by Brenda Novak
“I don’t know. This is unusual even for Patch. Maybe something intriguing caught his attention.”
At length Wilson rose, snapped off his latex gloves, and announced to the small group of law enforcement people surrounding him. “Good, I was hoping for something complex to wrap my brain around. It appears I have it.”
He nodded Slater’s way. “I’ll begin the autopsy tomorrow morning.” He paused and stroked his smoothly-shaved jaw reflectively. “I’ll also want to re-autopsy our dead Mr. Hinchey. I’m finished now,” he added to the ambulance driver. “You can deliver the body to the hospital.”
He turned and walked away.
“Wait,” Flood called after the M.E. “What’d you find? How’d she die, same as last one, right?” He was shouting now because Wilson had arrived at his car. “The Hinchey autopsy is already done. What in hell is going on?”
Wilson’s voice was low but clear, caught by the westward blowing wind, and wafting back to them. As if he hadn’t heard a word Flood had said, Wilson opened his car door. “Sheriff
The remark was a slap in the face to Andrew Flood, and he glared at Slater and Cruz with muddy, lethal eyes.
Chapter 34
The killer glanced idly around the room where everyone scurried about, filled out forms, answered phones. Chattered like magpies. Like they performed some important job that no one else could do. When he was the one who conducted important business.
Sometimes he hated this job. Despised the people he worked with. He’d worked so hard to get promoted. No one appreciated what he had to deal with – the worthless scum who were everywhere in his life. No seniority, little authority. He’d once thought he was part of the inner circle. One of the guys who got the breaks, got to do something important besides complete more paperwork, answer more phones.
He fiddled with his pen, turning it over and over, end to end – his only outward sign of agitation. Restlessness skittered down his spine all the time now. Ever since the – the incident with the homeless man in Ryder Park.
An ember burned inside him, rage smoldering, ready to erupt into flame. The man roused himself from self-pity. What he’d done – that was a mercy, a favor to the community and the homeless man himself. The hobo was better off dead than living a wretched existence on the street.
And even though it was an act of kindness in the overall picture, it was still an accident, for God’s sake!
He glanced down at the newspaper on his desk.
A monster was now running around Sacramento. Copying him. He’d never do something so outrageous, so vicious, as the newspaper reported. He thought of the poor, ravaged woman and her pathetic, brutalized body, and shuddered.
Not him! He was a person who protected people not –
He glanced down at his clenched fists. For a brief moment his mask slipped.
Fran Winston across the room gave him a strange look. She was a nosy little bitch. She’d notice the smallest change in a person and blab it to everyone.
He shut his feelings down. Shut them down fast and hard.
Glancing at the wall clock, he realized it was nearly quitting time. Good thing, too, because he could feel himself falling apart, tearing into tiny shreds of anxiety.
In his apartment he kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the couch. Reached for a beer in the refrigerator. He hesitated, thought a minute, and pulled his stash from the kitchen armoire he’d inherited from his mother. His cache was hidden in the soup tureen, also inherited from his mother, and which he had no use for.
Well, except for the drugs – oxy, norco, percocet – whatever he scored on the street.
Settling down in his recliner, he chased a handful of xanax with the beer. He’d rather light up a joint, take a good long toke of high quality pot, but that shit stayed in your system forever.
I am not a murderer, he whispered aloud as he relaxed. The words echoed around the small apartment. Good. He repeated the words in his head. What happened with the homeless man at Ryder Park was – it was an accident. Anyone sitting on a jury would see that he was a normal, respectable citizen with a good job and a solid life. He wasn’t a killer.
Calmer now, he analyzed the situation. He wasn’t a killer, but someone was screwing with him, messing with his mind. The newspaper article of the murdered Sacramento woman was proof of that. And that was a serious mistake.
As the xanax gradually relaxed him, he allowed himself to remember the dreams that awakened him in the middle of the night. Foggy dreams filled with violent images and illicit pleasure that left him soaked with sweat. He always woke up with a major boner.
The images always ended with his hands wrapped around someone’s throat, squeezing the neck, harder and harder, choking the life out of the person lying helpless beneath him while his prick swelled like a balloon ready to pop.
With the benzo slowing down his busy brain, he admitted consciously how good it had felt to kill the homeless man in Ryder Park. More than good – great! It was a rush better than any high he’d ever gotten. Not that he was much of a drug user now. Never knew when he’d get caught up in a dirty pee test.
Most of the guys he knew drank and avoided pot. Hell, they drank like fish. Suddenly this idea seemed silly and he suppressed a giggle. Must be the norco he’d mixed with the xanax. The half-life on that stuff was short, so he didn’t worry about getting caught taking it. And he had a ‘script for the Ambien, so no problemo there.
He breathed deeply and returned to his fantasy, thinking what a rush it felt to carve the life out of another person. Thought how he’d like to do it again, but without the knife this time. The blood – and the gore – that was too much.
Choking, squeezing, tightening his fingers around the neck. Yeah, that was good.
But someone else was playing his game and that disturbed him.
