“See you later. And remember — no skiing. I’ll find out anyhow.”
She stuck out her tongue, grinning cheekily, and he blew her a kiss.
When he arrived at the police station, Collins met him in the lobby.
“Actually, you can turn around again. I just got a call from forensics. They found fingerprints on the shotgun.”
“Whose?”
“Kelly’s. Your car or mine?”
“Mine. It’s still warm inside.”
22
ON their way to Alexander Kelly, Thomas and Collins discussed the possibility of Lawson buying organs from young Bohemian patients to practice his organ-harvesting skills and that, for some reason, after all those years, he had to pay for that practice with his life.
But it was only a theory.
They found Kelly splitting firewood in his back garden.
“Hello, Mr Kelly!” Thomas shouted before the man even had a chance to escape or draw a gun on him.
“You’re a pain in the neck!”
“What a warm welcome,” Collins whispered.
“Can I see your shotgun, please?” Thomas built himself up in front of Kelly, who looked at him indifferently.
The old man nodded towards the shed. “In there.”
“Go and get it for me, please… now.”
Grudgingly, Kelly rammed his axe into the chopping block and trudged over to the shed. He stopped short in front of the door.
“What is it?” Thomas asked from behind.
“Hmm… the door doesn’t have a lock, but I always close the latch. Now it’s open.”
After rooting through the contents of the shed for a while, Kelly came back out scratching his head. “It’s gone.”
“Did it happen to be a Mercury TX9?”
He nodded.
“The same gun you threatened us with some days ago?”
He nodded again.
“Where were you in the early hours of this morning?”
Kelly looked up at him with wide eyes. “What? I… I… What do you want from me?”
Thomas’s phone rang.
“We found your gun next to a body. I think you understood his question very well. Where were you this morning?” Collins asked, stepping forward.
“I was in bed. Alone. Got up at around eight like every morning. And no, I didn’t shoot anybody!”
Thomas waved Collins over. “They’ve found traces of powder on Myers’s sock. Looks like suicide. He must’ve put the shotgun inside his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toe.”
“But what if Kelly made him do it? He doesn’t have an alibi again, and it’s his gun! He’s probably just acting surprised.”
“He’ll argue that the door was unlocked, and Myers knew about the gun. Had probably seen it when he interviewed Kelly. He stole it and shot himself.”
Thomas turned back to find Kelly rummaging in the shed again. Old paint tins, pieces of wood, and tools were sent flying across the tiny shack.
“I’d like to complain to the police about the theft of a shotgun,” he said, turning towards them.
Thomas ignored him. “When was the last time you fired it?”
“About two weeks ago, but I cleaned it a couple of days ago, so you’ll certainly find traces of powder on my hands and clothes. No proof at all. Who has been killed anyway?”
“Robert Myers. You spoke to him recently.”
Kelly raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, the old constable. Luckily we’ve got you now.” He patted Thomas on the shoulder and made for the back door.
“Mr Kelly, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Robert Myers. The fact we found your shotgun next to his dead body and the absence of a watertight alibi is reason enough to keep you in police custody for at least twenty-four hours. Furthermore, you will be charged with the improper storage of weapons and ammunition. You will lose your licence.”
Kelly tried to protest. “I didn’t shoot this man! What reason would I have? And I usually keep the gun in my locker in the basement.”
“We saw you brandishing the gun around on our first visit, and when you couldn’t shoot us, you simply threw it into the shed. Probably didn’t lock it away at all that day.” Thomas got hold of Kelly’s upper arm and led him to his car.
“You two are a waste of taxpayers’ money! I’ve got nothing to do with either murders! Just happened to know those two idiots! If I were you, I’d talk to Vincent Dobson! He was a regular at the cabin… walked in and out as if he lived there!” Kelly spat.
“It was his cabin; he sold it to Lawson. Of course you saw him there!” But thanks for reminding me, I’ll definitely talk to him again, Thomas thought.
Throughout the entire drive, Kelly accused and abused them until they could finally put him into an interrogation room. Then Thomas’s phone rang again.
“Hi, it’s Laura. I found a letter in Myers’s jacket pocket. You need to see this. It’s fairly urgent.”
“I’m on my way.”
He left Collins to conduct a formal interview with Kelly and was back in his car quicker than he’d thought he would be.
Laura met him at the entry to the morgue. “The paper was soaked in blood, but I managed to clean it enough for it to be readable again.”
When Thomas looked at her uncomprehendingly, she led him to a table where three pieces of paper were neatly spread out. Bloodstains were still clearly visible. The text was handwritten, and Thomas could make out two different types of writing.
“Who wrote them?” he asked.
“This one,” Laura pointed to a single page, “is Robert Myers’s suicide note. So, to answer your question from earlier on, yes, it was a suicide. There were no signs of a struggle either inside the cabin or on the man’s hands or skin.”
Clearly, they would need to release Kelly sooner rather than later, but they could still charge him with improper storage of the gun.
“And the other two pages are signed W. Lawson.”
Thomas bent over the table and started with Lawson’s letter. The words were squiggly. His hand must have shaken violently when writing.
