by D P Lyle
T-Tommy showed up. He had been meeting with the task force and with Drummond and Cooksey. He poured himself a Blanton’s, refilled my now empty glass, and sat at the table.
“Any news on Alejandro?” I asked.
“I talked with Dr. Sammons maybe an hour ago. Still in a coma. Still on the vent. Said it didn’t look good.”
“We need him,” I said. “He’s the key to all this.”
“I did get the prelim tox report on the two girls,” T-Tommy said.
“And?” I asked.
“Both had traces of Valium, morphine, and fentanyl.”
“Fentanyl?” I said.
T-Tommy nodded.
“Isn’t that the stuff the Russians used on those Chechen freaks that took a theater?” Claire asked. “Bunch of the hostages died, didn’t they?”
“That’s right,” T-Tommy said.
“Fentanyl’s big-time,” I said. “Take your ass right down. A spray in the face, a prick of the skin, and good night. Too much, you stop breathing, and . . . well, roll the credits. Story’s done.”
“Is that why Noel and Crystal died?” Claire asked.
“Cooksey thinks so,” T-Tommy said. “The levels of fentanyl and morphine in each of them were high. There was no trauma or obvious bleeding, no other reasonable cause of death. He said as it stood right now it looked like asphyxia from an excess of those narcotics.”
“What about the others?”
“Drummond sent off blood and urine on Eddie. Should know something in a day or two. The buried ones will take a bit longer since they’re so decayed. A couple of weeks, maybe more. He said the skeletal ones we’ll probably never know.”
“Any of them IDed yet?” I asked.
“One couple. Disappeared two months ago while on a date. Reported missing the next day. Car found over at Madison Square Mall. Drummond’s called in a forensic anthropologist to help ID the skeletal remains. That could take months.”
“Where do you get something like fentanyl?” Claire asked.
“Pharmaceutical supply house,” I said. “Hospitals. Pharmacies.”
“We’re contacting all the suppliers now,” T-Tommy said. “See who buys it and how much. Could get lucky.”
“Would Talbert have any of that on hand?” Claire asked. “I mean, if we’re thinking there’s some connection between Talbert and the killer, could he have gotten it there?”
“According to Talbert and Kincaid, they don’t do surgery there,” I said. “No reason for them to have it.”
“But they could buy it if they wanted to?” Claire asked.
“Sure,” I said. I looked at T-Tommy. “How’d your chat with Talbert and Kincaid go?”
“Looks like a legit organization. On the surface, anyway.”
“What about that Slade dude?” Claire asked. “Get a chance to talk with him?”
T-Tommy took a sip of his bourbon. “Briefly. I agree with you. He’s more than a little creepy.”
Claire tapped the keyboard on her laptop. “Here’s what I have on him so far. Aden Slade. Born November 12, 1986, in Baltimore. His father was Dr. Wilbert S. Slade. Taught at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. Aden Slade got a degree in biology from Hopkins, bunch of academic honors, and then did a year and a half of med school. Also at Hopkins. Everything looked good. Then Daddy committed suicide.”
“How?” I asked.
“From the newspaper stuff I could track down, it looks like he ate a bullet. Aden found the body.”
“That’s a tough one,” T-Tommy said.
“It gets worse. His mother got the big C. He dropped out of med school to care for her. She died a year later, and Slade moved to Chicago. Worked for a surgical equipment company for a while and was then hired by Talbert. Apparently moved here when Talbert relocated.”
“Could all this make Slade a deranged killer?” T-Tommy asked.
“Possible,” I said. “Serials come from everywhere. The old paradigm that they gestate in abusive homes just doesn’t work anymore. Not since Dahmer, anyway. His childhood wasn’t that far out of line. Probably better than Slade’s.”
“Didn’t Dahmer hack up some neighborhood pets?” T-Tommy asked.
I nodded. “Probably wired all wrong from birth. His family didn’t do him in.”
“Could Slade be the killer?” Claire asked. “Couldn’t he be wired wrong?”
John Lee Hooker and Bonnie Raitt poured out “I’m in the Mood” from the stereo.
