The Angel Maker lbadm-2

by Ridley Pearson

  "But this was no autopsy," Boldt said. "I have some serious hunches about that rib, about this skeleton, and the young woman it once danced inside. Once slept inside.

  The woman inside whom it grew and developed. My office closed the case' Another department could reopen it." He stabbed some of the salad. "You're the investigator."

  "Boy Scouts. What did you expect?"

  "We had some good people leading them.

  Nothing wrong with young eyes, young legs. That's rough country out there."

  Boldt asked, "Did they look up river for the rest of her?"

  "Of course. And found nothing. But there must be some way to find her."

  "You want my advice?"

  "I want more than your advice. I want your participation. How would you go about it?"

  "I'd talk to the experts. Water Resources or Army Corps of Engineers. Someone responsible for flood predictions, for the way water would move a bone like that. We had some heavy rains last fall. Was that six months ago? I think it was. Those rains let up right after Miles was born. That's how I measure the world now, you know? In terms of when my boy was born." Dixie said, "People bury bodies along rivers for two reasons.

  The wet soil speeds decay-7Boldt interrupted, "And it's easier to dig in."

  "Matthews showed you the autopsy files on those three runaways. I've put in a request for the tissue samples from those cases. But this … I had forgotten all about this case." He touched the long femur that remained between them on the table just as a young man in his twenties passed, noticed the bone and nudged his girlfriend.

  "Oh, look. They have leg-o-man tonight." She giggled.

  Boldt did not laugh. He was staring intently at Dixon.

  "Patterns, my friend. We're in the patterns business-cops and interior decorators. This bone," he said, shifting his attention to the rib, "never healed. Never had time to heal. See the different color here? That means it was buried within a few days of the operation. Oh, yes: operation. This woman was cut open, either to heal her or to steal from her. But not at a hospital, not as part of the system. Quite possibly it killed her, if she wasn't dead already. Cut open by a surgeon-someone who has done enough rib work to use snippers instead of the medical school tools we're told to use. Snippers work better. Those runaways, the files I gave Matthews-Walker-, Sherman, Blumenthal-they were also cut open by a surgeon. The same guy? The same reason? He wasn't after a kidney, I can tell you that. Lung or liver, those are your choices, the way he cut that rib. Are all these the work of the same doctor? Patterns. We both know that it's patterns that hang these guys. We're all-every one of us-victims of our own inescapable patterns."

  inescapable patterns Boldt thought. He examined the bones once again. "An organ harvest?"

  "It's a strong possibility. We have a lot of questions to answer: How long ago was she buried? Who was she? What procedure was done? We need the rest of her, Lou, or a good portion thereof — Why did he bury this one and not the others? She's been in the ground a long time. Those bones are picked clean. What sets her apart?" only Boldt sensed something in the man, a friends can. "You're jumping ahead of yourself. You're linking her to the others with only supposition. Or are you? You wouldn't get this excited over hunches," Boldt realized, thinking aloud. "There's something else in that bag of yours, isn't there? Something even more convincing?"

  You were born a detective. Did you know that?" He seemed a little disappointed that Boldt had second-guessed him. Boldt's heart rate increased. Now, more than ever, he wanted the rest of the evidence. Dixie dug out a pair of black-and-white photographs which, because of their magnification, Boldt immediately recognized as lab work. "Peter Blumenthal-one of the runaways who died as a result of surgery-also had several ribs snipped. He was a lung harvest. We saved one of his ribs, as is our custom with possible evidence. Yesterday, when those files reminded me of Mr. Carsman's visit, I ran both ribsblumenthal's and this mystery woman's-by the lab for comparison tool markings. Here's what they came up with." He handed Boldt the photos. He had studied hundreds of such photographs. When any tool-a knife, pliers, a wrench, wire cutters-interacts with a material-wood, wire, metal, in this case, bone-it leaves a distinct "fingerprint." A cutting tool leaves grooves that A under magnification resemble scratch marks. These scratch marks form distinct patterns, like a comb with some of the teeth missing. In the photo, the two sets of scratch marks had been perfectly aligned, indicating the work of the same tool.