Thomas took his time reading and rereading every single sentence, making sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him by forming words that were not actually on the paper. But the content did not change. What he read made him sick. The picture they had of Lawson so far changed completely, and the letter presented them with a whole bunch of new angles as to who could have killed him.
The motive was certainly sorted now. But against his earlier conviction, it did not lead them straight to their murderer.
Time, Thomas thought, didn’t hide anything. Not events. Not memories. Not people.
And it surely didn’t heal.
In his mind, a disaster of epic proportions took shape, and he looked at Laura. “Have you read it?”
She nodded. “You can’t deny the public what it says there.”
“I don’t want to deny it. But this will create quite a stir,” he said, pointing absent-mindedly at the paper. Then he pulled Myers’s letter towards him. It was much shorter, written with a very heavy hand. If his wife found the respective notepad, she could trace the words back. Both documents together screamed reason in capital letters at him. “Thanks, Laura. Can you make a copy please?”
“Sure.”
While she took the papers next door, Thomas walked over to the window and called Sexton. When he could no longer hear the dial tone he began talking. Sexton’s voice was so hushed that even in an area as silent as a morgue, it was nearly impossible to understand a word he said on the phone. Thomas told him about Myers and the content of the letters. When he was done, he heard a grunting sound. Unsure what it meant, he asked whether he should inform the public now.
Suddenly, Sexton’s reply was clear. “Are you out of your damn mind? Of course not! Go on with your investigation. Concentrate on the direction the letters are pointing you in. And leave everything else to me.” With that, he hung up.
; Laura handed Thomas a copy of both letters.
“Thanks. Are we a hundred per cent sure that Myers killed himself?”
“He definitely pulled the trigger with his toe, and the letter confirms that.”
Thomas thanked her again, put the pieces of paper in the inside pocket of his parka, and left the morgue in the direction of the little hospital convenience store.
With a sandwich and banana in hand, he walked over to reception.
“Hello, can you tell me where I can find Ms Katherine Adams, please? I’d like to visit her.”
“Sure.” A young woman browsed through a file on her PC. “She’s on the third floor, room two.”
“Thanks.”
The metallic elevator opened to a white hallway lined with grey doors on both sides. The air smelled of cleaning detergents and disinfectant.
Thomas did not feel hungry anymore, partly because at four o’clock his lunch appetite had long since gone and partly because he always felt a knot in his stomach when in hospitals. And maybe seeing Kate again was a reason, as well.
He knocked softly on door number two and, opening it an inch, peeked quietly inside.
Kate was sitting on the hospital bed with an infusion bag next to her. When she spotted him, a smile spread across her face. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise! Come on in!”
“You gave me a real scare! Am I disturbing you?” Thomas said, closing the door behind him.
“No, no, just come in. I’m as good as new. Just a little circulatory failure… after seeing my own blood,” she said with an awkward smile. “But those vitamins,” she pointed to the infusion bag, “are better than drugs. I feel like bouncing off the walls. How did you know I was here?”
“Sky told me. She was quite disappointed that the skiing trip had been cancelled.”
“Oh dear. Please tell her we’ll make up for it next week,” she said with an apologetic smile.
Thomas shook his head. “No rush. I doubt the deer will starve within a week. How long do you have to stay?”
“They’ll release me this evening.” She beamed at him.
“I can give you a lift home.”
“Don’t worry, I can take a taxi. I don’t want to cause any inconvenience.”
“Rubbish! I’ll go to the police station and sort out a couple of things, and then I’ll pick you up.” He bent down and kissed her softly on the lips.
Whenever he was in her presence, Thomas felt so incredibly safe and secure, and his mind could let go of the day’s worries for a short period of time. Sitting back on Kate’s bed, he took a deep breath, allowing her smell to calm him down.
“How’s your case going?” she asked into the silence.
He sighed. “To be honest, it’s getting more and more complex and complicated. I found Robert Myers dead in the cabin this morning.”
Kate recoiled. “Murdered?”
“Suicide. But,” he said getting up, “he left us something that I urgently need to discuss with my sergeant. I’m sorry, but I guess I have to excuse myself already.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She looked up at him with kind eyes and motioned for him to give her another kiss.
Thomas obliged. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the best distraction I’ve got. I was really worried when Sky said you collapsed. I thought it was from your cut and my first aid treatment.”
She laughed. “No, your bandage was lovely.”
“I’ll pick you up later on.”
“Thanks.”
He kissed her goodbye and hurried back to the elevator with squeaking footsteps.
Leaving the hospital through the main entrance, and making his way back to his car, he thought about the letters in his pocket. He knew this was a major breakthrough in their case, but how quickly would they lead them to the murderer?
Hot air hit Thomas’s face when he opened the door to their cubbyhole at the police station. Beads of sweat immediately formed on his forehead.
“Could you please turn the heating down a little? I can’t breathe. Why is it so hot in here anyway?”
“The radiator is either hot or cold; nothing in between seems to exist. So, with regard to the beautiful ass-freezing temperatures outside, I’ve chosen hot. Not my fault this mountain tribe is unable to create a proper working environment.”