I shrugged. “What do we know so far? Someone is doing surgery on people, killing them, and dumping the bodies. This someone is not an off-the-shelf killer. He’s skilled. He uses equipment that must be obtained from Talbert or some company like Talbert. Alejandro helped dump the bodies and had a phone number for Talbert’s security guy.”
“You’re making a pretty good case for Slade being our boy,” T-Tommy said.
“Maybe.”
“If that’s the case, why’d he kill Eddie and cut up Alejandro?” Claire asked.
I took a sip of bourbon, relishing the slow burn. “Maybe they threatened him in some way. Maybe they wanted more money. Maybe they found Jesus and wanted to repent. Could be anything.”
“Money’d be my bet,” T-Tommy said. “It’s always money with dudes like Eddie and Alejandro.”
“That’s true. Slade could be crazy, but Eddie and Alejandro would want money.” Claire turned to T-Tommy. “What does Slade make at Talbert?”
“I put someone on that. Let me see what he found.” Tommy pulled his cell from his pocket, punched a number, and talked for several minutes. Actually, he mostly listened, making notes in his notebook. He hung up.
“Salary is about $75K,” T-Tommy said. “Plus bennies. Health insurance. Profit sharing. No large checks or cash removals from his bank account. Looks like he has about $110K in savings. Frugal boy.”
“Means he could afford to pay Eddie and Alejandro,” Claire said.
“What was it Alejandro got paid?” I asked. “The cash?”
“Thirty-one thousand,” T-Tommy said.
“Where would Slade get that? That’s a third of what he has banked. And that’s just Alejandro. He’d have to pay Eddie, too.”
“Unless Alejandro paid him from his cut,” Claire said.
“Didn’t see that in Alejandro’s records,” T-Tommy said. “Possible, though.”
I drained my bourbon and refilled it, passing the bottle to T-Tommy. “Let me throw out something new.” They looked at me. “What if this is some medical experiment?”
“What do you mean?” T-Tommy asked.
“To me, the odd piece of evidence, the one that needs explaining, is that Alejandro turned up very near Talbert. Talbert designs surgical tools. Experiments with them in the process.”
“On cadavers,” Claire said.
“As far as we know. There’re things about Talbert we don’t know.”
T-Tommy gave a slow nod as if he was considering what I was saying.
“These surgeries were technically perfect. We heard that from both Liz and Cooksey. They’re not the wild mutilations of some psycho. Why couldn’t they be part of some medical experiment?”
“You think so?” T-Tommy asked.
“All I’m saying is that serials who perform ritualistic mutilations tend to have some well-orchestrated fantasy. Their mutilations reflect that. They damage faces and genitals. Something very personal. Or they pose victims in a certain fashion. Whatever stirs their chili. I guess our guy could have some doctor fantasy. Could think he’s Herr Frankenstein or something.” I took a sip of bourbon. “But what if the victims are the flotsam and jetsam of some medical experiment?”
T-Tommy nodded, obviously warming to the idea.
“Since Alejandro was found nearby, Talbert becomes the logical choice for where the surgeries took place.”
T-Tommy swirled the bourbon in his glass. “They’ve got surgeons, like Kincaid, and assistants, like Slade, and a big ass building that could house ORs and ICUs and just
about anything.”
“Whoa,” Claire said, holding up a hand, palm out. “You really believe that Harmon Talbert and Dr. Robert Kincaid are serial killers? That makes no sense.”
It doesn’t, I thought. “But if this is all part of some experiment, they could be behind it.”
“They manufacture surgical instruments. You saw the plant. What do these things sell for? A couple of hundred bucks a pop? Why do all this to make a few tools?”
“Maybe there’s more to it than we know,” I said. “We haven’t really dug into Talbert yet.”
“Or spoken privately with Slade,” T-Tommy said. “Even if he’s not directly involved, I’d suspect that if something’s going down at Talbert, he’d know. He looks like a weak link to me. Could fold under pressure.”
CHAPTER 63
MONDAY 6:54 P.M.
“IF HE TALKS, WE’RE DEAD.”
