Hot Lights, Cold Steel

by D P Lyle

  “Anything we do isn’t going to interfere with what he’s got planned for her,” Austin said.

  Rocco scratched one ear. “Don’t fuck with his merchandise.”

  Austin glanced at Lefty, who said, “He calling the shots here?”

  “It’s his show. He’s paying the freight.”

  Austin grunted. “Any chick that’d fuck Eddie must be a head case, anyway.”

  “When will he go to work on them?” Rocco asked.

  Lefty closed his knife and put it into his pocket. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Not before?”

  “That’s what he said. Has some work to do on that gadget of his first. Or some such shit.”

  Rocco let out a long sigh. “So we have to keep them on ice for a couple more days.” He puffed on his cigar, creating a fresh cloud of smoke. “What’d you find out about that Walker dude?”

  “He and Tortelli are buddies,” Lefty said. “Go way back. Grammar school. Walker filed the report on the girl. Tortelli’s probably just helping him with that. My guy says Tortelli isn’t working any new cases right now, just a couple of old ones, so he’s got the time. Dub Walker’s some sort of forensics hotshot. Worked over at the crime lab for a few years. Writes a bunch of books. Lectures, consults, that sort of thing. Owns a lumber company. Rakes in good bucks.”

  “Walker Lumber?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s why his name’s familiar.” Rocco puffed the cigar to a cherry glow. “Doesn’t sound like paying him to go away will work.” He dumped a long ash in the ashtray near his elbow. “Maybe we can scare them off.”

  “Maybe,” Lefty said. “My guy at HPD says Tortelli doesn’t fuck around. Relentless was the word he used. An in-your-face attitude.”

  Rocco nodded. “Seemed that way to me.”

  “Want us to make them go away?” Lefty asked. “Permanently?”

  “That might complicate things. Right now they’re looking for two runaways. The bodies won’t be found, and the trail’s been scrubbed. No Eddie, and Alejandro won’t be with us much longer. Everything’ll go cold and they’ll give up. Tell the mother that her daughter disappeared. Maybe ran away somewhere.”

  “And if they don’t?” Austin asked.

  Rocco shoved the cigar into his mouth. It bobbed when he spoke.

  “We’ll sell them to our friend.”

  CHAPTER 21

  FRIDAY 12:12 P.M.

  NORTON AND KRAMDEN HOPPED AROUND THE YARD, PULLING UP grubs here and there, while I watered the plants on my deck. The day was hot so I had on shorts, no shirt, bare feet. I was nearly done when T-Tommy showed up. His expression said it all.

  I turned off the water and dropped the hose on the deck. “You found her.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels a bit. “A couple of hikers found an arm.”

  I didn’t want to hear this.

  “Called us. We found two bodies wrapped in plastic. Buried in the woods up north. Near Jeff Road.”

  “Dismembered?”

  “Pigs. Looks that way.”

  Jesus. This will kill Miranda.

  “The farmers there’ve had problems with a feral pack,” T-Tommy continued. “Organized a hunt. Killed half a dozen. Apparently not all of them.”

  Pigs are not Disney characters. They’re big, strong, fast, smart, and extremely aggressive. Ask anyone who has ever been around them. When domestic pigs escape their pens, melt into the woods, pack up, and become feral, they are a bitch to track and kill. They tend to hunt at night and being omnivores can live off anything— roots, grubs, small animals, calves, sheep, and chickens. And corpses. If cornered, they’ve been known to kill humans.

  T-Tommy went on. “I saw the tattoo on her back. The one in the picture.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Over at Forensic Sciences.”

  “Not at Dreyer’s?”

  Edwin Dreyer, owner and operator of Dreyer’s Funeral Home, was the county coroner, which in Madison County was an elected position with no medical requirements. He was a funeral director and as coroner handled all things death. Except the medical stuff. Though he received any and all corpses, those that required autopsies were shipped to the nearby Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences where Lou Drummond and Becka Cooksey, the two full-time medical examiners, did the work.

