The pre-dawn air was saturated by a refreshing rain shower; cotton wool spots floated among the trees, their trunks glossy as if polished. Birds were humming their morning melodies after the receding night.
The skies were lit up by occasional twigs of lightning; an indecisive, early-rising sun filled the horizon with amber cracks. Deep inside, the forest allowed only raking light to penetrate the stubborn darkness. Nature displayed itself in many shades of green, low branches curled in silky mist, and puddles were sliced by diagonal silhouettes.
Rundill Road, the park’s northern boundary, was still partly exposed to the icy winds, but as she made a left turn and started climbing Uppill Road, the last signs of civilization vanished behind the slope.
The trees rustled, each cycle shaking off more leaves. Birds seemed to flutter alongside her car to get a peek at the uninvited guest.
The Audi coughed as she made a sharp turn into a bypath and skidded a few yards. It was embraced and absorbed by the low bushes as she turned off the engine.
She climbed out of the car, hurried back, and covered the tire tracks with dirt and dry leaves at the point where she had abandoned the road. She was back in time to see the Mazda struggling on the slippery gravel, passing her unnoticed and climbing further up toward the observatory.
She took the opposite direction.
***
Inspector Syd Ramzi knew my address.
But before going there we made a stop at the downtown police station. I needed to make a statement and sign paperwork—”the bureaucracy of death.” I yielded only after he swore, on his Druze prophet’s life, that he believed me that Johanna existed, and he would start looking for her ASAP and would get the Irishman too. At my request the squad specialist was called in to compose a computerized identikit.
On the way to the interrogation room we passed a large hall divided into cubicles. A calendar hung on the far wall next to an aerial view of metropolitan Louisville and black-and-white pictures of the Water Tower, the Sherman-Minton Bridge, the Belvedere, the Phillip Morris plant, and the Old Spaghetti Factory. The opposite wall carried photos of Churchill Downs and Cardinal Stadium. A separate section was covered entirely with a road map, pierced with multicolored thumbtacks.
We descended to the basement and took seats in the interrogation room. Porthole windows stretched just below the ceiling, in line with the ground level outside. Each window was surrounded by a cheap Plexiglas dome, to protect against rain leakage.
The room’s furniture was minimal, on the verge of asceticism—a rectangular table, a dark-shaded lamp, a beige metal filing cabinet, a telephone, and three upholstered chairs. The walls were completely bare.
Inspector Syd Ramzi smiled broadly at me, his teeth glistening under the crescent of his lips, grinding a new sage flavored Ricola.
No harm done, I said to myself. Now we—the inspector, maybe the whole police force and I—were finally free to save Johanna. And he promised to help me.
A police officer’s word.
I didn’t realize that my new buddy had been tricking me. Later, my eagerness to help would boomerang against me. I didn’t have to sign a statement or do any of what he had asked. My burning IQ was in slumber, and a stupid voice inside me insisted that calling a lawyer would imply I had something to hide. That I was guilty.
I was such a nerd.
Eyes wide open as I walked straight into his honey trap.
Correction—mouse trap.
***
“Kalimera, Mr. Pappas.”
“Not such a good day, Nikos, not good at all. I am concerned about the dead woman in Andromeda, very concerned.”
“Nothing to do with us, boss. She was out in the storm. I heard she drowned.”
“Drowned, yeah, in a pile of shit. Everything exploded, don’t you understand? Not only the woman—now Volos Builders is in deep shit, Nikos, and that means I am in deep shit. And all because of you.”
“Me?”
“You used the small-caliber pipes, you moron. They couldn’t handle the pressure and exploded. There’s a gaping fucking hole next to the service gate. The damn foundation didn’t survive. It’s like a stinking archeological dig. God knows how deep the cracks went.”
“You can’t blame me for the storm!”
“You idiot—they’ll do an inspection, don’t you see? They’ll see right away that you used the cheaper pipes.”
