by D P Lyle
“Why go through all that?” T-Tommy said. “Why not just stand there and do it?”
“With the right equipment and a few trained assistants, you could have the best surgeon in the world even if you were on safari in Africa. Or on the space station.”
“Clever,” T-Tommy said.
“Have you done any of those?” I asked. “The robotic stuff?”
“I’d love to, but the equipment would break the bank. A couple of million and up to get the right setup. And that’s just the basics. Maybe after the price comes down, I can get the hospital board to sign off on it.”
“Where do you get your equipment?” T-Tommy asked. “For these buttonhole deals?”
“There are several places. Most people buy from the three or four big manufacturers. One’s here in Huntsville.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Talbert Biomedical. They make all kinds of surgical equipment, including the tools for minimally invasive surgeries. Since they’re local we buy a lot from them.”
“Dr. Mackey?” The voice came through the wall-mounted two-way intercom.
She turned toward the voice. “Yes?”
“We’re ready to rock. Hot lights, cold steel.”
“I’m on the way.” Liz stood. “Time to get to work.” She seemed to notice the quizzical look on Claire’s face and laughed. “Hot lights and cold steel. Surgery. The hot overhead lights and the cold steel scalpel.” She shrugged. “Got to find humor where you can.”
CHAPTER 27
FRIDAY 5:17 P.M.
WE STOPPED BY THE MARRIOTT. WHEN MIRANDA OPENED THE door, she appeared tired and worn. I saw her packed bags on the bed.
“I was just getting ready to call you,” she said, stepping back and letting us enter.
“You leaving?”
“I have so much to do. Plan the funeral.” Miranda swallowed hard. “Deal with the trust we set up for her.” She looked around the room. “I have a list here somewhere.”
“You in any condition to drive?” T-Tommy asked. “We can take you.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You have people down in Birmingham to help you?” Claire asked. “I have great friends, and they’re all pitching in.”
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“Now.”
T-Tommy and I grabbed her luggage and carried it out to her car. We put it in the trunk, and then I opened the car door for her. She hugged T-Tommy, Claire, and me before sliding behind the wheel.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“No. But I have to get home.” Miranda gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “I thought Richard’s death was hard. But this? How do you get past this?”
“Time,” I said. “It takes time.”
“Are you over your sister? It’s been . . . what? Ten years? More?”
“No. But it’s better. Not nearly as acute as it once was.”
“I hope you’re right, but I don’t see how.”
“It will get better. I promise.”
“Thanks for that. And for everything you’ve done.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” I closed the door and then watched as she drove from the parking lot and turned left. Wrong way. That led to a dead end at the adjacent U.S. Space & Rocket Center. A minute later, her car came back headed toward the freeway entrance. Maybe we should have insisted on driving her the one hundred miles to Birmingham. Probably wouldn’t have worked. One of the many words I always connected with Miranda was stubborn. Like Claire. Maybe there was a pattern there.
After arranging to meet later at Sammy’s, Claire went to the station, and T-Tommy and I set out to chat with Miss Sally. The Bel Aire Motel squatted a few miles northwest of town off the Ardmore Highway, near where State 255 crossed. It wasn’t the Marriott. Not even close. A dozen units facing a gravel parking area. Dirty white stucco with faded turquoise trim. A tiled roof, once red, now a sun-bleached, anemic orange.
Miss Sally sat behind a cluttered desk in unit 1, the door standing open. A cloud of cigarette smoke greeted us. We introduced ourselves. She offered a weak, moist handshake.
Sally stubbed a cigarette into an ashtray, half-filled with butts, lit another, and took a heavy drag. She sipped what appeared to be Scotch, neat. I knew that from the nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red next to the glass. I told you I was observant.
She looked midsixties, probably midfifties, booze and cigarettes adding the decade. Her light blue cotton dress appeared a couple of sizes too large. Several ash burns spotted the front. She didn’t invite us to sit in the folding lawn chairs that faced her desk. She asked what we wanted.
“Just a couple of questions.”
She stared at me and blew a large, slow-moving smoke ring down and to her left. Then with a series of slight jerks of her jaw, she fired three smaller ones through it before it disintegrated against the floor. “About what?”
“We’re looking for a girl who goes by Bambi. Worked for you.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe I don’t know her.” Sally blew another smoke ring that twisted into a figure eight before falling apart.
“Neat trick,” I said.
“Got a million of them.” As if to prove her point, she shot out another one that seemed to spin as it skidded across her desk and off one end.
I gave her mock applause.
“I don’t talk about my business. Especially to no cop.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said.
“He is.” Sally jabbed the cig toward T-Tommy. “Seen him in the paper.”
“We ain’t here to lean on you,” T-Tommy said. “Unless you want us to. We’re investigating something else.”
Smoke drifted out of her nose as she looked at him. Finally she said, “Name’s Marlene Johnson. Why’re you looking for her?”
“I understand she’s missing. Went to meet a guy who’d never heard of her. We had a friend who disappeared under similar circumstances.”
“She black? Your missing friend.”
I shook my head.
“You think your friend and Marlene went off somewhere together?”