Dr. Robert Kincaid sat behind his desk, phone to his ear, Rocco on the other end. This conversation would be better face-to-face, but going there was out of the question. Not that filthy, disgusting place. Having Rocco come here? Not a chance. The man was a living, breathing biohazard as far as Kincaid was concerned.
The past forty-eight hours had worn him out. The late night surgeries on Alejandro and Carmelita, Alejandro’s killing of Phil Dunlap and escape, the cold-blooded killing of Darlene Montag by that Austin animal, and now Alejandro turning up alive in the hospital. His thinking wasn’t clear, and if he was honest with himself, he was as scared as he had ever been.
How many deaths were on his hands now? He couldn’t remember. Over twenty. Though technically Carmelita, Darlene, and Phil Dunlap didn’t die by his hand. Of course, a jury wouldn’t see it that way. If Alejandro died—please let him die—add one more.
“He’ll never say a word,” Rocco said.
“You know Dr. Paul Sammons is pretty good at his craft. He’s saved sicker people.”
“Not this one.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Kincaid sighed. “So you’re a doctor now?”
“No. But I’m pretty good at my craft, too.”
“What does that mean?”
How the hell did Kincaid get into this? With this scum? The project was righteous. He never doubted that. His motives were pure. Science above all else. Didn’t millions die throughout history as doctors tried to grasp the science behind life and death? The first heart transplant lived a scant eighteen days. Early anesthesia did countless people in. Doctors used to bleed people to death, for Christ’s sake. Progress always involved casualties.
Was it science that pushed him? Or greed? He honestly didn’t know.
“It means you don’t have to worry about it,” Rocco said. “It means that last night’s mess is cleaned up and this one loose end will be, too.”
“A goddamn cop was here.”
“What exactly did he ask you?”
“Wanted to know about our instruments. If we had any thefts or missing tools.”
“You don’t. So no problem. Right?”
Kincaid shifted the phone to his other ear. “What if he comes back? What if he keeps digging?”
“There’s nothing for him to find.”
“Except Alejandro.”
“That’s covered. And soon we’ll hand the police the killer. They’ll be happy, you’ll be happy, and life will go on.”
Kincaid pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to dissipate the gathering headache. “Shit.”
“Don’t get wobbly on me here. It’s all handled. Just like we discussed.”
That was true. When this entire project began, they had planned for shutting it down. For covering their tracks. Of course, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Alejandro, who could blow this whole thing up, lying in the hospital. The police sniffing at his door.
“Okay,” Kincaid said. He rubbed his neck. “At least all the news isn’t bad. Looks like Channel 8 is going to do a story on us. A little good PR can’t hurt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Claire McBride from Channel 8 interviewed Harmon and me this afternoon. Said they would come by later this week and do some filming—”
“You idiot.” Rocco cut him off. “She’s not doing a story. She’s digging for information.”
“No. She’s the top reporter over at Channel 8.”
“She’s Dub Walker’s ex-wife.”
“He was with her.”
“Jesus Christ. You know who his buddy is?”
“Who?”
“Tommy Tortelli. The cop who paid you a visit.”
“Are you sure?”
“What planet do you fucking live on?”
Kincaid’s mind swirled. Could this be true?
Rocco continued. “Walker and Tortelli aren’t stupid. Neither is McBride. They’re trying to figure out where the instruments came from. The ones used on the girls and on Alejandro.”
“Jesus.” Kincaid felt acid rise in his stomach.
“Alejandro turned up just down the road from you. Hard to waltz around that. That’s why you’ve got to shut things down.”
“We’ve taken care of it.”
“Good. When Alejandro’s gone, we should be clean.”
“What do I do about Claire McBride and Dub Walker?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll take care of it.”
CHAPTER 64
MONDAY 9:54 P.M.
EARLIER WE HAD SWUNG BY SAMMY’S FOR DINNER. CLAIRE AND I HAD catfish, coleslaw, and hush puppies; T-Tommy had ribs and brisket and pecan pie with ice cream. We now sat in T-Tommy’s car along Pratt Avenue half a block from Slade’s house. Pratt was a divided street, its central esplanade lined with trees, their spring growth recently under way. The houses were older, most well over fifty years, but well kept. The street was quiet with only an occasional car rolling by. Most of the houses were buttoned down for the night. TVs glowed through a few windows, but no one roamed around outside.
