by Tim Downs
“Why not?” Santangelo said.
Nick spoke without looking down. “If you charge us, our interest in Dr. Lassiter will become public knowledge—and that will tip off Dr. Lassiter himself, the very thing you want to avoid. If he looks for our software on his computer, he’ll find yours too—and you don’t want that, now, do you? You can end our investigation, Mr. Santangelo—but in the process you’ll end your own.”
The bridge passed overhead now, and the midmorning sun streaked the deck again with blinding yellow light. Nick squinted hard and turned back to Santangelo. “Besides,” he said, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “you didn’t come here just to tell us to back off—a phone call would have accomplished that. You’re here because you want to know what we know.”
“You’re a hard man to intimidate, Dr. Polchak.”
Nick looked at him. “I thought you read my file.”
Santangelo turned to Riley. “Why is a pathologist investigating her own colleague? What would motivate you to break into his house? And how did the two of you get together on this?”
Riley glanced at Nick. He nodded.
“I’m in a fellowship program at the coroner’s office,” Riley said. “Dr. Lassiter is my supervisor. A few months ago, I began to notice some strange anomalies in his work—and when I asked about them, he became extremely defensive. He ‘protested too much,’ you might say, and it made me suspicious. I met Dr. Polchak at a … professional function, and I asked him to help me look into it.”
“I’m good at peeking through keyholes,” Nick said.
“What sort of ‘anomalies’ are we talking about?”
“Lassiter refused to release organs for transplant due to a head trauma—that was the first one. Then I asked Dr. Polchak to do an entomological evaluation on an acute myocardial infarction victim.”
“And?”
“The body had been moved,” Nick said, “shortly after death. It was transported from the city to the country, where it was later discovered.”
“So it was dumped,” Santangelo said. “It happens.”
“It happens to murder victims,” Riley said. “Lassiter wrote it off as a death by natural causes.”
Santangelo nodded. “Any more?”
“Just one. Dr. Polchak helped me reexamine one of Lassiter’s autopsies—the victim of a drive-by shooting in Homewood. The cause of death was a gunshot to the back of the head, but we discovered another wound—an incision on the lower back, just below the rib cage.”
“An incision?”
“It was sutured shut,” Nick said, “and it all happened at the murder scene.”
Santangelo did a double take. “You can tell that?”
“You’d be amazed what I can tell. For example: I can tell that you already know most of this—maybe all of it.”
“I’ll bite. How do you know that?”
“Because you’re a federal agent. The FBI wouldn’t get involved with a simple medical misadventure—that’s for the local authorities to take care of. Your very presence here indicates the violation of some federal statute or regulation—say, the National Organ Transplant Act, which makes it a federal crime to buy or sell human tissues.”
Santangelo sat motionless.
“Thanks,” Nick smiled. “Now I know for sure.”
Santangelo held up both hands in protest. “I’m not at liberty to discuss details of an open investigation. All I can tell you is, your observations are … consistent with our own discoveries. What else can you tell me?”
“Like you said, we searched his computer, and I’m sure we found the same thing you did: Lassiter has been investing enormous sums of money in a company called PharmaGen—money that he never earned. Where’s that money coming from, Mr. Santangelo?”
“Sorry.”
“Come on, Cruz, I thought we were all friends here. We answered some of your questions; you can answer one of ours.”
“I’m asking you to help confirm details of the Bureau’s investigation, Dr. Polchak, but I’m not free to answer your questions in return. You know how it works—a need-to-know basis.”
“Some friend you are.”
“So what about this PharmaGen? Has he mentioned the company at work, Dr. McKay? Can you explain his heavy involvement?”
“No,” she said. “At this point, all we have is speculation.”
“I’m open to speculation. Let’s hear it.”
Riley took a deep breath. “PharmaGen has collected genetic information on a few hundred thousand people in western Pennsylvania. They have a man serving on their ethics advisory board—his name is Julian Zohar, the director of western Pennsylvania’s organ procurement organization. We think he … it’s possible that …” Her voice trailed off here, and Nick leaned forward.
“We think he could be creating a black market for organs, using PharmaGen’s database to facilitate matches between donors and recipients.”
Santangelo looked at both of them, then slumped back against the bench.
“Like we said, it’s only speculation.”
“Can you prove any of this? Do you have anything tangible for me?”
Nick shook his head. “You look surprised, Mr. Santangelo. Was your investigation taking you in a different direction?”
“I … I can’t say,” Santangelo stammered. “I’m just … amazed that you’ve … made these connections.”
No one said anything for a minute.
“That’s all we’ve got,” Nick said at last.
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your cooperation,” Santangelo said, his mind still racing.
“So what do we do now?”
Santangelo looked at both of them. “I can tell you this much: We have several people under surveillance. We suspect the involvement of a number of parties, and we won’t do anything until we identify all of them and have enough physical evidence to prosecute—that’s when we’ll close the net.”