He stewed on the matter during the night, disturbing images racing through his dreams like thoroughbred horses. Each culmination of the chase, the attack, the vicious ending – made his heart gallop and his groin burn.
He’d have to do it again. He confessed this during these dark-night fantasies, even while his day-time brain kept him acting normally – at work, doing the job, facing co-workers. Maintaining normalcy was becoming a herculean effort.
Chapter 35
By nature and profession Patch Wilson, the Bigler County medical examiner, was a meticulous man. His recent trip to the Mediterranean was the most spontaneous act he’d ever taken. His wife had died last spring, and although he had a son and a daughter, the loss of his life-long companion had left him bereft.
The vacation had been a bad idea. He missed his work more than he’d imagined. He missed his coworkers and staff, and the precision of pathology. Patch enjoyed the structure and accuracy, the DNA and medical evidence. He liked the infallible order of the profession.
Hell, he even missed odd duck Howard Casey, who was one of his technical assistants.
Back at work in the autopsy room, Patch felt more cheerful than he had in weeks. The varied instruments, the stainless steel table, the tubing and scales – all were items of exactness and surety. He could count on the results. The facts were immutable.
He glanced over at the row of body trays where his assistant Howard pushed an autopsied body back into the vacant drawer. The man had been Wilson’s lab helper for nearly eight months, and he still didn’t understand much about what made the inscrutable man tick.
He’d hired Howard Casey, of course. The technician had a stellar curriculum vitae, along with outstanding letters of recommendation. Howard had completed his training and work experience at various institutions on the east coast. Patch had been very pleased with the qualifications of his new hire.
Still, eight months later, he was no closer to understanding the man than he was before he’d begun working for the county coroner. Howard wasn’t a physician, but had very strong anatomical skills, a pleasant bonus for the very busy medical examiner’s office. He was confident, knowledgea
ble, and very competent. If an underlying arrogance tinged his personality, well, it was something Patch could work with.
“Howard, would you get the evidence report off my desk for this young lady, please?” Patch nodded toward the young female on the autopsy table. The external examination had already been completed, the body photographed and cleaned.
He never liked to begin an examination until he knew the name of the victim, whenever possible. It seemed ... disrespectful, otherwise.
“Certainly, Dr. Wilson,” Howard answered, retrieving and handing him the file. “Will you be needing an assist for this?”
Another odd quirk – Howard never called Patch by any name except his formal title and last name. Not that Patch was complaining. He rather liked when the younger generation showed proper respect for their elders.
He thought briefly of Sheriff Slater, who always called him by his nickname “Patch.” Wilson pretended to be annoyed by it, but he enjoyed the affection that went along with the appellation. He’d known Slater a long time.
“No, thank you, I can handle this one. After you clean up, you may leave for the day.”
“Whatever you want,” Howard answered mildly.
Patch scanned the first page of the report. The girl had already been identified – Valerie Hightower, a runaway from Richmond. She’d been reported missing by her parents two months ago, ID’ed by fingerprints and confirmed by several homeless people in Rosedale who recognized her from the street.
The pathologist examined her fingers, not yet displaying the dirt and wear of older denizens of the street, and thought what a pity her early death was. He looked sadly at the pale young face, the long hair flowing like grass over the end of the table, the hands lying parallel to her torso.
Snapping on his latex gloves, he picked up the long-bladed scalpel, and pulled the microphone toward his mouth, beginning his autopsy of seventeen-year-old Valerie Hightower from Richmond, California.
An hour later Patch stepped back from the autopsy table, his internal examination complete. Initially, he’d intended to do both autopsies back to back, the girl’s first, Dickey Hinchey’s second. Instead he called Slater.
The Sheriff arrived with P.O. Cruz in tow. Patch supposed what he had to show them would interest Cruz as well, since Dickey Hinchey was his murdered parolee, and the cases appeared related.
Slater had agreed to meet Patch at the coroner’s office, located in the basement of the hospital, a place Cruz had never been. Wilson waited for them at the wide swinging doors and led them to the autopsy table which held the body. The girl’s hair hung over the edge of the shiny table and a sheet covered her legs, but her torso lay open, the flaps of the Y-incision pulled back so they could view the interior organs.
Cruz leaned closer, looking over Slater’s shoulder, but didn’t voice the thoughts in his head. A ripple of queasiness raced along his nerves at what he saw.
The body cavity gaped like the maw of a gigantic cavern.
“Where the hell are her organs?” Slater demanded.
Patch nodded. “Good point. I drained the fluids, removed her intestines and lungs, other minor material, but – ”
Suddenly, Cruz realized something as he looked back and forth between the open body and the stainless steel containers resting on a set of scales. There were no organs from the body. Kidneys, heart, liver – all missing.
Slater glanced at Cruz’s blanched face. “You see it?”
“Hell, yes.”
Patch confirmed their worst fears. “The body has been stripped of vital organs, neatly and precisely, likely someone with medical knowledge, however scant. Organs that are both vital and valuable,” he added.
“Holy shit,” Slater exclaimed. “Do you know what these particular organs go for on the black market?”