Again I shook my head. “We found our friend. Along with another girl. On a slab at the coroner’s office.”
Sally’s shoulders straightened.
I went on. “We’re looking for a connection. A pattern. A lead of any kind.”
She flicked an ash toward the ashtray on the corner of her desk. Missed. “So you’re thinking your friend might’ve been set up? Marlene, too?”
“Possible.”
Sally studied me for a moment. Smoke drifted from her mouth and was captured by her nose. “Why?”
“That’s what we want to know.”
“Your friend. Shot? Stabbed? Raped? What happened?”
“Can’t really say,” T-Tommy said. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you understand.”
“Gee. Cops keeping secrets. I’m shocked.” She stubbed out her cigarette, stood, and walked to the open door. Leaning against the jamb, she stared out over the front lot, then turned her head back toward us and spoke over her shoulder. “Marlene, Bambi, whatever, took a hike about six months ago. Had about twenty-five hundred of my money. I filed a report with the police, for what that’s worth. Haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
“Did you set up her date that night?”
Sally returned to her chair, sat down, and fired up another cigarette. “No. Marlene did some freelance work.”
“You didn’t mind? The freelancing?”
“Of course I minded. Money’s money.” She blew another figure eight. “But what are you going to do? Whores act like whores. About everything.”
“So she set up her own date that night?”
“Far as I know. Unless she went back to Rosalee Kennedy. Used to work for her.”
I shook my head. “She didn’t. Rosalee said she took off with her money, too.”
“Like I said, whores are whores.” Sally took a
gulp from her drink. “I’d bet she headed for the coast. South, east, west. Take your pick.”
I didn’t believe it. Not for a minute. I had no evidence, no real reason to believe otherwise, but deep down I knew Marlene had never left the city. Not alive, anyway. I also knew that Miss Sally couldn’t help us. Unless we wanted to learn smoke ring tricks, that is.
CHAPTER 28
FRIDAY 6:59 P.M.
THE PLAN WAS SIMPLE, DANGEROUS, AND NOT LIKELY TO SUCCEED, BUT Alejandro could see no other way out of this. Even now as he ran his hands over the rough cinder blocks for what seemed the twentieth time, pressing a fingernail into the cement that separated them, searching for a weakness, he knew he’d find none. Whoever designed this room had covered all the angles. That left the open door as their only escape route. The trick was getting through it alive. They would be outnumbered three to two and outgunned two to zip. Not a pretty prospect.
What choice did he have? No doubt Rocco had something nasty planned. Why else had they not pounded on him? If they really believed he or Carmelita had talked, they would do anything to get a name. But other than humiliating Carmelita, they had done no damage to either of them.
That brought up another question: if they were going to kill them, why hadn’t they done it? Keeping them here was risky. What could Rocco need so badly that he would take the chance? Alejandro came up with no answers that even remotely made sense. Whatever it was, escape seemed a better option than waiting for Rocco to play his hand.
They had made their conditions a bit more comfortable. Air mattresses and blankets. Leaving the overhead lights on. Dim but better than the darkness they had endured the first day. Earlier they were allowed to shower. Lefty and Austin watched Carmelita and again made her do things to herself. To her credit, when she told Alejandro what had happened, she didn’t cry but rather stood in the center of the room, fists balled at her sides, anger dripping off her. That anger would be useful.
Alejandro now had a handle on their captors’ routine. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, always the same. Each time the door opened, the three men performed a little dance. Austin would enter the room, gun in hand, expand his chest, and start giving orders. Always the tough guy. Lefty would linger just outside the door to one side, clear line of fire toward Alejandro, not giving much thought to Carmelita, obviously feeling she was no risk. The third man hung in the hallway.
Taking down Austin and Lefty would be the trick. The other guy was smaller and appeared less threatening. Of course, he could be armed, but Alejandro would have to go with the hope that he wasn’t.
Only a blitz attack would work. Take on Austin straight up, surprise on his side. A quick hit to the throat, go for the gun. Carmelita would wait just inside the door until Lefty stepped into the room, looking for a clear line of fire. She would then throw herself at him, using that anger, scratching and biting and kicking. She needed to occupy him for only a few seconds. If Alejandro couldn’t take Austin down and out quickly, they were done, anyway.
He had gone over it with her a dozen times. They had practiced all the necessary moves. Carmelita learned quickly.
Alejandro decided that tonight when the men brought food was the time. If they could pull off the attack, get down the hall to the restroom he had used, and smash through the window, they just might make it out of here.
The problem was that the men had broken their routine. Should have been here already.
“You ready?” Alejandro whispered. He sat next to her on one of the mattresses, back against the wall.
Carmelita shrugged.
He could sense fear replacing her anger. An hour earlier she had been pumped up, ready to go. But time killed emotion. Now she just appeared tired, almost resigned to a bad ending.
“Go for his eyes,” Alejandro said. “Get your fingers in there. Anywhere. Like I showed you. Then tear his face up.”
“You make it sound like I’m an animal.”
Alejandro turned toward her. “You want to live? Then you become a complete animal. Go crazy. Loco en la cabeza.” He grabbed her arm. “If you hesitate or hold back, we’ll lose. They’ll kill us right here.”
