. Elden Tegg has such an eye, and the hands to go along with it. But while he was with us he had something else: ambition. The wheels of education moved too slowly for him. He sensed his greatness. He wanted everything, wanted it all. More than anything, he wanted acceptance from his peers. He wanted to belong. It wasn’t difficult to see that. He was the freak, the whiz kid, and he suffered for it.”

  Millingsford’s wife entered with a rolling tray containing a cozied teapot, cups and saucers, a lemon poppyseed cake and small plates. “You’ll have to fend for yourselves, I’m afraid. I’m awfully sorry. We have a sick foal I must attend,” she explained. She left.

  Daphne poured them both tea and cut some cake for him.

  He chewed some cake, looking into the fire. “Have you met him? Tegg?”