Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  She pointed to his cup. “Is there any more of that?”

  “It tastes like rust,” Nick said.

  “You have to let the pump run for a while. It’s a deep well, but iron from the mine gets into everything.”

  She stepped to the counter and reached into an open bag of bread. She took a spoon from a jar of strawberry preserves and absent-mindedly wiped it across the bread, then tested the side of the metal pot on the small camping stove. Nick watched her. She was a little taller than Riley, and her hair was an identical shade of blond. Her eyes were blue—both of them—and she had the same high cheekbones and fair complexion. She was quite beautiful—like her older sister—but minus a few of the lines and wrinkles awarded with a medical degree and residency. She was barefoot, and she wore a loose-fitting T-shirt over powder blue surgical scrubs. She pulled out a chair across from Nick and sat down.

  “So you’re the boyfriend,” she said.

  “Did Riley tell you that?”

  “She didn’t have to. How long have you two been an item?”

  “That depends on who’s doing the counting. I think I’m still trying to convince her.”

  “I think she’s convinced.” She stopped for a moment to sip her coffee. “What is it you do for a living, Nick?”

  “I’m a forensic entomologist.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “I’m a bug man. I study the insects that inhabit human bodies when they die: blowflies, flesh flies, carrion beetles …”

  Sarah shivered. “The things people do.”

  “Riley tells me you’re a nurse. In what area?”

  “OR, ER, ICU—I’ve done it all at one time or another. I’m in pediatrics right now. It’s a lot more humane.”

  Nick looked around the room. It was long and narrow, with the cabinets and counters at one end and their table at the other. Behind them, a large window looked out on an ebony hillside. “So this is where the two of you grew up.”

  “Right here, in beautiful downtown Mencken.”

  He pointed over his shoulder. “And that’s the volcano you used to climb on.”

  “Not me—you couldn’t get me up on that thing. That was Riley’s playground.”

  “With or without your dad’s permission?”

  Sarah smiled. “My sister has what you might call a stubborn streak—but I suppose you’ve noticed that by now.”

  “I’ve had a taste.”

  “Riley’s like a weather vane. She has a way of always turning into the wind—she seems to follow the path of greatest resistance.” She pointed out the window. “It’s two hundred feet to the top of that thing, and the ground around here is fairly flat. When Riley climbed up there, she could see for miles. She could see out of Mencken; I think that’s what she really wanted.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I didn’t care. Our dad died when we were still teenagers. Riley raised us both—she was both parent and sister. She made me go to college, and she made sure I got a good job. Then she went on to medical school and then a residency and now the coroner’s office.” She peered out the window again. “You know, I think she’s still climbing.”

  “You love your sister, don’t you?”

  “Do you?”

  Nick shifted in his chair. “That’s … not an easy question.”

  “Sure it is. You just don’t want to tell me yet. That’s OK; I’m just a little overprotective.”

  “She seems to feel the same way about you.”

  “It’s just the two of us, Nick. That’s the way it’s been for a long time. We look out for one another.”

  “I guess that makes me the third wheel.”

  “Wagons have four—one more and we’ve got a set. Have you got a brother?”

  “Sorry.”

  Sarah snapped her fingers. “Just my luck.”

  “A woman like you can’t be short of men.”

  “Ordinary men, sure—but the McKays settle for nothing but the best. Riley makes sure of it. You know, that says a lot about you.”

  “Do you ever get tired of your sister’s influence?”

  “Riley’s more than my sister—she’s my hero. Can you say that about anybody?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Well, it’s a nice thing. A little overbearing at times, but nice.”

  Nick leaned closer across the table. “Can I ask you something about your sister?”

  “Sure. I’m an expert.”

  “How is she? I mean, how is her health?”

  Sarah paused. “How much do you know?”

  “I know about her kidney disease. I’ve seen the edema in her ankles, and I know that she tires out easily—sudden exertion almost paralyzes her. What I want to know is, how serious is it?”

  “What has Riley told you?”

  Nick sat back in his chair. “You do look out for one another, don’t you?”

  She looked intently into his eyes. “Nick, I would do anything for Riley. Would you?”

  “Would he what?” said a voice behind her. Riley tousled her sister’s hair and headed straight for the coffee. “It’s not decaf, is it?”

  “It’s the good stuff,” Nick said. “Plus iron.”

  “Good. I’m fighting off anemia.”

  She poured herself a cup, turned, and leaned against the counter. “Were you two talking about me behind my back?”

  “That’s the best way,” Sarah said.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him about the guy who took you to the prom. I told him he got a little too forward, and you broke his hand.”

  She looked at Nick. “Did she really tell you that?”

  “She did now.”

  “So you’d better be a gentleman,” Sarah said.

  Nick held up both hands. “There’s not a mark on me.” He pushed back from the table and began to collect his things. He walked over to the counter and gave Riley a peck on the forehead.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m late for work.”

  “What work? I thought we were hiding out here.”

  “I need to take the sample to Sanjay at Pitt. He’ll run a DNA sequence on it, and in a day or two we’ll know if we have a match.”