He ignored her comment. “I’ve just come from the mortuary. Laura found this in Myers’s jacket pocket.” He took the letters out, put them in front of Collins, and pulled himself a chair over to sit next to her.
Thomas allowed her enough time to read and reread the words just as he had done. When Collins was finished she looked over to him, gobsmacked.
“Wow. That’s so surreal,” she said startled. “This opens up an entirely new perspective on this case. But at the same time, it confirms what some of his former Bohemian patients have told me today. The question is, is that our motive for murder?”
Thomas gazed down at the blotched paper. He pictured Dr William Lawson, a broken man, sitting alone in his cabin — wind rattling the wooden windows and snow finding its way through the cracks in the door — hunched over a small stack of white paper on his smudgy kitchen table trying to steady a pen in his shaky hand. How long it must have taken him to form these words, and finally summon the courage to write them down. Certainly, the process of accepting the truth of his words had started years earlier in Africa. As his girlfriend had said, his actions had haunted him day and night.
Thomas read the words again. He knew what power lay in them.
And what a scandal they would stir if released to the public.
23
To Detective Inspector Nathaniel Thomas of St Anna Police Force
Dear Mr Thomas,
We have never talked to each other, but I am convinced you know who I am.
You know me as Ethan Wright, the hermit from the cabin in the forest of Turtleville.
When you read this letter, I will be waiting for you at the above mentioned place.
There is no need for a huge police presence, as I will not put up any resistance to my arrest.
I have tried to resist the agonising thoughts of guilt for more than thirty years, but I do not wish to take the truth to my grave.
Now, please allow me to take you back in time to the late seventies and early eighties.
My real name is William Lawson, Dr William Lawson, and I am a young and aspiring surgeon at St Anna Hospital. I specialise in abdominal surgery, but my passion belongs to the emerging area of organ transplantation. Unfortunately, St Anna Hospital is too small to become a leading clinic in this field. However, I have stayed in close contact with a small circle of friends from my years of study, who were researching doctors at the University Hospital in Turnden, where the area of organ transplantation was still in the early stages of development.
One day, I received the request for a kidney, to help the teenage son of a politician survive the injuries suffered in a car accident. I spoke to various acquaintances and patients, but nobody was willing to donate a kidney. A day later, I was due to operate on a teenage girl from an orphanage in Bohemia.
Twice a month, I went to a Bohemian hospital where children and teenagers would receive free operations. It was my way of giving something back to the simple people who couldn’t afford medical insurance.
The girl had told me about her worries of the future, about leaving the orphanage and needing to find work without any qualifications. On that fateful day, I had the idea of asking my young patient whether she would sell me one of her healthy kidneys. She agreed.
I made her promise that this deal was our secret, and paid her well, knowing I would not be able to provide any aftercare without nurses getting suspicious.
The kidney was sold on for ten times the money I gave to the girl.
This was the moment when an idea settled in my brain that would change the course of my life forever.
From then on, my team (my partners in crime) and I took one healthy kidney f
rom every old-enough child or teenager we did abdominal surgery on in Bohemia. Of course, the involuntary organ donors did not know and did not receive anything in return. No money. No aftercare.
The kidneys were sold on to clinics or research institutes, and we shared the money among us. The demand at that time was immense; a booming area.
It went unnoticed as the cut for kidney harvesting and the cut for treating bowel inflammation is located at nearly exactly the same place.
We knew that from a medical point of view people could live a normal life with just one kidney. Some are even born with only one kidney and do not know it for most of their lives. However, this thesis does not justify what we did in the slightest.
Attached you will find a list with all the names of who we “stole” organs from.
Fifty-three innocent children and teenagers in total all from Bohemia, except one.
Maybe, Mr Thomas, you can help me find their current addresses. I would like to deeply apologise for my wrongdoing.
It leaves me restless at night wondering how many of them have already died because of our blunder. Upon how many families we have brought disaster.
I came back from Africa to make peace with my terrible past and find closure, if that is even possible. I am asking you to lock me away for the rest of my life, as I do not deserve to wake up to the singing of the birds every morning, knowing that there are people out there suffering because of my greed.
For the last year, I’ve felt haunted, followed by a shadow from my past. It gets worse with every passing day.
I would like to name my accomplices to you, Mr Thomas, not to ruin their lives but to help them find the same peace of mind as I hope I will.
Michael Finnigan was my anaesthetist, Rose Cleaves was my assisting doctor, and my two nurses were Joanna Brown and Amy Watts. I do not know where they live, but this should surely not pose a problem for a detective inspector.
The only other person involved was our then chief constable, Robert Myers. Sometimes he picked up the kids from the orphanages and brought them to the hospital. After the organ harvesting, the kidney quickly needed to be delivered to the clinic or research facility we had sold it to in advance. It was his job to ensure a speedy but sound delivery, with the siren of the police car blaring. Robert also brought the money back; it was always handled in cash, so you will not be able to trace any transactions back to our accounts.
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