He leaned forward again. “Actually, would you mind showing me some kind of identification?”
Rad wordlessly shifted his jacket from his hip to reveal his shield and holster.
Green nodded slowly. “Now, how may I help you, gentlemen?”
“We’re investigating this series of killings, all students at Hutchins College. We believe that some, maybe all, of the victims had been your patients at some time or another.”
For a fraction of a second, Green looked completely caught by surprise, but almost instantly regained his composure; it was an impressive display.
“I saw something on the news, but I haven’t been paying close attention. You have to understand, I see these girls fairly briefly and in a relatively focused way—I’m not their gynecologist, I don’t really have a doctor-patient relationship with them. I certainly don’t know all of the patients in my practice. Why do you think they were my patients?”
Rad glanced quickly at Jenner. “We’ve learned that at least two were egg donors. We suspect the third was also a donor. We know they got their medications from Astor Place Drug, and we know that you prescribe almost all of that type of medication sold there.”
“My practice is fairly large—I see almost one thousand patients a year, and probably prescribe most of the fertility drugs dispensed in this neighborhood. But certainly not all, not by a long shot.” He paused, thinking hard. “And the pharmacy told you this? They confirmed these were my patients? No, clearly not, or you’d have said so.”
Jenner spoke up.
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“We have Hutchins students injecting a regimen of Lupron and Pergonal, which we know was prescribed at a fertility clinic near the university and then dispensed at a pharmacy near the university. Yours is the most likely office.”
Green, amused, looked at Jenner. “Excellent pronunciation, Detective! Do you have a medical background?”
“I’m a forensic pathologist.”
“Ah.” Green leaned back again, a slight smirk on his face.
“Well, mine is probably the best-known office in the area, but I assure you, Doctor, I have plenty of competition.”
He sat straight now.
“I’d like to help you, but I can’t even confirm the names of these patients—if they were mine—without either permission from the family or a court order,” he said, then added in an aside to Jenner, “I’m sure you understand, Doctor.”
“I understand that that would be a practical approach. But it would save a lot of time if you could just say yes or no.”
Green looked at Jenner. “Doctor, do you think these girls tell their families what they’re doing here?”
“I’d imagine some do, some don’t.”
“No. They almost never do, I think. Almost never.” He leaned forward again and said, “I’m sure it’d only take a short while to reach the families by phone.”
“The family of one of the girls is effectively unreach-able.”
Green spread his hands with a look of helplessness.
Rad touched Jenner’s elbow and told the doctor, “We’ll be back with a court order.”
“Fine,” Green said. “In the meantime, I’ll speak with my lawyer. If you give me the names of the victims, I can have my staff start the search.”
He glanced at his watch, a pink gold Patek-Philippe, then turned to the computer behind him and began to peck at the keyboard.
Rad wrote the names down in his notebook, tore out the page, and slid it across Green’s desk.
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Green didn’t turn around, and said nothing more as they left the room.
It took almost until 4:00 p.m. to push through the subpoena.
Garcia tried to do an oral application for the warrant, but the logistics proved too much, so they went downtown to the courthouse. Pressure on the case was such that testimony in an ongoing buy-and-bust trial was interrupted so that they could appear immediately before the judge.
They were both smiling as they bounded back up the steps to Green’s office, this time with another cop following close behind. The waiting room was quiet, the last student gone, the plasma TV off. The receptionist stepped into Green’s office to notify him of their arrival.
He gave them a curt nod.
“Detective. Doctor.”
Rad said, “Dr. Green, this court order gives us broad search and seizure powers in this office, extending to all computers in this facility, to any personal computers owned by you, to your BlackBerry and any other digital storage medium, including your cell phone, as well as to paper records maintained here or at any other location you do business, including at your home.”
Green’s pitch rose in indignation. “Detective, this is ridiculous! We just needed to ascertain your right for me to confirm the identities of three patients in my practice! Surely this is unnecessary.”
“Well, sir, on discussion with the chief, it was felt that it would be appropriate for us to personally locate and view all documents as needed, since information was judged not immediately forthcoming, and since others in your patient base might be at risk. That’s why we brought Detective Mason from Computer Crimes along for the ride.”
“But it was a confidentiality matter! I had no choice!”
“We have complete respect for your high ethical stan-220
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dards, sir.” He paused for a second to make sure that Green could sense his insincerity. “And we’d like to begin with the computer in your office.”
“This is absurd. This is nothing but a petty act of harassment. You can begin the hand search of the paper files here, but I’m calling my lawyer to review this before you start infringing the privacy of my other clients.”
Garcia handed him the document with a grin.
“Go right ahead.”
Green snatched the paper and stalked off toward his office. Rad called after him, “You have five minutes.” The thick carpeting smothered Green’s attempt at a door slam.
The file room was surprisingly large. Gray enamel shelves filled with color-coded manila folders ran the length of one wall; a workstation with telephone, computer, and X-ray viewing box was set against the other.