  At the table, Sarah set her bitter coffee down and slid the cup away from her. In the center of the table was a half-filled Aquafina water bottle.

  “Well, be careful,” Riley said. “Don’t do anything unexpected.”

  “There is one ‘unexpected’ thing I plan to take care of,” Nick said. “I just thought of it last night.”

  “What’s that?”

  Sarah twisted off the cap and lifted the bottle to her lips—

  “Stop!” Nick shouted.

  Sarah froze.

  Nick gently took the bottle from her hand and replaced the cap. “That was close. You almost let the genie out of the bottle.”

  Julian Zohar held up the Money section of USA Today and searched the multicolored columns. Featured prominently on the second page was a story about the breathtaking progress in PharmaGen’s research and development program and enthusiastic speculation about the much-anticipated date of their initial public offering. Zohar nodded and smiled.

  He felt the table in front of him jostle slightly; he lowered the paper and looked across the table at an unexpected visitor.

  “Do you know who I am?” Nick said, touching his glasses.

  Zohar shook his head in astonishment. “You never cease to amaze me, Dr. Polchak. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extended his hand across the table. Nick ignored it.

  “Your Web site photo is misleading,” Nick said. “Photoshop does wonders.”

  “We all need a little touching up from time to time, don’t we? So now we know how you recognized me; how did you know to find me here?”

  “I followed you from your office. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who packs his own lunch.”

  A waiter approached the table now. “Will you be joining
us today, sir? Can I get you any—”

  “Go away,” Nick said without taking his eyes off Zohar.

  “Perhaps just a glass of—”

  “Now.”

  The waiter glanced at Zohar, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. He turned and waded back through the sea of bustling lunchtime tables.

  “Dr. Polchak, I hope you’re not planning to do anything embarrassing or physically violent—I abhor violence.”

  “Somehow I thought you would. That’s why I figured it might be safe to drop in on you like this.”

  “I’m glad you did. We’re overdue for a visit.”

  Nick glanced around the restaurant. “I don’t suppose any of your henchmen are joining you here.”

  “Henchmen? I’m not a Mafioso, Dr. Polchak—I’m simply the proprietor of a small business enterprise.”

  “Have you joined the Chamber of Commerce yet?”

  Zohar smiled. “As long as we’re airing our suspicions, I don’t suppose you’re wearing a …” He gestured to Nick’s shirt.

  Nick unbuttoned his shirt partway and pulled it open. “No wires, no tape recorders—just me and you. What’s the matter, Dr. Zohar, don’t you trust me?”

  “Forgive me. I sense that we’re both a bit … tentative. But there can be no relationship without trust, now, can there? So why don’t we both throw our cautions to the wind and dive right in?” Zohar cocked his head to one side and studied Nick. “Another man might come here today with a demand or an offer or a plea—but you, Dr. Polchak, you’re not like other men, are you? I believe you came here with some questions.”

  “How many people are involved in this ‘business’ of yours? How far does it go?”

  Zohar grinned. “It involves every policeman, every federal agent, every person in any position of power or influence—that’s what you need to believe right now. That’s what keeps you from going to the authorities, isn’t it?”

  “Is this all about money? Is that it?”

  “For some of our members, yes—it’s all about money. Take our crime-scene investigators, for example. Do you know what a CSI makes in our city? Twenty thousand dollars a year. Can you believe that? The men and women who are responsible for collecting forensic evidence at a crime scene, the ones who may decide whether a killer is convicted or goes free.”

  “Welcome to capitalism,” Nick said. “I thought you were a businessman.”

  “I despise a purely capitalistic system. It caters to the worst in all of us. It fulfills our every whim, but ignores our greatest needs. Think of it: an economic system where a man who can do nothing more than throw a little ball through a hoop is rewarded with millions, while someone like yourself—a college professor, a holder of a graduate degree—survives on a relative pittance.”

  “And you’re planning to correct this system?”

  “I’m planning to use it, simply by applying the law of supply and demand.”

  “What about the rest of your people—is it all about money for them too?”

  “Motives are mysterious things, Dr. Polchak. Who can really say why a man does what he does? For Dr. Lassiter, yes, I suppose it’s all about money. His cupidity never ceases to astound me. For others in our little group, it has more to do with excitement and danger—they simply enjoy living on the adrenaline edge. For Mr. Santangelo, I think it’s largely about money—but then, Mr. Santangelo is by nature something of a predator. I suspect he would work for far less. As for the rest of us—well, there are personal motives involved.”

  “But it’s not about money for you, is it?”

  “Thank you for recognizing that—I was afraid you were about to insult me. No, Dr. Polchak, it’s not about money for me. You might be interested to know that I do not benefit financially from our endeavors in any way.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “Not at all; I have nothing against making money. I simply have other motives.”

  “Such as?”

  “Justice.”

  Nick slumped back against the booth. “Routine salvaging,” he said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

  “Very good, Dr. Polchak. That’s one of the things I admire about you—you have the most remarkable facility for making connections.”