“But how? It’s all buried deep—”
“Not anymore. It’s totally exposed. And when they check the pressure—”
“Boss, boss, I was there Thursday, after the blackout. Konstantinos called me. It was just a little pit. And I already took care of that.”
“Sure you did.”
“Nobody’s going to know.”
“Nobody, huh? The whole fucking world is going to know. That damn caustic soda you poured disintegrated half her body.”
“Oh! Jesus.”
“Exactly. If there’s anything left in that jerrican, I’m going to personally pour it into your bathtub, you fool! Gamoto!”
31
In order to rid herself of the resolute Irish thug, only one option remained.
She had to orchestrate her own death.
This time, too, “Bastian dearest” did not disappoint. He located what she sought and transferred the fee for the service. His instructions arrived by dawn and were explicit: She was to leave her car at the corner lot of the medical center’s underground garage, opposite the service elevator. But rather than using it, he instructed her to climb the stairs to the street and enter the inpatient wing via the main visitors’ entrance.
She should choose the spiral stairs and descend to the basement. At the landing she was to look for signs for the central laundry and sterile supplies. Gabriel, the pathology department’s orderly, would be waiting for her in the last room in the hallway.
Johanna arrived breathless, not because of any difficulty in finding the location, but due to having taken a long and roundabout way—in and out of alleys, service roads, and elevators—to shake off any possible tails.
“You Bastian’s girlfriend?” Gabriel greeted her.
The stretcher-bearer was a short, course-featured fellow, a skinhead with a muscular physique and tanned skin, the epitome of an athlete—in stark contrast to his workplace. Bastian had not elaborated on Gabriel—he had just called him “a business partner you can trust.”
When he saw she was concerned by the meager level of activity in the basement, he told her equably, “Friday. Except for emergencies we don’t do autopsies today.”
“How about yesterday’s accidents?”
“All the DOAs were transferred directly to the coroner’s office.”
“And others?”
“We only had two. But they won’t fit. An elderly man run over at a crosswalk, and an electrocuted baby.” She frowned in defeat, and he gave her a balmy smile. “Don’t worry. It’s a large hospital, hundreds of visits a day. We have a bunch of foreign trash, you know.”
He attached his employee card to the magnetic plate and urged her to precede him through the automatic doors.
The receptionist’s post was empty. They went to the locker room. He picked up a folded gown for her, handed her disposable head and shoe coverings, and walked her through the rear door that opened directly into the refrigerators.
The blend of blue light, massive metal fittings, and bare walls gave the place an industrial look. The ceiling was crisscrossed by tin canals that rhythmically coughed freezing air inside.
Work surfaces stretched along the sides of the hall, as in a meat factory. The basins were spotless, the stretchers empty, the surgical tools in sealed packages. The reagent solutions were locked behind glass in wall cabinets.
Her nostrils swirled from the stench of Lysol. Grotesquely, the concentration here was double that
of the nursing home.
Gabriel handed her a mask and watched as she fastened it to her mouth, then approached the wall of drawers, stacked three high. A note was attached with a lanyard to each handle.
He began to review the notes, carefully reading the details on the back of each one.
Gabriel selected one of the drawers in the middle row, pulled it out, and folded down the sheet, which was stained with a tortuous dark yellow pattern. Their heads bobbed at the rank odor. She had been there for a while, oblivious to the world aboveground. The woman’s body resembled an embalmed marionette. The hair was as bright as Johanna’s, but the face was elongated and the bridge of the nose was wide. The lips were swollen and her forearms pudgy.
She shook her head.
Gabriel nodded and raised his hand to signal patience. His eyes roamed the drawers. He pulled out another one, this time on the top level, and dragged over a stool for her. The second woman also had wavy hair and similar features. However, someone had cut her face, and in spite of a relatively decent suturing job, a prominent scar embellished her right cheek.