  “These went straight over to Drummond and Cooksey.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ll understand when you see the bodies. They’re doing the posts today.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  There was that feeling up my back and across my scalp again. The one I hated. “The other girl. Crystal Robinson?”

  “Don’t know. Drummond is running the prints on both.”

  “Noel’s will be on file in Birmingham. Couple of drug busts. I’d bet Crystal’s in the local system. Prostitution and possession raps most likely. I’m heading over to see the bodies.”

  “I need to swing by the South Precinct first. I’ll meet you there.”

  CHAPTER 22

  FRIDAY 2:09 P.M.

  I TURNED INTO THE FRONT PARKING LOT OF THE ALABAMA Department of Forensic Sciences, which sat northwest of downtown on Arcadia Circle in the shadow and hum of Memorial Parkway. It shared space in a low, tan brick building with the Department of Public Safety and a branch of the Madison County Sheriff’s Department. After leaving med school, fighting off depression, marrying and divorcing Claire, and doing two years as a Marine MP, I had worked there for nearly six years, during which I learned everything I now know about forensic science. Mostly from head criminalist Sidau Yamaguchi.

  People sometimes asked me exactly what I did. The simple answer was that I owned a lumber company and goofed off, but that wasn’t what they were usually asking about. The other stuff was hard to label. I’m not a doctor. Missed that by three months. Quit when someone abducted Jill, a blow that knocked my career path into a ditch. I’m not a criminalist. Not like Sidau. I’m not a psychiatrist or a profiler. Not trained in either. I usually said I was a criminal consultant. Not sure what that was, but it seemed closest to what I did.

  During my nearly six years in this building and my eighteen months with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit guys, I found that I had a knack for understanding evidence, seeing how it all stuck together, and for unraveling what the bad guys were likely thinking. Didn’t know where that came from. Probably the healthy dose of common sense I got from my parents. Particularly my dad. His approach to life was to look at something square on, let it rattle around in his brain a little, and then decide if it seemed reasonable. That approach made sense to me.

  Soon, law enforcement agencies, DAs, attorneys from both sides of the courtroom, coroners, and various government officials began asking me to review cases and get involved with their investigations. So, one of the things I do is consult all over the country on difficult and odd cases.

  My gut told me that this case would be both difficult and odd. I hated that feeling. I never ignored it, but I hated it.

  As I climbed from my Porsche, T-Tommy pulled into the lot. Inside we hooked up with Dr. Lou Drummond. He wore his usual gray surgical scrubs beneath a white knee-length lab coat. We followed him down the hall and into the autopsy suite.

  “You’ll know why we rushed the autopsies when you see the corpses,” Drummond said.

  I wished people would quit saying that. First T-Tommy and now Drummond. I wasn’t very good at prayer, not much practice, but I tossed out a silent one, anyway. Don’t let it be weird. Actually, I first asked that it not be Noel and then not weird. I figured two prayers might be pushing my luck given my shaky relationship with the big guy, but what the hell.

  The room smelled like every other autopsy suite I’d ever visited, the odors of death and formalin being universal. Six banks of overhead fluorescent lights cast a shadowless glow, and the brick-red tile floor returned each of our footsteps as f
lat echoes. Two metal dissection tables butted against a central stainless steel sink, one on each side in a head-to-head arrangement. The far one held a covered corpse, the shape suggesting a small female. The one nearest us held the body of a young woman, chest and abdomen open, autopsy in progress.

  We approached Dr. Becka Cooksey, a slight woman with straight shoulders and delicate hands. She wore gray surgical scrubs and moist latex gloves and held what looked like a liver in her hands. Handshakes could come later. She peered at me through a plastic face shield. “How are you?”

  “Been better. What’ve you got?” I glanced at the girl on the table.

  “That’s not Noel.”

  Cooksey peeled off her gloves, tossed them into a bucket near her feet, and removed her face shield. She walked to the draped form and lifted the sheet. Noel appeared. No doubt. She looked exactly like her photos. Except that now she was pale, waxy, and very dead. I swallowed hard. “That’s her.”