“What do you want us to do?” Riley asked.
“You’ve already done it. You’ve told me what you know, and you’ve turned the investigation over to the FBI—right? Here’s what I don’t want you two to do: no more breaking into houses, no more tapping into computers, and no more poking around in Dr. Lassiter’s affairs. The worst thing you could do is let Lassiter get wind of you—or of us. The minute somebody lets out a yell, everybody scatters. We don’t want anyone to get away, understand? You need to let us complete this investigation our way, on our timetable. If you do, we’ll both be satisfied.”
“Just what is that timetable?” Nick asked.
“You’ll know when we know. In the meantime, Dr. McKay, you go back to the coroner’s office and finish that fellowship program. Talk to no one about what we’ve discussed here. And if you do observe any more irregularities in Dr. Lassiter’s conduct—if you even have further speculations—you’re to call me, understand?” He handed both of them a business card embossed with the black-and-gold seal of the FBI. “One more thing—Dr. Lassiter’s neighbor reported seeing three people enter the house. Who was the third party?”
They said nothing.
“You’re a pathologist, and you’re an entomologist,” he said, looking at each of them. “I assume the third party was your computer expert.”
“An interesting assumption,” Nick said.
“The Bureau would really like to know.”
“Like you said, Mr. Santangelo—a need-to-know basis.”
Santangelo glared at him. “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh, Dr. Polchak. Take in a few ball games. Work on your tan—you could use it. Like I said before, you know how the system works: your government thanks you for your cooperation; now keep quiet, stay out of the way, and let us do our job.”
Santangelo rose from the bench, shook hands with each of them, and headed off across the deck. Nick and Riley watched until he descended the opposite stairway and disappeared from view.
Nick turned to Riley. “He didn’t read my file,” he said.
“So what do you think?” Santangelo said.
Zohar sat in silence for another moment. “I think we’ve had an epiphany,” he said. “We’ve learned three crucial lessons from your interview today, Mr. Santangelo: first, we’ve confirmed Dr. Lassiter’s complete ineptitude; second, we’ve learned that Dr. McKay is a very bright woman indeed; and third, we’ve learned that we must make a concerted effort to disguise the link between the coroner’s office, PharmaGen, and myself. Now that our relationship is well established, Mr. Truett, I think it might be prudent for me to resign from your advisory board. I suggest that you recruit instead more members with Dr. Paulos’s reassuring image.”
“Never mind the future,” Truett said, “what about now? They know, Julian—they figured it out.”
“What do they really know? Think carefully. They know about Lassiter’s foul-ups, but they are unaware of the reason behind them. They know about Lassiter’s investments in PharmaGen, but they don’t know the source of his funding. And as for the connection to me, that’s the weakest correlation of all. As they said to Mr. Santangelo, they’re only guessing.”
“But they’re guessing right,” Santangelo said. “They don’t have to be able to prove anything. They just have to raise the right questions.”
“I agree,” Zohar said. “But I believe we took care of that today. Where would they raise those questions? To the authorities, of course, and today they did exactly that. They spoke to the authorities—and not just any authority, a federal authority—the FBI. They now believe that their concerns have been heard, that a federal investigation is under way, and that they have no reason for further involvement.”
“That’s good for now,” Truett said, “but what about later on? Cruz promised them an end to the investigation. What happens when six months or a year goes by and it’s still business as usual? They won’t wait forever, Julian; they’re going to want closure.”
“And closure they shall have. Please understand me, gentlemen. This situation will have to be dealt with. All I’m suggesting is that we proceed with caution and that we take advantage of this opportunity while we have it.”
“What opportunity?”
“Mr. Santangelo made it quite clear: if they learn anything else, they are to call him. Don’t you see? If there are any more holes in our system, they will find them—and they will report them directly to us. These people are our very own U.N. inspection team! I think we should regard this as a divine opportunity.”
“When do we deal with the situation?” Santangelo asked. “The sooner the better in my book.”
“I think that would be wise. But one thing is crucial: We must identify the third member of their party. As you told them today, Mr. Santangelo, we don’t want to close the net until we have identified all parties involved. If we act prematurely, whoever remains will most certainly return to haunt us. Can you do this? Will you be able to identify the remaining accomplice?”
“It could take a few days,” Santangelo said reflectively. “I don’t have the resources of the FBI for this—I’ll have to do it the hard way.”
Zohar nodded. “As you said—the sooner the better.”
“What about the next procedure?” Truett said. “Do we go ahead, or do we call it off and lay low until this situation is taken care of?”
“I say call it off,” Santangelo said.
“I agree,” Truett nodded. “The risk is too great.”