Chapter 36
Roger Milano met the next day with his attorney in a privacy room at Folsom Prison. John Wright came straight to the point. “Someone assaulted Frankie Jones in the prison parking lot after work night before last.”
“Jesus mother-fuckin’ Christ,” Roger shouted, clamoring up and knocking his chair over with a loud crash. He saw the security guard glance through the observation window and quickly sat down. Wright raised his hand, signaling that everything was okay.
Roger swiped at his damp forehead, saw the tremor as he clasped his hands together. “How is she? Is she hurt? How bad? Was she – ” The words had tumbled out of his mouth with the force of fear and panic, but now he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. “Was she ... assaulted?”
“No, no,” Wright assured him. “She’s okay. The guy threatened her. She’s shaken up, scared, skinned up a bit, nothing serious. Mad as hell.”
Roger managed a grim smile. “She’s a warrior.”
“She didn’t see her attacker,” Wright continued, “and has no idea who it was, but she’s taken an unspecified leave of absence from Pelican Bay.”
Wright looked inquiringly at Roger. He didn’t know Roger’s relationship to this Frankie Jones, but he’d been watching out for her on Roger’s behalf for the last dozen years or so. He suspected Frankie was Roger’s daughter, but he wasn’t sure. Last names were different, but a legal name change was easy to get. She’d never attended the trial, never visited the inmate until several years after he was incarcerated.
“She told the authorities her aunt was grievously ill.” Wright lifted one corner of his mouth at this bald lie.
Roger and his sister-in-law were not fast friends. An ironic understatement because his dead wife’s sister hated his guts and was completely sure Roger had murdered his wife in a fit of rage.
But Frankie ... the important thing was her safety.
“Why, then?” Roger asked. “If not – not rape – why was she attacked? What did they want? Why threaten Frankie? She’s nobody.”
Even though privilege was supposedly observed in the privacy room, the lawyer lowered his voice until it was barely audible.
“She called me, talked five minutes. She doesn’t know who attacked her, but says a murder went down in the prison yard a few days ago, and the inmate who confessed to it passed her a note. Cole Hansen. Last I heard he was suddenly paroled and released. Fell off the grid since then.”
“She thinks the attack has something to do with this – this Cole guy?” Roger scratched his head, frowning. “Why does that name sound familiar? Cole Hansen,” he muttered softly.
Wright looked pointedly at Roger’s right knuckles. “He’s LOD, too.”
Roger jerked back, astonished. “You think this has something to do with me?”
Wright lifted his hands, palms upward. “You tell me.”
Roger sat up straight, as if an iron bar had replaced his spine. He’d always had such stiff composure, Wright recalled, even during the arrest and all through the trial.
Roger hadn’t wanted Frankie to observe the proceedings, and the aunt hadn’t allowed it, but when she reached the age of consent, no one could stop her from visiting him in prison.
That was the first time he’d met Frankie Jones. Even at that young age, she was impressive – slender and composed with gray eyes calm and stormy at the same.
“What’s going on, Roger? What’re the Lords up to?”
Roger folded his arms across his chest, the only concession to relaxation he allowed himself. “I’ve heard bits here and there, how they’re expanding their enterprises.”
“Expanding? What does that mean?”
“Rumor is they want to move into other kinds of activities, all illegal, of course.”
“What’s left that the Lords don’t control?” Wright asked.
“Murder for hire, for one,” Roger said. “The professional kind, not gang retaliation.”
“You think the Lords hired someone to kill Frankie?”
“Not really. She’d be dead by now if they’d put a contract on her.” Roger leaned forward across the table separating the two men. “They wanted to scare her. Real bad.”
“So you’ve got to figure out what she’s done that’s spooking the Lords.” Roger looked deadly serious. “She’s always been a feisty one. I can see her poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong, not realizing how dangerous these people are.”
“Look, Roger, I represent you, not Frankie. I can talk to her, but privilege doesn’t apply.” Wright shifted uneasily. “I’ve only got a cell number for her. Anyway, she’s taking leave and laying low for a while. But she’s not going to stop whatever she’s involved in.”
Roger thought a bit, staring up at the ceiling and tapping his long fingers on the table. “I think I know where she might be.”
He stood up, his back toward the door with the guard on watch through the window. After he’d whispered the information into Wright’s ear, he added. “I think I can trust you, but I swear to God if anything happens to my little girl, I’ll kill you.”
Wright stared at Roger’s broad back as he left the room. He’d always known Roger Milano was capable of killing someone, but had convinced himself the man was innocent of his wife’s murder.
Whatever his previous thoughts, he now realized for a certainty, that Frankie Jones was Roger’s daughter, and from the narrowed steel gray eyes, he knew if he didn’t protect her, Roger would come looking for him.
Chapter 37
The man stood restlessly at the kitchen counter in his pricey condominium, knowing blowback was just a knock on the door away. His hands were so shaky that whiskey slopped over the edge of his glass. The splintered ring finger chaffed against the other ones, ironically whole and healthy.
What next, he wondered? How would they come at him this time?
He drained the whiskey clumsily and considered the latest development. His merchandise hadn’t satisfied him. It wasn’t prime, they claimed. Not good enough.