  Cooksey rolled her on one side, exposing the rose tattoo. I nodded, and she settled Noel’s corpse back on the table.

  Bodies almost never bothered me. Even the mushy, bloated ones I had pulled from lakes and swamps. Even those that had been ripped open by shotgun pellets. Not even the ones that had been charred a crispy black by an accelerant-enhanced fire. But Noel’s corpse did. She seemed small and innocent. And damaged. Severely damaged. The pigs had taken huge chunks from her arms, legs, and one shoulder. I swallowed acid back into my stomach.

  “What we have here is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum,” Cooksey said.

  I hadn’t noticed it on the other girl, her chest and abdomen still open, but when I was finally able to pull my gaze away from Noel’s face, I saw that several one- to two-inch long wounds dotted her abdomen. Metallic clips, which I recognized as surgical staples, held each of them closed. I knew these weren’t part of the autopsy procedure. The ugly Y incision, now sutured closed, yes, these other wounds, no.

  I pointed to them. “What’s the story with the staples?”

  “These wounds on both girls aren’t traumatic,” Cooksey said. I knew that. “They’re surgical. Carefully and skillfully done. By someone with experience, expertise, and the latest tools.”

  “Want to explain?” T-Tommy asked.

  “The other girl” —she gestured toward the table behind me— “had three procedures. An appendectomy, a gallbladder removal, and a nephrectomy . . . kidney removal. This one had the same three procedures plus a colon resection.”

  “All that through these little openings?” T-Tommy asked.

  Cooksey shrugged and nodded to me.

  “It’s a minimally invasive technique,” I told T-Tommy. “That means using a small incision. Cannulas—hollow metal tubes— are passed through the openings, and then instruments are passed through the cannuli and the surgery is done. Popular technique.”

  “And all these surgeries can be done that way?” he asked.

  “Sure can. Even open-heart surgery.”

  T-Tommy’s brow furrowed. “I thought they opened the chest right down the middle for that.” He glanced at me. “Like Mike Savage had.”

  “They usually do,” Cooksey said. “But this minimally invasive, or buttonhole as it’s also called, approach is less traumatic.”

  “Can just any surgeon do this?” T-Tommy asked.

  “Nowadays most surgeons do at least some procedures this way.” Cooksey gestured at Noel’s corpse. “Whoever did this is good.”

  “Were any of these surgeries necessary?” I asked. “I can’t imagine a couple of teenage girls needed all this.”

  “Obviously, I don’t have the removed organs. The gallbladders, the appendices, the others . . . so I can’t be 100 percent sure that disease wasn’t present in them. But this number of illnesses in women of this age would be very unlikely.” Cooksey sighed. “That’s not the weird part.”

  Here it comes.

  Cooksey massaged the back of her neck, rotating her head slightly as if working out a kink. “These didn’t all happen at once but over several days. This nephrectomy is at least five or six days old, and the gallbladder removal is more like two.”

  This was beyond weird, bordering on surreal. “You’re telling us that someone did a handful of unnecessary surgeries on two healthy girls over several days?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Maybe stealing organs?” T-Tommy said. “Black market stuff?”

  “All that organ stealing that was supposed to go on in hotel rooms is urban legend,” I said. “Never happened. Besides, not much of a market for an appendix or a gallbladder.” I looked at Cooksey. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Good question. Don’t know the answer yet. Definitely not bleeding or a botched surgery. Not a heart attack or a pulmonary embolus. The procedures were perfect. Every cut exact. Toxicology stuff will go down to the lab in Birmingham.”

  “Time of death?” I asked.

  “Based on the rigor and the lack of any real putrefaction, I’d guess around thirty-six hours ago.”

  “Both of them?”

  She nodded. “The bodies were moved two to four hours, maybe more, after death. The lividity pattern indicates that they were on their backs for a few hours, then dumped in the position they were in at the burial site.”