She nodded.
“Just remember what they made you do. Hold that anger tightly.”
“I will. I promise.” Carmelita didn’t sound very convincing.
He couldn’t lose her now, couldn’t pull this off without her. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you. Understand?”
She sighed. “I just want to get it over with.”
CHAPTER 29
FRIDAY 7:11 P.M.
I SAT IN A FOLDING CHAIR ON THE SMALL CORNER STAGE AT SAMMY’S Blues ‘n’ Q next to local bluesman Colin Dogget. I fingered Colin’s blond spruce Gibson J-50 through several riffs as he walked through Robert Johnson’s “Terraplane Blues” on his Vintage Sunburst L-7C Archtop. I loved playing with Colin and sat in with him every time I had a chance. The best way to close the week, particularly after a day like this one had been.
The after-work crowd had gathered and were well into their third or fourth round. The men in suits or jeans and blue work shirts, some even in overalls. The women wore everything from business attire to jeans to cutoffs. Sammy’s attracted all types.
We settled into “Stormy Monday,” followed that with “Crossroads,” “Five Long Years,” and finally “Third Degree.” Halfway through that one, Claire showed up.
Fresh off the set, she wore a navy blue blouse beneath a gray suit, and her thick red mane was pulled back and tied with one of those deals that looked like silk panties. Loved those things. She joined T-Tommy at the bar where Sammy poured her a glass of red wine.
I thanked Colin, acknowledged the applause from the crowd, and headed toward the bar. Colin eased into “Little Red Rooster.”
Sammy came from the back, wiped down the bar, and asked, “Get you guys anything to eat?”
A BBQ chicken salad for Claire, sliced BBQ brisket for me, and a full rack of ribs for T-Tommy. With a side of hot links. We moved to a table in the corner.
“Thanks for your help with Miranda,” I said.
Claire shrugged. “No problem. She’s a tough lady. She’ll get through this okay.”
“I hope so.” I took a big slug of Blanton’s. “It’s not every day that you learn your daughter was not only tortured and murdered but also chewed on by wild pigs.”
Silence settled for a beat, and then Claire said, “How do you figure this?”
“Hard for me to believe these were done at a hospital,” I said. “You can’t simply dump your bad outcomes in the trash. Or out in the woods.”
“I spoke with a friend of mine,” Claire said. “A surgical nurse over at Crestwood. She said there was no way anyone could be operated on and then simply disappear. Too many regulations, watchdogs, people involved. Not to mention families, hospital staff, other patients. Even insurance companies. Someone would know. Or at least ask questions.”
“What about one of those surgicenter deals?” T-Tommy asked. “They’re small. Maybe below the radar.”
“Not likely.” Claire sipped her wine. “My friend said that they have to bow to the same regulations as hospitals. In some ways they’re even more closely watched. To hide something like this would require quite a conspiracy. Involve a ton of people.”
“And to do all this over several days?” I said. “Hell of a trick to hide it.”
“Then where?”
Our food arrived and we began to eat.
“A house or motel might work,” I said.
“Or a mobile unit like a motor home,” T-Tommy said.
I looked at him. “If you’re not concerned about the patient’s survival, it could be done almost anywhere.”
No one said anything for a moment, letting that concept seep in. Hospitals were clean, well staffed with professionals, and had the latest equipment for one reason: to make people better. They actually wanted their patients to survive. But with Noel and Crystal, survival didn’t seem to be an issue.
> “So the where could be anywhere,” Claire said. “What about the who and the why?”
“The who is someone with training and tools,” I said. “Maybe some psycho surgeon with an OR in his basement.”
As soon as I said that, I thought it was a crazy idea. But was it? Could the killer be some rogue doc, doing illegal surgeries? Or some psycho with a doctor fetish who captured and practiced on prostitutes? Was this his method of torture? Some sick fuck getting his jollies? If so, it was pretty damned complex.
That opened up other questions. What had it been like for Noel? Was she asleep for the procedures? Jesus, I didn’t want to think about that.
“Maybe this is some elaborate form of piquerism,” I said.
“What’s that?” Claire asked.
“It’s a type of torture. A piquerist is someone who tortures his victim with small cuts and pricks. I saw a case when I was with the FBI behavioral science guys.”
Claire pulled a notepad from her purse. “How do you spell it?”
“Seen it two ways,” I said. “P-i-q-u-e-r-i-s-t and p-i-c-a-r-i-s-t. Either way a bad deal.”
“Is this for real? People actually do that?”
“It’s rare but it’s out there. Death by a thousand cuts.”
Claire turned to me. “You don’t think that’s it, do you?”
“No. This is something else.” I twisted away the knot that was gathering in my neck. “Something worse.”
“What?” Claire asked. “And why?”
“That’s the question,” I said. “The key. If we uncover the why, we’ll find the who. That’s the way it works. People always have a reason for doing things. Even these kinds of things.”
“Well, it’s not for money,” Claire said. “If that were the case, survival would be paramount. Hard to collect from a dead person.”