  Boldt caught himself holding his breath. Whoever was responsible for the death of Peter Blumenthal and the two other runaways had also performed surgery on the woman who had once lived inside these bones. The cases were inexorably linked by this evidence.

  Reading his thoughts, Dixie said, "The harvester buried this one, Lou. Why? Why when he turned the other three, and Chapman, back into the streets? Why treat this mystery woman any different?"

  "Because she died on him."

  "Maybe. But the way these bones were picked clean, this woman predates these other harvests by several years. These recent ones may have died by accident. He may not even know they're dead yet. But with her," he said, pointing to the bones, "he certainly knew."

  "His first? Is that what you're saying?" Boldt knew the importance of such a find. The first incident in any criminal pattern typically told the investigator more than did any of the subsequent crimes or victims. it established method, motivation and a key look into the demographics of future victims. These bones suddenly took on an additional importance. This woman-whoever she was-just might tell them who the harvester was.

  Dixon had reached the same conclusion. "If we locate the rest of her remains, she can tell us more." Toying with the bones again, Boldt asked, "May I keep these?"

  Dixon grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

  Tegg boarded the ten-fifteen ferry for Bainbridge Island at Pier 52 and waited until the ship was under steam. The wind blew out of the west, bitter cold upon his face. Gunmetal clouds moved overhead like a giant door shutting. When the ferry whistle reverberated out across the water, Tegg shuddered. As ordered-he hated taking orders! — he worked his way down a series of steep metal ladders into the car hold.

  it was dark down here, despite the occasional bare bulb and the wide openings at either end. Empty cars parked in long, tight rows. The smell of car exhaust and sea salt, kelp and fish. He wandered the aisles, as instructed, twisting and turning to worm his way through the cars. Sea spray kicked up by the wind blew through the open bow and misted across him, blurring the windshields. Many of the cars showed excessive body rot-even a few of the newer ones; these were the regular commuters. When Tegg turned around at the stern and started up the next aisle, he spotted a hulk of a figure some yards away. As he drew closer, he recognized the ape as one of Wong Kei's bodyguards. This was Wong Kei's world, not his. Wong Kei's rules. The ape stood alongside a black Chrysler New Yorker with mirrored windows. He opened the car door and signaled Tegg inside.

  Tegg found himself alone with Wong Kei in the back seat. The emaciated man was drinking a diet Coke, holding the can with fingers as long and thin as chopsticks. "You are able to help me?" he said in an old man's voice. "You wouldn't have called otherwise, would you? "We have a possibility. What's your wife's present condition?"

  "She's being flown north tomorrow, Saturday. I am told that surgery could follow immediately providing there are no setbacks. That will leave us in your hands, Dr. Tegg. We will be awaiting your call that the heart is on its way. She is running out of time. You understand this, I hope."

  "I understand."

  "You have found someone, I assume.

  Brain-dead? Dying? How long do we have?"

  "You know as much as you need to." He didn't like the change in the man's eyes. Had he angered him? The Chinese are so inscrutable, he thought. "It's for your own good as well as mine," he added. "I have a down payment for you. Call it good faith," he said. He pointed to the front seat where the ape belonged. The money was evidently up th
ere. "No money. Not yet. We can do that when it's over."

  Wong Kei persisted, "I have a sum for you now which, as I have just said, is to show my good faith. Yours as well as mine. Please take it."

  No mention of a final figure. Tegg liked it that way. "No hurry," he said.

  The ferry rocked violently to the left. Dozens of cars complained. "You are a trusting man," Won Kei put forward. "Not really," Tegg said. "If you don't pay me, I'll take the heart back." He waited. "It was a joke," Tegg added. "You joke about my wife's life?" His chin trembled. "Is that what I am hearing from you?" He drank more of the Coke, spilling some. "Allow me to explain something, Dr. Tegg. Allow me to explain the obvious." He finished the drink. He studied the empty can as if reading it. "I am relying on you. That is all I am going to say about it. That should be selfexplanatory. Yes?"