  T-Tommy’s cell phone buzzed, and he answered, spoke to someone for a minute, and slipped it back into his pocket. “Prints gave up positive IDs on both.” He faced me. “The other girl is Crystal Robinson.”

  CHAPTER 23

  FRIDAY 2:49 P.M.

  T-TOMMY AND I STOOD IN THE PARKING LOT, TRYING TO MAKE SENSE out of what we had just seen and heard. “This is insane,” I said.

  T-Tommy grunted, his way of saying I had stated the obvious.

  “It would take more than just a skilled surgeon. Had to be done in a hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “The cutter would need anesthesia, ventilators, drugs, an operating room, an ICU, post-op care. That takes special equipment and trained people.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I think I’ll pay a visit to Liz,” I said. “Get her take on it.”

  Dr. Liz Mackey was a CV surgeon at Huntsville Memorial Medical Center. The only one who did pediatric heart cases. T-Tommy and I had gone to high school with her. She was a year behind me in med school. Unlike me, she finished. In fact, Liz climbed all the way to the top of the medical food chain.

  “I’ll go with you.” T-Tommy started to say something else, but he focused on something over my shoulder. “Shit,” he murmured.

  I turned to see Sergeant Wayne Furyk heading our way. Short, square, solid, buzz cut. A cross between Napoleon and Schwarzenegger. A permanent scowl cut into his face. Head of the HPD Major Crimes Unit and T-Tommy’s boss. I had met him once. More like butted heads with him a couple of years ago when he ran with the Narc guys out of the West Precinct. I was brought in to consult on a multiple murder. Drug related. He took exception to my reading of the crime scene. He was wrong; I was right. Really, I was. His move up to head of Major Crimes was controversial. Jumped over a few guys who probably deserved it more.

  “Sergeant,” T-Tommy said.

  Furyk ignored him and looked at me. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t offer to shake hands but rather stood with his fists balled on his hips, chest pushed out, confrontation written all over him.

  “Came to identify the body,” I said.

  “We know who they are.” His square chin jutted directly at me.

  “I had to see her.”

  “She family?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said, but it didn’t seem to me that he meant it. “Chief didn’t call you, did he? Ask you to come in on this one?”

  Turf. Always got to protect your turf. “No,” I said.

  “So you’ll stay out of this investigation?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “You’re not going to g
ive me trouble, are you?” He hooked his thumbs on his belt and widened his stance.

  Furious Furyk. His behind-the-back nickname. With good reason. Had a legendary temper. Right now he seemed to be looking for a fight.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  “I’ll make it clear for you. We don’t want or need you rooting around this case.”

  Fuck him. “Can’t make that promise.”

  “You get in the way or fuck anything up, I’ll put my boot on your neck.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Furyk stared at me for a minute. I hoped he wasn’t armed. He turned to T-Tommy. “Cooksey called. Said the bodies had some unusual injuries. Something about surgeries.”

  “That’s right,” T-Tommy said. “Want to take a look?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He turned and headed toward the door. “See you inside,” he shot over his shoulder.

  “I see he’s mellowed,” I said.

  T-Tommy shook his head. “So why do you want to bang heads with him?”

  “He started it.” I smiled. “Besides, I need something fun about now.”

  “Pissing on Furyk is it?”

  “It’s a start.”

  T-Tommy sighed.

  “You want me to stay out of the way?”

  “Yeah, right. Like you’d listen.”

  “Just being polite.”

  T-Tommy grunted. Meant that wasn’t one of my strongest qualities. He scratched an ear. “Just try to stay off his radar.”

  “Will do.”

  T-Tommy scowled. I didn’t think he believed me.

  “Any similar cases on the books lately?” I asked. “Girls going to fake setups and disappearing?”

  “I heard of one. Wasn’t directly involved in the case. Grapevine talk. Couple of months back. Supposed to meet a john at his house. Out toward Gurley. Poof. Gone. Guy denied everything and it checked out. Out of town, if I remember it right.” He kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the parking lot. “Like Weiss.”