Gabriel slammed the drawer and moved on. They screened two more corpses. Just as he began to feel discouraged, he recalled a drawer on the bottom row which he had initially skipped. Now he scrutinized Johanna more carefully, and decided they might as well have a look. He heaved the drawer onto the rails, and it snapped into the lock. He furled the sheet—starched shiny; a rather new arrival—and called her over again.
For the first time she allowed herself to smile.
Superb!
She stepped aside, so her own shadow would not distort the cadaver’s facial details. Gabriel exposed one leg—already pitted and cyanotic—and examined the numbers on the tag attached to the toe, then located the corresponding page in the departmental folder. He went through the name, date of birth, medical record number, date of death, and the signature of the attending physician.
Gabriel nodded and ran his finger down the autopsy report, reading aloud: “Height: 5’6”; Weight: 132.3 lbs; Body: Medium build; Hair color: Blond; Eye color: green; Blood type: A+. No distinguishing features…”
But Johanna’s eyes were already fixed on the little card and the marble-white cadaver.
#1415707, Name: Marinescu, Bianca
32
Where the hell had she gone?
Jeffery Gibbons returned to the car and browsed through the list of contacts on the Austrian’s mobile phone. Whom had she called lately? Whom had she been in contact with during the night?
Then he examined the student’s cellphone and his papers. He tapped the address into his GPS. A luminous serpentine path appeared on the screen, terminating in a red flag. The apartment was located in the Crescent Hill division, less than twelve miles away. An estimated twenty-minute drive.
***
My neighborhood was immersed in deep slumber.
I asked the inspector to drop me off at the corner of Frankfort and Kennedy. He was considerate. That morning the sun seemed late to shine—a combination of getting closer to the winter equinox and daylight-saving time.
The radio chirped; a sound foreign to my sleepy side street. Paul, the neighbor across the street, was already on his way to open the Blue Dog Bakery & Café at the shopping center around the corner. Two curious joggers crossed from the library and approached the squad car, the only vehicle in several long blocks. Its flickering lights silently punctured the long, empty avenue.
In spite of my migraine and heavily fatigued legs, I summoned the last of my energy and broke into a run toward Avon Court. I did not bother to bid the inspector a proper farewell.
I climbed the stairs and gazed across the lawn at the neighbor’s house. The elderly couple had not yet opened their blinds to let in the morning light. Mr. Quinn, the tenant on the other side, was abroad, not expected to return until after New Year’s. Judd was at his spiritual retreat. Thank God for small mercies—it was unlikely anyone would see me.
I entered my apartment and turned on the lights. I just wanted to take a quick shower and go to sleep. I was in the middle of freeing myself from my pants when Wilbur barked, saying hello from the other side of the stairwell and reminding me that it was time to take him out for his morning constitutional.
Although I was completely exhausted and stank to high heaven, I knew—from intimate acquaintance with myself—that I would not find peace until Wilbur found relief.
Not the end of the world. The shower could wait another five minutes. Then I would lose consciousness between the sheets. The only one I would allow to wake me was Johanna. I trusted her ability to evade the mad Irishman. She struck me as someone capable of doing that, and later she could explain to me what had happened.
The original plan was to walk with Wilbur no further than five houses down. Outside, the hedges were absorbing the late morning light.
I must have been half-dazed, because the next thing I knew I found myself at the Crescent Hill Reservoir. The immense rectangle, raised on a dyke, was surprisingly lively. There was human hustle and bustle, a Babylon of colors, scents, and voices—students like me, who rented apartments in the neighborhood, rushing to get their dogs out, people taking advantage of the lull in the rain to jog, mothers taking their babies out in strollers to get a welcome splash of sun. After last night’s storm and with the weatherman predicting another one to arrive in the area tonight, an outdoor promenade presented an opportunity for fresh oxygen replenishment.
Self-satisfied young women pushed strollers along the main path, immersed in idle conversation on their smartphones. The men were busy playing with the sophisticated entertainment devices in their black Jeeps parked next to the reservoir. There was nothing more suitable than SUVs to navigate the after-rain puddles along Frankfort Avenue.