  Tegg didn't like the sound of that. "You will call me when your wife is admitted and ready to go," Tegg instructed. He wrote out his cellular number on a blank memo pad from his Daytimer. No name, just the number. "Only the cellular. If you call me on the land lines, I will hang up."

  Wong Kei sat forward, reached over the seat and dragged a small Alaskan Airlines flight bag to him. He looked incredibly tired. Anxiety and grief were swallowing him whole. Tegg knew the symptoms. "Take this. This is the purpose for this meeting my purpose. Our time is wasted otherwise. I insist." He didn't shove it at him, but he made its handle available.

  Tegg accepted the bag, his curiosity mounting. He understood the commitment his acceptance of it represented. He was crossing a dangerous threshold: He would now owe this man. He immediately regretted his acceptance of the bag, but knew it would ' be impossible to return it. Wong Kei's expression told him as much.

  For emphasis, the Asian added, "We must not overlook the seriousness of the situation. Time is everything. There is nothing I will not do to restore my wife to health. Yes?"

  Tegg thought he meant it as some sort of veiled threat, although it was difficult to interpret exactly. Perhaps he was offering his help. Tegg said, "If I don't hear from you first, I'll call when we're set to go.

  The man nodded. The ferry slowed and bumped the loading dock.

  From the ferry's deck, Tegg, all alone in the wind and the night, watched the black car as it and the others disembarked. in the glow of a few meager street lamps and a mercury light far in the distance, he watched sea gulls resting on pilings, standing on one leg. Balanced.

  Tegg felt delicately balanced as well. Pamela would not assist in the heart harvest. They had discussed the possibility of it before-it was constantly on Tegg's mind-and she had rejected it outright. It would have to be a solo harvest, even more challenging. More risky. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice one of the dogs to practice. "Practice makes perfect," he said into the wind as the ferry lumbered through the chop and headed back toward Seattle. Toward his family. His children. And yet away from all of that at the same time.

  Toward his future, he thought, however it was now defined.

  Saturday February 4

  Dr. Elden Tegg attempted not to touch anything in Donnie Maybeck's van. Concern about leaving fingerprints behind had nothing to do with it-he was wearing gloves. The place was a cesspool. For a man repulsed by dirty environments, a man who had a fetish about cleanliness, this vehicle was a nightmare. A thick layer of dust and grime had baked onto the cracked vinyl of the dashboard. Some kind of solidified scum-soda? beer? coffee? worse? — had drooled over the engine cover that separated the two front seats and was now fuzzy with lint. The windows were tinted in a yellow filth, and the carpet what was left of it-was matted like the hair on the backside of an incontinent dog. For a man accustomed to the sights and smells associated with invasive surgery, it was strange, nauseous. "You don't look so hot," Donnie Maybeck said. "Drive."

  "Hey, I know you don't like this, but I ain't doing this alone. And Connie ain't no help in this kinda thing."

  "We've been over this."

  "Don't be so fucking pissed about it, because there's nothing can be done."

  just drive.

  its not the same as the others. You said so yourself. This here is kidnapping. This here is some serious shit. Connie could never do this,",You shouldn't involve her in any of it." He saw no point in attempting to reason with a little person like Maybeck. There were fly specks along the bottom of the windshield. Donnie Maybeck was a fly speck. And what was that lodged into the defrost slot? A discarded plastic wrapper for a Sheik Elite with Spermicide! He recoiled, wanting to levitate and not have to touch anything. "Hey, she's involved in it, all right. Okay? She's in this up to her short hairs. Ain't nothing can be done about it. Without her, without updating the database, how we gonna pick which donor to approach? "Humor me: Shut up and drive." Tegg felt uneasy. A mistake he had made years earlier had cost a human life. Now he possessed the skills and abilities to correct that wrong, even though it came at the cost of deepening his involvement with Maybeck. "You're sure she's alone?" Tegg asked. "You're the one who talked to her, not me."

  Tegg had called Sharon Shaffer twenty minutes earlier and had introduced himself as a public health official. He apologized for calling on a Saturday but explained that this was something that couldn't wait. It was a question of some plasma donations she had made several years back. He suggested he and his assistant pay her a visit and that for confidentiality's sake, she would probably prefer to be alone. She had taken the bait, and she had sounded scared: just right. "You understand she could recognize me," Maybeck said to him, interrupting his thoughts. "I mean chances are, since she's in the database, that I mighta sold her a fake I.D. at some point."