“Gentlemen,” Zohar said in his most reassuring voice. “We must be careful not to let our fears cloud our usual acumen. If we are to test our system for flaws, we must continue as planned with our next procedure. Besides, we must remember that our waiting client also poses a risk. How are we to raise her expectations, only to suddenly postpone without explanation? Believe me, her courage is fragile; if we show the slightest sign of caution or hesitation, she will back out of our arrangement, and then we’ll have a risk of a different kind. The only safe client is a satisfied client—and she will not be satisfied until she gets her kidney. We have a week before the next procedure; let’s see what Mr. Santangelo can learn in that time.”
The men grew silent again, lost in thought. Truett sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on his knees, rolling an amber bottle back and forth between his hands.
“What about Lassiter?”
“What about him?”
“He’s been paid well for his part in all this—very well. But that wasn’t enough for him; he had to invest that money in the company, he had to try to make an even bigger killing. It was his greed that allowed them to make the connection to PharmaGen. It was his stupidity that got them asking questions in the first place. From where I sit, Dr. Lassiter is becoming a greater liability than an asset.”
“Lassiter is a loose cannon,” Santangelo agreed. “He makes me nervous.”
Zohar nodded thoughtfully. “A contact within the coroner’s office is a necessary part of this process—but Dr. Lassiter does not have to be that contact. I share your concerns, gentlemen. This situation just might prove a double blessing. I think I see a way to improve our system and to replace our weakest link at the same time.”
Zohar reached down to the table in front of him and lifted his wineglass. He glanced at each man, then held the glass aloft. “Any man makes a sailor in calm seas,” he said. “Into the storm, gentlemen. Our port awaits on the other side.”
Riley parked her car beside the river and took the winding, rustred walkway over West Carson Street to the lower station of the Duquesne Incline. She loved the hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old building, with its rose-red brick and violet slate roof with gingerbread trim. Nineteen inclines once lined Pittsburgh’s formidable hills, transporting workers, vehicles, and coal up a thirty-degree pitch that even horses couldn’t master. Now only two inclines remained, the Duquesne and the Monongahela, both offering passengers a silent ascension from the river’s southern edge to the peak of Mount Washington. As a little girl, Riley’s father brought her often to ride the inclines, but by then they had been reduced to little more than tourist attractions. But it never failed to take her breath away when the red-and-yellow car rose out of the station and the three rivers came into view below.
She always took a seat at the very front of the car, turning to face the glass in anticipation of the stunning panorama—but this morning she moved directly to the rear of the car and took a seat beside a beaming, wavy-haired man.
“The lovely Riley McKay,” Leo said. “Truly, the Golden Triangle offers no more beautiful vista than you.”
Riley leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Let’s make this a regular thing,” she said. “Every time I’m having a bad day, I’ll meet you right here.”
“I will be your incline, lifting you from the depths of despair to the celestial heights where a woman like you belongs.”
There was a small jolt as the incline’s twin cables drew taut, and the car began its silent climb up the long track. The lower station began to shrink away, leaving a square, black hole where the car had been.
“I got your call,” Riley said. “Sorry if this seems a little cloak-and-dagger, but after our meeting with the FBI, I thought it might be wise if we tried to be a little more … discreet.”
“Just the way I like things,” Leo said. “Discreet.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nick Polchak is on my mind. Is he on yours?”
Riley hesitated. She began to speak but stopped short. She glanced around the empty car, then back at Leo again. All the while, Leo watched her eyes.
“I see,” he said.
Riley felt the rush of blood to her face. “What do you see?”
“I see that you care about Nick. But I sense that things are … complicated.”
“You have no idea.”
>
“Pour out your soul to me; I am your confidant.”
“I wish I could, Leo, I really do. But—”
He nodded. “I think you should know, Nick cares a great deal for you. I tell you this because he will have a great deal of difficulty telling you himself.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He said your voice reminds him of a wind chime.”
Riley smiled. “That’s kind of sweet.”
“In a sixth-grade sort of way, yes. But you have to start somewhere, and for Nick, that’s really quite remarkable.”
“I’ve tried not to … encourage him.”
“Nonsense—you’ve encouraged him by your very existence. You’re beautiful, you’re intelligent, and you’re comfortable with your arms up to the elbow in human viscera. You’re Nick’s kind of girl.”
“Nick is a wonderful man. But he’s kind of—”
“Strange? Twisted? Demented? Take your pick. Nick Polchak is all of these and more.”
“Leo—I thought you were Nick’s friend.”
Leo looked affronted. “I love Nick Polchak like my own brother. What am I saying—I hate my own brother. I love Nick Polchak like no other man in this world.”
Riley grinned. “Leo, is there anything that you just … like?”
“What would be the point? That’s like stopping halfway up the incline. Italians have two emotions, Ms. McKay: we love, and we hate. Everything else is just pasta.”
Riley let out a laugh. “Well, I hope you don’t hate me.”
“I adore you—and so does Nick, which brings us back to the subject. Nick is like a man trapped in a great ship, staring out two giant portholes at the world passing by. I believe he wants out—but I don’t think he knows how to get out. For that, he needs the help of someone else—someone like you. Nick Polchak, you see, is a tortured soul.”
