Proof

by Jordyn Redwood

  “You’re not quite what I expected.” Nathan took a seat. The room contained two chairs and a row of file cabinets.

  “Our clients tend to be more upscale.”

  “I’m sure any comment I make in response to that won’t seem very cordial. Why don’t you have any tattoos? At least none that are visible. Every other artist I came across was like a painted canvas with very little virgin skin remaining.”

  “Me?” Lawrence tapped his chest with the fingertips of both hands. “I’m horrified of needles, but I love the art form. It’s the best way for me to express what I want to create.”

  “I was hoping you could look at several photos of a particular tattoo and give me your thoughts on it.”

  Nathan pulled out the same photo lineup he’d shown Heather and handed it over. Lawrence studied it, tilting it into the overhead light several times like a doctor examining X-rays.

  “There’s only one tattoo here that’s not photo-shopped. This one,” he said, pointing to Drake’s tattoo.

  “You have a good eye.”

  “It’s my job. The tattoo is quite intricate. It has good color detail. It was done by someone professional, definitely not an amateur.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the creature itself?”

  “Sure. It’s a monster from Greek mythology, a chimera.”

  “You’re a student of Greek mythology?”

  “I know. You probably haven’t come across many like me.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I was a literature major in a previous life. It was an interest of mine.”

  “What’s a chimera?”

  “In Greek mythology, it’s a hybrid of different animals functioning as one monster.”

  “Have you ever known anyone to get this particular tattoo or anyone else who does this kind of artwork?”

  “Actually, I did this design.”

  Nathan’s heart stopped. He’d actually found the artist.

  “Can you tell me who the recipient was?”

  “I don’t know about giving you a name. People don’t like that information to be divulged. But he is a local physician.”

  Nathan crossed his legs and leaned back. Did he know about Drake’s crimes?

  “Did he happen to tell you why he wanted this design?”

  “People get tattoos for all sorts of reasons. The stigma of having one has worn off. People don’t feel like they’ll be associated with prisoners, motorcycle gangs, and prostitutes if they get one. Some tattoos have a cultural basis. Other people use it to make a statement or advertise something they identify with.”

  “Is that what this doctor told you?”

  “People are usually pretty open about sharing why the tattoo is important to them. He said it was an open expression of who he was inside, a clue to his exact nature.”

  “So he considers himself a combination of several different creatures functioning as one monster.”

  “In the literal sense I guess you could view it that way. He boasted about perpetrating a crime that he could never be prosecuted for. He said someone else was wrongly convicted and serving prison time in his place.”

  Nathan’s mind reeled, the question quick from his lips. “Did he confess to you what the crime was or who that person might be?”

  “He never mentioned anything specific, and honestly, I don’t take any of the things people say to me very seriously. Clients brag all the time to appear to have more machismo when they’re just trying to hide their fear of the procedure.”

  “Have you seen this doctor recently?”

  “No, but he’s been on the news.”

  “Did that concern you, considering his previous statements?”

  “It certainly gave me pause, but in light of the fact that he didn’t confess any crime and has subsequently been cleared by DNA, I didn’t feel like I needed to do anything further. Again, I chalked it up to petty bragging. Something he was trying to do to impress me. Make it seem as if he was tougher than he really was.”

  “Do you remember when he got this tattoo?”

  “It’s been several years, two or three maybe.”

  “What about him stuck in your mind if it’s been so long?”

  “For one thing, this is the only tattoo like this I’ve ever done. He asked for it specifically. I had to draw up several designs for his approval. That process took weeks. He was very particular about the look.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, he had the weirdest eyes. They were different colors.”

  Nathan returned to his vehicle and made several notes. The tattoo artist was further confirmation of what he knew in his heart was true. Drake was the one and only perpetrator of these crimes. How could Nathan get the chief on board with his theory and keep his job?

  Chapter 36

  January 29

  AFTER LILLY HAD flown to Montana and purchased a nondescript, rundown vehicle, she’d driven back to the state of Colorado. Her plan was to search the medical records of every known hospital and clinic for information pertaining to Drake Maguire or Drake Stipman. It wasn’t clear from his résumé when his name change occurred. When he originally practiced medicine in the state of Nevada, it could have been under Stipman. Lilly reasoned it was possible that Drake went back after his name change to have his Nevada records listed under Maguire.

  To Lilly’s dismay, these names weren’t that uncommon. She looked at every record that matched Drake’s birthday with either Maguire or Stipman. In Colorado, that netted ten records between the two. The other issue was that many of these files were stored on microfiche, and she’d have to return after they pulled and printed the files. Each record garnered in this fashion took several days—and in one case, two weeks—to retrieve. The only visit she found likely was for Drake Maguire receiving stitches at a clinic. Anything that was taken care of by a private physician wouldn’t be accessible. In some instances, people refused to give her the records, either not buying her explanation that she was Drake’s wife collecting his records for insurance purposes or questioning the forged medical release.

  Currently, she was in Las Vegas near Drake’s last address in Nevada as listed on his résumé. As in Colorado, she would hit the major medical centers first, then work her way down to the smaller clinics. Then she’d begin at the facilities closest to his previous residence and work her way outward.