  "If she says anything, tell her you work for Bloodlines. We know she hasn't sold her plasma for over two years. She won't remember you. I do all the talking. Not a peep out of you. You're only there for control purposes-if things get out of hand, and only then if I tell you to act. Hmm?" The man didn't answer. Tegg felt nervous, a condition so foreign to him that at first it was unrecognizable. He thought maybe he was sick.

  Maybeck sold fake I.D.s to underage runaways who needed them to sell their plasma. In this way, he won their confidence and obtained their vital statistics. He had been ' doing this ever since he had stumbled upon Tegg's Secret. The Secret had led to blackmail, the blackmail to a certain draining of Tegg's available cash, and subsequently to a new business for both of them: harvesting. With Maybeck assuming the streetside risks and logistics, connecting Tegg to the donors, this shaky alliance had begun. Now a kidnapping-their biggest risk to date. Tegg searched the dashboard's control panel, looking for a way to get more air.

  Maybeck was in it for the money. Tegg, on the other hand, felt uncomfortable with the money. He gave every last cent of his share to charities in his wife's name, enhancing their social prominence. Feeling Maybeck's recklessness, he wondered how he would handle the man if he went too far-if he asked for too much. You had to watch the little pe-people when they cottoned on to the smell of money.

  Tegg knew they couldn't screw this up. Wong Kei was unlikely to be a man with a predisposition toward forgiveness. He had a mobster's reputation. If Tegg failed this harvest, it might be his last. His moral salvation commanded a high price.

  Tegg finally threw a lever, and a gust of dusty air dislodged the condom wrapper from the defrost vent. He swatted at it frantically.

  Maybeck slowed and turned into Freemont Lane, a dead end servicing a pair of apartment buildings to the right and, to the left, the back doors of houses on Lyden Avenue, including the green one, thirty-six thirty-nine and a half. "Bring the laptop with you-it'll make you look more official. And remember to keep your mouth shut," Tegg reminded. He meant this literally: those teeth were enough to terrify anyone.

  Sharon Shaffer had spent the last twenty minutes in terror. She had tried to drown out her recollection of that phone call by cleaning up, by running the vacuum. Public Health. The blood supply. It could only mean one thing … She answered the knock on her back door.
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  Two men. The bearded one was well dressed and looked distinguished, especially compared to his assistant, who reminded her of an aging James Dean. He carried the Toshiba laptop computer in his right hand. "May we come in?" the distinguished one asked. She knew that voice from the phone call.

  She felt afraid. If she refused them entry, would the reason for their being here leave with them? There were men she had been with during her years on the streets, complete strangers. There were things she had done that now, a few years later, she could hardly believe possible. She had not blocked them out, for she had no desire to forget her past; it was memories of her past that inspired her present work, that enabled her to so easily relate to the women who found their way to The Shelter. In an odd way, she was even proud of her past. But the characters she had encountered during that time were behind her now. She felt terrified. Was it true that your past always catches up with you?

  She stepped back and admitted them. She knew what this was about. It was about dirty needles. About sex. About a different life, a different Sharon Shaffer. These two were about to ruin her new life. She felt faint. She waved them toward the dining table, for the place was small and there were only two stuffed chairs over by the television, and she wanted them all to sit. She had to sit no matter what.

  The bearded man said, "Bloodlines Incorporated maintains an active database of all of its donors, past and present." James Dean patted the laptop and set it down. The bearded man explained, "The donated blood is tested prior to distribution for disease."

  There was the word she had dreaded. Fear turned her palms icy.

  Her eyes threatened tears. As hard as the streets had made her, as welcome as death would have been back then, she felt weak and terrified now by this one word. "What has happened," the man continued, "is that the state's department of health, in a routine audit, discovered a glitch in the software that drives the Bloodlines' database. With that glitch removed, certain donors appear in an at-risk category, as concerns certain diseases."