Despite his size, Wilbur was a surprisingly determined and sturdy dog. He pulled me toward areas in the reservoir I hadn’t visited before, insisted on going off the path, and did not ignore a single bush nor skip a chance to sniff the roots of trees, rain puddles, or the butts of other dogs.
I stood at the intersection. From the corner of my eye I noticed that someone who had been sitting on the remote benches had now gotten up and was walking in the same direction we were; he had stopped at a bus stop. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but the man would not have earned my attention had he not been a redhead.
I slowed down at an environmental sculpture titled ‘Creation.’ Two bicycle wheels were welded above a tiny concrete slot, a symbol of the globe before God filled it with water reservoirs, forests, lakes, animals, wonderful people, and the rest of the beautiful stuff.
While Wilbur watered the artistic marvel, I decided it would be best if we returned home. We passed between two statues on the way to the main road. The poodle trudged reluctantly behind me.
A car stopped with a screech. The window opened and somebody stuck his head out and gazed around, but it had nothing to do with me. He was there for a girl in a business suit sitting on a far bench, engrossed in her smartphone. She nodded gloomily, picked up her bag, and lumbered toward him.
I leaned against a tree trunk across the road and took a glance around, looking in vain for the redhead. A TARC bus drove past down Frankfort Avenue; the bus stop behind me was empty.
***
Inspector Syd Ramzi stood at the edge of the pit, near the foundation wall. His gaze followed the course of the perforated pipe; he sucked a sage-flavored Ricola candy in attempt to overcome his nausea.
The sun winked at him through a crack in the clouds. Rays lashed furiously at the rushing waters of the Ohio River and were deflected back in a magnificent rainbow. A couple walking their dogs along the riverbank slowed to peer curiously at the police officers clustering inside the incomplete Andromeda courtyard, then continued on their way. The lights of the squad car, signaling to motorists that the road was closed, bounced frenetically off the
north wall. The strong wind and slippery, rain-soaked wooden culvert made progress difficult, and although the margins of the puddles were shrinking as they evaporated, mud still stuck to Ramzi’s new boots.
He was fighting to keep his balance, pinching his nose. If not for the strong wind, the stink could have suffocated them all.
“Oh! Shit!”
“Lots of it,” acknowledged Pat Wilson, a veteran specialist from Louisville Metro Forensics. He waited as the last of the slime was pumped into a large container, leased from a porta-potty maintenance company, before descending to the pit in his hip waders. Later at the lab, they would sieve the liquid in hopes of finding something that should have not been there. The pathologist, Dr. Kushner, was at home with the flu; his substitute, Dr. Pierce, a fellow with a goatee and a refined sense of humor, was undecided with regard to signs of struggle, pushing, or other manifestations of violence on the body. It was doubtful whether anyone else could be more decisive. After all, not much was left of the professor.
Still, there was something about the student that bothered Ramzi. He felt it would be impossible to classify the case as an accident without one more inquiry. After obtaining a warrant to search the lab, he called Jonathan, the departmental computer hacker, and asked him to go to the professor’s computer at her seventh-floor lab in the university medical school, browse through her e-mails, and find out who she’d been in contact with recently.
He turned to Officer Townsend, who was fighting to keep her balance in the wind and slippery mound. “Maggie, please go upstairs to her apartment, have a look. Call me if you find anything interesting.”
Townsend nodded, turned around and started her struggle against the wind, sailing towards the lobby. Ramzi following her with his gaze till she disappeared inside deliberated his next plans. When Maggie returned, they would drive to the campus, check the lab and question the professor’s colleagues. There were smoldering hatreds even among the white-coat-and-tie Latin-speaking intellectuals.
Ramzi realized he was grinding dust, but—true to his character—he knew he wouldn’t rest until the usual interrogation routines were exhausted. He decided not to bother about the ‘Irishman.’ Without a name or proper description, there was only a faint chance of uncovering anything anyway.
An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller Page 16