  Colorado had given her the opportunity to perfect her ruse. She’d dressed conservatively, but with a shirt she could unbutton to show cleavage if a young male was working the medical records department. If it was a young woman, she would pretend onset of contractions to hasten the interaction; an older woman, and she would talk about having the twins and how nervous she was, gathering several nuggets of grandmotherly advice along the way.

  She stood in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on her hair and makeup. The once roomy lab coat was now tight around her belly and she’d given up buttoning it. Placing her stethoscope around her neck, she picked up her pocket holder that contained a penlight, scissors, and a set of hemostats.

  It was never as difficult to get into the hospital as one would hope. Typically, if she were even stopped, she would claim she was a new physician on staff who had lost her badge. If they asked for further credentials, she’d show her Colorado license and feign how difficult it was working in a new facility to get away to spend hours at a slow government office to obtain a new driver’s license. Generally, this garnered sympathetic nods, and she was on her way.

  The medical records office was nearly as easy. As she made her way down into the bowels of this hospital, she discovered the door to medical records electronically guarded by a badge entry device. She knocked on the door and waited, leaning against the cement-bricked wall. An older gentleman opened the door.

  Lilly pushed her way in. “I’m so sorry, I lost my badge. You don’t know how hard it is to get around this place when you lose that thing.” She approached the desk and grabbed a broch
ure to fan her face. “These babies are killing me. Is it hot in here to you?”

  “Not in the least,” he said, rounding to the back of the counter. “How can I help you today?”

  An old curmudgeon. She didn’t have a play for that.

  Placing the brochure on the desk, she pulled her notebook out. “We got a call, a patient we’re expecting in the ER, a referral from an outlying clinic, but they say he gets treatment here. I need to know if you have any records for Drake Maguire, birth date May 10, 1973. Oh, he may also be listed under Drake Stipman. If you don’t find anything with that birthday, can you do a larger search? I guess he’s had a head injury and is presenting with some confusion.”

  He paused, studying her. “What’s your name? When did you start working here?”

  Lilly surmised hiding her true identity would be difficult. No matter how much she changed her looks with a cut and store-bought hair dye, possibly even using color contacts like her nemesis, there was one characteristic she couldn’t hide. The only benefit of giving a false name would be to hold people off her trail for a little longer.

  “Misty Rainforth. I was hired in the last couple of weeks.”

  He tapped his fingers on the desk, playing with his upper set of dentures as he contemplated her statement. Lilly did her best to portray boredom and looked about the room, hoping that her elevated heartbeat wasn’t evident at the side of her neck as she turned her head. Finally, he made his way to the back. It wasn’t long before he returned with several thick files in his hands.

  “Did you find more than one patient?”

  “No, these are all his.”

  That was interesting, it meant his records weren’t in storage and he’d likely had a recent visit. A file this thick, considering Drake’s age, meant a serious health crisis.

  “Is there somewhere down here I can look through these?” She smoothed her hands over her belly. “I don’t want to haul this all back to the ER.”

  He acquiesced and carried the record to a small room with a single table and chair. The chart was divided into several sections. Lab work, radiology, MD notes.

  She began flipping through the lab work, beginning with the most recent. For the last couple of years, Drake had a complete blood count, which looked at the makeup and number of cells in the blood. It wasn’t unusual to have this test performed, but then the tests began to occur every six months. That was fairly odd unless the doctor was trying to track a chronic disease—a blood disorder like anemia, for instance. About four years ago, he was tested every three months, and then Lilly discovered why.

  An abnormal CBC.

  Lilly noted a critically high white count corresponding with increased levels of immature white blood cells. His red blood cells and platelets were critically low. She continued through the lab work. Bone marrow studies. Spinal fluid results. These confirmed her original suspicion.

  Drake Maguire had cancer—leukemia to be specific. This diagnosis had occurred before his name change.

  Continuing through the lab section, she noted the paternity tests and other results pertaining to the hunt for a donor match when she stumbled across an aberrance, a lab sheet for DNA matching from an anonymous donor several months after Drake’s bone marrow transplant. It was buccal cells, obtained from a cheek swab. Whoever this person was, he wasn’t a DNA match to Drake.

  But why would Drake pursue testing for a DNA match after his bone marrow graft?

  Lilly flipped to the doctor’s notes, starting with the dates that corresponded with the abnormal lab work. This chart was before the advent of computer documentation, and the handwritten notes were a challenge to read. After Drake’s initial diagnosis, he’d been started on chemotherapy. Per this physician, Drake had briefly been in remission and then relapsed within a few months, and the medical team had investigated the issue of bone marrow transplant early in the course of his treatment. The oncologist in charge of his case outlined that they tested his wife, mother, twin brother, and two sons.