Since the file clerk only worked two mornings a week, Angie Buonfiglio, the receptionist, did the database search herself, the door propped open so she could watch the waiting room. Rad spelled out the names as she typed, her long fake nails clattering across the keyboard. Andrea Delore and Sunday Smith (who’d given her first name as Katherine) came up right away; they had to try several different spellings before they located Barbara Wexler’s record.
She jotted down the file numbers on a Post-it, stepped into the stacks, and within a couple of minutes appeared before them again, three folders in her hand.
She hesitated.
“I’m sorry, but I need to confirm it with the doctor before I can give you the records.”
They followed her into the reception area, and Ms. Buonfiglio tapped on Green’s door.
Rad nodded his head back toward the file room, and Jenner followed him. They spoke quietly.
“Jenner, was there anything about these killings to make Precious Blood
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you think they might have been done by someone with medical training?”
Jenner shrugged. “Whenever someone gets dismembered, the cops always say, ‘It’s so clean he must’ve had a medical background, ’ but the anatomy’s not that hard. Someone with a sharp knife could inflict pretty much any set of wounds, if they put their mind to it. Dismembering can’t be that difficult—anyone who’s dressed a deer, even cut up a chicken, could do it. It’s not like we take Dismemberment 101 in med school.”
“No, but it wouldn’t hurt to be familiar with a knife.”
“Sure. But Green is mostly about syringes and hormones and microsurgery.”
“He’s a pretty big guy, though, probably strong eno
ugh to take care of them.”
The receptionist was still tapping at the door; Green wasn’t answering. Probably still bleating to his lawyer.
Rad shook Jenner’s shoulder. “C’mon! Wouldn’t it be great if it was this asshole? We nail him now, close down the investigation, you’re a hero, I’m a hero, that obnoxious fuck goes to jail?”
He grinned, looking over at the receptionist by Green’s door. It was taking too long. “Naah, I know, you’re right. He doesn’t really feel right to me, either. He’s too slick. He’s got too much . . . stuff.”
Jenner nodded.
Rad looked over at Mason, sprawled awkwardly in a Ja-cobsen Swan chair, then back to Jenner. “I’ll tell you one thing: I’d bet cash money this dude is into something bad.
And I don’t mean just wrong—every fucker walking down Broadway at any given moment has some secret or other jangling away in his pocket. But this guy is doing something nasty. I can just feel it.”
He paused.
“I’m serious, Jenner. I don’t know what he’s into, but I’m 222
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going to tear this place up until I find it. And if I don’t find it here, I’m going to tear up his house. Then his car, then his boat, and then whatever else that smug fuck owns, until I find it.”
The receptionist was tapping again, saying, “Dr. Green?
Dr. Green?”
Rad turned. “Starting right now—I’ve had enough of this.”
He turned and said, “Mason! Come on, we’re going in.”
“Please step aside,” he said to the receptionist. “Green?
Enough! We’re coming in.”
They waited for Green to answer the door, but there was no response. Rad rolled his eyes, then pounded twice on the door.
“Green!”
Nothing. He turned the handle. Locked.
He pointed at the receptionist and said, “Key.”
She scurried to her desk and brought it. There was a click as the lock opened. Rad quickly turned the handle and pushed open the door into an empty room; Green had disappeared.
They rushed into the office, Rad heading for the door to the right; an empty exam room.
Jenner had taken the door to the left. The sound of running water came from a sink inside.
“Rad! Over here.”
Rad called to Ms. Buonfiglio again. “Key! ”
She said she didn’t have one, it was the doctor’s private bathroom.
“Not anymore.”
Rad leaned back, lifted his right leg, and slammed his foot against the door by the handle. There was a crash, and a splintering sound, but the door held. He kicked it three more times before it swung open, falling off the upper hinge into the empty bathroom.
The open window, broad and low, looked out over an empty alley behind the building, a black Mercedes SUV
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parked against the rear brick wall under david green md in stenciled white paint.
“Fuck!” He pounded his fist on the sink. “Mason! Call it in. Get the word out.”
The sink had overflowed, and Rad, stepping backward from the window, slipped and almost went down.
“Fuck! Jesus, Jenner.”
In the office, Green’s neatly folded white coat sat on a leather daybed. The desk drawers were all closed, and the appointment book Jenner had noticed earlier lay there un-disturbed. Behind the desk, his computer monitor was off.
Jenner saw that the light below the screen was flickering.
“Rad! Behind you! His computer—the monitor’s turned off, but the computer’s on!”
“What?”
Jenner stepped over to the computer and ripped the plug out of the wall. The yellow LED on the front of the CPU
went out.
“What are you doing?”
“I think he’s trying to delete his files.”
Rad looked around the room angrily, as if waiting for Green to tumble out from behind a piece of furniture so he could beat the crap out of him.
“Fuck! ”
Jenner and Garcia watched Crime Scene processing Green’s Mercedes in the alley. They’d started with Luminol in the cargo area just after dark, and were now vacuuming the front and back passenger wells as well as the cargo space.