Slade’s place was white clapboard, single story. A slope-roofed, brick-corralled porch extended across the front, and two large windows flanked the front door. The curtains were open, and I saw no lights inside. T-Tommy had called his house and gotten no answer. Slade could be in there, not answering his phone, sitting in the dark.
Maybe his translucent blue eyes could capture light where there was none. Maybe he was watching us.
“Let’s take a closer look,” I said.
“I’ll stay here,” Claire said. “B and E isn’t my thing.”
“I guess you forgot about snooping around Dr. Hublein’s office.” She and I had broken in during the investigation of the Brian Kurtz case.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
T-Tommy and I climbed out and walked right up to Slade’s door. Acting normal. I rang the doorbell. If he opened the door, I had no idea what I’d say. Probably should have thought that through. Moot point. He didn’t answer my knock.
We snooped around the exterior, peered through a couple of uncovered windows, but found nothing unusual. I lost track of T-Tommy for a moment but found him working on the back door. He had it open in a minute, and we slipped inside.
We moved quickly from room to room, taking inventory. Living room, dining room, and kitchen were neat and orderly. Slade’s bedroom had a made bed, nightstand, dresser, and a closet filled with clothes. Everything in the dresser drawers was also orderly—socks rolled, underwear stacked, T-shirts folded. The boy was definitely OCD.
The personality of a good surgeon.
Or a good killer.
Another bedroom had a desk and a computer, while the third was mostly empty, only a few boxes of books in one corner.
“Not much here,” T-Tommy said.
We eased out the back door, locking it.
“If Slade’s our guy, he ain’t doing the work in there,” I said.
“Maybe the garage?”
A double garage sat behind the house at the end of a cracked concrete drive. Its side door had a large window. The interior was dark. T-Tommy worked the lock open and flipped on his Mini Maglite, its beam cutting through the darkness. No car. No pile of boxes and trash like most garages. Everything clean and neat. Slade was consistent. Along the far wall, rows of tools hung on a large Peg-Board, and others lay in an orderly arrangement on a wooden workbench. A long metal table occupied the center of the garage. As T-Tommy swept the beam across the table, I saw at least two dozen shiny objects scattered on top. On closer inspection they became surgical tools of various types.
“Bingo,” I said. I picked up a two-foot-long, hollow, curved metallic tube. It looked exactly like the ones Kincaid and Slade had been using on the cadaver. “He’s got the tools.”
T-Tommy handed me his flashlight, took out his digital camera, and began snapping pictures of the table, the tools, the entire garage. The flash seemed harsh.
I searched through the cabinets, drawers, even inside a large plastic drum. Empty. I half-expected a body or two. I directed the beam across the floor, beneath the workbench, along the walls, around the drain beneath the metal table, looking for any signs of blood. I found nothing.
“This place is immaculate,” I said.
“Too clean,” T-Tommy said. “Looks like it was scrubbed down.”
I heard a car turn into the drive and saw light sweep across the gap beneath the garage door, go out, and then I heard the engine die. I killed the Maglite. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps faded toward the house.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
T-Tommy didn’t argue. We slipped out the door and moved to the rear of the garage. None too soon.
I heard the back door open and then Slade’s footsteps approach. The garage’s side door lock clicked open, and the door closed. Interior fluorescent lights stuttered on. I could hear Slade moving around inside and music. Jazz.
I eased around the corner, approached the door, and peered through the corner of the window. Slade sat on a stool at the end of the table, his profile to me. He took a bite of a Big Mac, set it aside on its wrapper, and washed it down with a gulp of Heineken. He picked up and examined one of the instruments, a tubular-looking thing. Then with a piece of what appeared to be very fine steel wool he went to work on one end of the tube. He seemed relaxed, eating, sipping beer, working on the tool, his head bobbing in time with Wynton Marsalis’ “Hesitation.”