  Nick leaned closer again. “As I understand it, routine salvaging has to do with dead people. These people you’re stealing organs from—they’re still alive. I find it slightly ironic that you call yourself an ethicist.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that what you’re doing is … wrong?”

  Zohar let out a sigh. “Let’s talk about right and wrong, shall we? Suppose a man puts a gun to his head—a man with an otherwise healthy body. That one man’s organs, tissues, and corneas could benefit more than two hundred people—and yet that man is allowed to take his life-saving tissues to the grave, simply out of selfishness or neglect. He’s allowed to kill himself and someone else.”

  “That’s his right.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right, Dr. Polchak. Let me describe the scenario another way: A wealthy man lies dying; he calls his three closest friends to his bedside. He tells them, ‘I’m going to take it with me.’ He hands each of them an envelope containing a million dollars in cash. He says, ‘At the graveside, as they’re shoveling in the dirt, I want each of you to throw in his envelope.’ At the funeral, each of them does as the man requested—he dutifully tosses his envelope in with the casket. Later, the three men meet to confer. The first one says, ‘I have a confession to make: I kept fifty thousand dollars for myself.’ The second says, ‘I kept a hundred thousand.’ The third man says, ‘I’m surprised at both of you—I threw in a check for the full amount.’”

  Nick said nothing.

  “I’m disappointed. I thought you would have more of a sense of humor.”

  “I guess I’m not in the mood for jokes right now.”

  “It wasn’t a joke, Dr. Polchak, it was a parable. The question behind the parable is: would you have thrown in the envelope? Because people do it every day—and I consider it a crime.”

  “More of a crime than what you’re doing? Taking the lives of innocent people?”

  “Innocent people? Look a little closer. The donor who lost his life in an apparent drive-by shooting—he was a family man, yes? A husband and a father. Did you also know that he was compulsively violent? That his loving wife refused to leave him, even though she had to undergo plastic surgery twice to repair the damage to her face? In time, he might have taken her life; instead, he saved one.

  “And the donor who suffered the apparent heart attack, the one who was discovered lying facedown in a gutter—did you know he spent most of his adult life in a gutter? That’s right, he was a hopeless alcoholic. His liver was almost certainly cirrhotic; fortunately, we’re only in the kidney business—for now, that is.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Do you know what I do for a living, Dr. Polchak? Do you know what I’ve done for the last forty years? I collect information about people—and I make connections, just as you do. And just like you, I’m very good at it.”

  “And that’s how you justify all this? As some kind of social cleanup campaign?”

  “Not at all. I’m simply saying that our selection process involves far more than financial considerations; there are ethical concerns as well. Yes, Dr. Polchak, ethical concerns. You may find it hard to believe, but I have an ethics board of my own, and we meet before every donor selection. I’m not a barbarian, you know. I simply draw a moral distinction between worthwhile lives and useless lives—between givers and takers. My goal is to save worthwhile lives—ideally, by taking the most worthless life I can find in trade. And with three hundred thousand people to draw from, I’m finding quite a few.”

  “How can you decide whose life is useless and whose is worthwhile? What gives you the right?”

  “I have no right, as you call it; what I have is what Nietzsche called ‘the w
ill to power.’ We live in a society that lacks the will to do what’s best for its citizens—so I’m doing it for them. Try to see the larger picture here; try to understand what I’m after. This is about infinitely more than whether rich Mr. Vandenborre gets his kidney or not. Remember Prohibition? The Volstead Act declared the consumption of any alcoholic beverage to be illegal. If you think about it, it was a perfectly good law. Think of the reduction in alcohol-related crimes, automobile accidents—even domestic violence. The problem was with demand; the sheer demand for alcohol eventually led to the repeal of Prohibition through the Twenty-First Amendment.

  “That’s how it works, Dr. Polchak—demand creates law. I’ve shown a handful of the very wealthy that they can do more than wait around to die like dumb livestock; their demand can create a supply. I am, if you will, a kind of biological bootlegger. And as I extend this offer to more and more of the six thousand people who die on the waiting list each year, the victims of an antiquated ethical system, the demand will grow—and when it does, the laws will change. That’s what I’m after, Dr. Polchak. I want to save six thousand lives a year—and if I have to do it at the expense of a handful of miscreants and reprobates, then so be it. You may call that unethical; I call it a greater good.”

  “I’ve got a parable for you,” Nick said. “Three cowboys ride into town. The first cowboy ties his horse to the second horse, the second ties his horse to the third, and all three horses run off together. Why? Because none of the horses was tied to the hitching post.”

  Zohar shook his head. “You’ve been talking with Dr. Paulos, haven’t you? I’m afraid he’s infected you with a rather old-fashioned ethical system.”

  “I’ve always thought there was a difference between old and old-fashioned. Ian Paulos believes that all individuals have value—not because of their performance, but because they’re made in the image of God. I find something very timely about that; it seems to keep the horses in check.”

  “Horses are born to run, Dr. Polchak.”

  “Horses need riders, or there’s no telling where they’ll run. How many times in history has someone looked past the individual to see some greater good that later turned out to be a disaster? Sorry, Dr. Zohar, I don’t buy it.”