  After this doctor’s note was a lengthy entry from a social worker. Her note included the following statement: “Wife and mother are not a match. DNA testing of the sons has proven that they are not biologically Drake’s children. Spouse is very upset over these test results and is requesting further genetic testing. Patient does not want to place children under any more stress and is refusing wife’s request. Seems unlikely further DNA testing would shed any light on the issue. Twin brother is currently incarcerated, but courts allowed testing for DNA matching since other family members prove negative. Brother, Drew Stipman, has proved to be a match for Drake and will be the donor for the bone marrow transplant.”

  Lilly flipped to the demographic information and jotted down Drake’s address at the time of his diagnosis. It was interesting that he’d had issues with paternity in the past, and she wondered about the feelings of this woman, his previous wife, considering she wanted to pursue further DNA testing regarding her children.

  She gathered the chart and returned the record to the man at the front desk. After leaving medical records, she made her way to the laboratory. A sliding glass window was utilized for the transfer of specimens. She pushed one side open and greeted the young woman who was seated at the desk.

  “I was wondering if you could answer a question for me about how long you keep pathology specimens on hand.”

  “We keep them a long time. With medical malpractice the way it is anymore, we usually don’t throw anything away.”

  “Can you see what you might have pertaining to Drake Stipman?” Lilly rattled off his date of birth as the woman typed.

  “Looks like we have quite a bit; blood, bone marrow aspirate, and cerebral spinal fluid, as well. It might take a while to get it from our off-site storage.”

  “I don’t need you to get it now. It’s just good to know it’s there.”

  Lilly left the building and walked to her newly purchased junker. Even though it was the desert, it was cool in late January. Once inside, Lilly picked up several maps from the passenger seat and found the section for the address she’d culled from Drake’s medical record. She pulled out of the hospital parking lot, cranking up the heat. Cold air with the faint smell of antifreeze misted from the vents.

  The community hid behind a gated wall. She waited several minutes for a car to pull forward that she could piggyback access behind. Earth-tone stucco houses, each three stories with a pool in the backyard, sat on one- to two-acre lots. As she turned and entered into a cul-de-sac, she busied herself checking the numbers on the mailboxes. Based on these, Drake’s old house should come next.

  She looked up and punched the brakes.

  The lot was empty. All that remained was a charred fireplace column and a murk-filled pool in the backyard. She got out of her car and walked the lot. Bits of old charred wood still lay in the frosted grass. A neighbor looked at her from the next home, and Lilly walked over to greet him.

  “Hey,” she said, extending her hand. “Misty Rainforth. I’m an old friend of the Stipmans’. I thought I would surprise them with a visit, but I see they’re not home.”

  “You haven’t been in touch for a long time. They haven’t lived here for years, and they’re not together anymore. It’s tragic what happened to that family.”

  “Must have been a terrible fire.”

  He nodded. “Whole thing went up like a tinderbox. Never found who did it.”

  “They think the fire was set intentionally?” Lilly pulled her shoe through the grass.

  “That’s not in dispute. Only thing they don’t know is who set it.”

  “Do you know where I can find Ms. Stipman?”

  “She’s probably the same place she’s been for the last few years. After her boys died, she moved to a small apartment on the other side of town.”

  “Her children died in the fire?”

  “Yep. Horrible. I can still remember it like it was last night. The mother was lucky to get out alive.”

  “Do you happen t
o have her address?”

  “Probably. Wife’s inside. She’ll get it for you.”

  Chapter 37

  February 14

  DANA ENTERED HER small, cottage-style home and set her briefcase down on the hope chest that sat in the foyer. Her feet ached with each step, and pulling off her shoes didn’t ease the pain. Unbraiding her hair as she walked to her living room, she stilled as she saw a man sitting in her chair, acting as if it was his name on the mortgage. He sat nonplussed, watching her TV, the back of his head visible and unmoving. The intruder had one of her beers popped open, the condensation leaving a ring on her cherry-wood table. Dana pulled up onto her stockinged toes and inched backward, at first thinking maybe he hadn’t heard her clamoring into the house over the noise of the TV, but then her disbelief proved false when he turned his head around and leveled a gun at her chest.

  Her unexpected visitor was Drake Maguire.

  “Dr. Morrell, come and have a seat. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”

  The knowledge of her impending death collided with her instinct for self-preservation, and she turned on her heel and lunged for the front door. She felt the pain first, a crack at the back of her right thigh, as her leg gave way beneath her. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the doorknob as she fell. Drake was next to her within seconds, scooping her up and throwing her over one shoulder, his gloved hand boring into her wound. In the few seconds she had, she pulled up his shirt and began to claw at his lower back. Drake didn’t even flinch from the scratches, and he threw her onto the chair he’d vacated. He took a seat on the floor before her and wiped the blood from his glove onto her white Berber carpet.

  “Do I have your attention now?” He twirled the weapon around his index finger.

  Dana prayed a neighbor had heard the gunfire and would call the police. However, cool weather kept people indoors, and societal mores prohibited people from getting involved. In light of this, her sense of doom did not diminish. She pressed her right hand firmly against the back of her leg. It did little to stem the flow of blood, and she glanced down, watching the crimson pool spread on the camel moleskin chair underneath her. She could feel faint shock tremors begin to rattle within her as her skin tone faded. She tried to focus, but her normally crisp vision was fuzzy.