There was no evidence of blood; one of the detectives had commented on how immaculate the car had been kept.
Rad shook his head and drew on his stubby cigar. “Have to hand it to him, this guy is pretty cool—the average shit-bird would just take off in the car, but Green remembers the LoJack.” He sighed. “He may be tough to find.”
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Jenner needed a break. He walked out onto the street and crossed over into Washington Square Park. The evening chill and drizzle had left the park unusually quiet; in summer it was a riot of street performers and tourists, dealers and pot-heads. Now it was deserted, save for a few scattered figures making their way through the trees, huddled under umbrellas.
Jenner sat on a damp bench and looked out over the park.
The wet surfaces of the memorial arch at the foot of Fifth Avenue glistened in the floodlights. The cold felt good.
He was surprised at how calm he was. Their first big break. A clear connection between the three victims, leading to a real suspect.
Which, he now had to admit, Green was. Still, as much as he disliked Green, Jenner had a hard time imagining him doing . . . those things. But what had he been expecting—
some deformed half-man with a hook for a hand? The evilest men are often the most ordinary, quiet, average people barely noticed by neighbors, even as they spend their weekends hunting and killing. An English criminal profiler Jenner knew called them “Custard People.”
But Green was completely different, a man with a big ego but with genuine achievements and, doubtless, social skills.
People probably liked him—his patients, his staff for sure.
His receptionist had seemed very close—she’d appeared shocked at his flight, and had resisted releasing the files even after she knew he was gone.
He’d skimmed Green’s files on the three victims; they were unremarkable. There had been few visits—an initial screening visit, a checkup while they were on Lupron, then notes about the coordination of stimulation of egg release and harvest, and a final op note for the egg recovery. Green had located the eggs using transvaginal ultrasound; no incisions were made, and once he’d retrieved the eggs, Green had no reason to see the girls again.
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to Green’s office. Rad had left, but Roggetti was at Green’s desk, going through the appointment book.
“Hey, Joey. Can I use the phone?”
Roggetti waved him toward the exam room; Crime Scene was finished in there, and had already dusted the receiver for prints.
Jenner closed the door and sat down on a steel stool. He wiped off the fingerprint powder, then dialed long distance, connecting to the office of the corporate counsel in Massachusetts; better that Delore learned it from him than on CNN.
With a couple of keystrokes, the man deleted the file for his next project from the database. An elaborate precaution, perhaps, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his enemies. Of course, the police would eventually have access to a remote backup of the woman’s records, but with a bit of luck, they’d never discover the file was missing. He killed the modem signal and stood.
He looked down on his workbench, at all the elements and equipment laid out in a neat row. He’d spent almost an hour honing the curved scalpel blades—much harder than sharpening a straight edge. They were now razor sharp along their entire length, which was important if he was going to scoop out the little spheres cleanly.
He’d refilled a twenty-four-ounce Poland Spring water squeeze bottle with gasoline from the generator, but had a hard time getting the duct
tape to stick. He’d ended up wrapping the nozzle with rags, then duct-taping the rags.
Then there was his standard kit—screwdriver, short pry bar, manacles, duct tape, rope. Soldering iron. It was the stuff he always brought, but it still gave him a thrill to see it all laid out like that.
And finally, the sword. He’d found it in an Atlantic Avenue antique store, and it cost far more than he could afford. It 226
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was a Freemason’s sword; he thought the decorations on the handle made it look gay.
He picked it up, accidentally carving his thumb on the blade. Smiling a little, he sucked the blood off his thumb: with a blade like that, who cared if the handle was a little
. . . flamboyant?
The candle flame guttered and died, and in the dark, he realized he was shivering.
He’d barely been eating, and he’d been rationing his gasoline for days now, trying to make it last as long as possible, only using it to power the generator for his laptop. He could always get more gasoline, but he didn’t want to take the risk of siphoning gas on the street this close to a project.
Standing there hungry, shivering in the cold and the dark, feeling the cancer inside him, he knew he couldn’t go on much longer. How much longer? Months, maybe. A year?
The last time he saw Dr. Zenker, months ago now, the on-cologist had been obviously surprised that he was doing so well. He wondered if he’d be alive in spring, framing the thought in the form of a question: Will I be alive on April 17? Will I be alive on May 1? He wondered if it would rain on the day he died. If it would rain on the day after. Where, exactly, he would die. In this room, vomiting blood on the filthy mattress? Gasping for breath on the loading dock under the gantry, the stench of brackish water and rat nests filling his mouth?
God, he was cold.
He thought about a time when he was nine, when he and his mom had been walking out near the farm and they came across a rabbit, its fur matted with drying blood, shivering under a hedge. His mom said the rabbit had been in a fight, probably with the cat, and that it was dying, and that when you find something dying, and it’s suffering, God says it’s okay to help it stop suffering. She’d reached under the hedge to pull it out, but it had kicked and struggled, and she had accidentally broken its leg. It began to scream, a horrible, whis-Precious Blood
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