“Because the first impact was on her chin—there is no way that happens if she fell down the stairs. I bet that you’ll find a small, corresponding dot of blood on the seventh or eighth step. She hit her chin hard enough to chip her bottom teeth and then she flew backward. So, she hit her chin on stair eight, say, and then fell backward. Based on her height—five feet four, maybe—the next point of contact would be near where her head came to rest. That’s why you don’t see any blood on any of the top steps.”
Karen seemed impressed.
“So, she fell up the stairs, not down. But it could still just be an accident. I mean, her husband was distraught and people say fell down the stairs all the time, irrespective of the direction of the fall.”
Beckett didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rolled the woman onto her side and stared at her back. Then he palpated the flesh beside her spine.
“This was no accident. Feel here,” he instructed.
Karen did as she was told, using her own gloved hands to prod the dead woman’s flesh.
“I don’t—” she suddenly retracted her hands, her eyes going wide. “Her ribs… they’re broken.”
“Yeah, and if you wait another day or so, you’ll see some bruising that will look suspiciously like handprints.”
Beckett’s phone buzzed and he tore off one of his gloves and pulled it out of his pocket.
“So, she was pushed then… but that can’t be right.”
Beckett looked at his phone. It was Detective Dunbar.
“Why’s that?” Beckett asked as he made his way toward the door.
“Because her husband… Beckett, Mrs. Armatridge’s husband is wheelchair bound.”
Now was Beckett’s turn to be surprised.
“Well, then I guess there was someone there after all,” Beckett said as he opened the door. “’Twas the one-armed man, mon cheri.”
Chapter 33
“Dunbar, tell me you’ve got something?” Beckett walked briskly as he spoke, heading toward his office.
“Well, I plugged your DNA profiles into the system and… uh, Beckett?”
Beckett nodded at a doctor in a white coat who passed and lowered his voice.
“Yeah? What is it?”
He half expected Dunbar to say that the match came from victims from the second world war. Only that didn’t make sense, because the organs were still fresh.
“I was just wondering, is what I tell you covered under doctor-patient confidentiality or something? Because…” he let his sentence trail off.
Beckett rolled his eyes. Not only was Dunbar not his patient, but the information wasn’t even about him. It didn’t matter, anyway; in reality, there was only one type of confidentiality that would hold up in court: lawyer-patient confidentiality. In the medical world, court-ordered injunctions often broke sealed hospital records.
“You don’t need to give me names, Dunbar. Just tell me what you can about these people, if they are missing or not… just enough so that I can construct a proper medical history.”
“Okay, but still — you didn’t get this from me, alright?”
“Sure.”
Beckett’s mind was already racing, wondering what could be so damning. After all, they were on the same side, weren’t they?
Dunbar cleared his throat and continued.
“Well, Subject A—let’s just call them subjects from now on—was released from juvie just two weeks ago. Spent three years there for robbing a convenience store and beating the owner nearly to death.”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed as he took this in.
“What about Subject Two or B or whatever?”
“Subject B was older, but was also just released from a two-year stint for possession with the intent to distribute. Heroin.”
Beckett inhaled sharply.
Two young, recently released criminals killed by unknown means, their organs were subsequently harvested and sent to my desk, he thought.
Beckett didn’t care much for coincidences and didn’t think that the similarities between the victims were random.
Two criminals, both—
Something in his mind clicked.
“Dunbar,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “When these criminals were released, were they sent to a halfway house of sorts?”
Dunbar made a hmph sound. It was clear that they were heading into deeper waters here, water that Dunbar wasn’t so much concerned about wading through as he was drowning in.
Beckett didn’t blame the man. After all, despite the fact that they knew each other fairly well and were most definitely on the same side when it came to most things, Beckett knew that his reputation had changed over the last little while.
Not everyone in the NYPD had come to the same conclusion as Internal Affairs when it came to Craig Sloan’s demise.
“Okay, fine. I get it. Let me just ask you this… if they were released at the same time, what are the chances they were released to the same halfway house? Even if one wasn’t technically a juvie.”
“There’s a strong possibility.”
“And would this particular place happened to be called—” Beckett cursed himself for not being able to remember names. “—the New York Renewed Life House?”
He cringed; the name wasn’t exact, he knew that, but hoped that it was close enough that Dunbar caught his meaning.
Dunbar said nothing. Normally, this would have been good enough for Beckett. But he’d almost jumped the gun earlier and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
“Dunbar, you don’t have to answer. Sometimes, when you don’t answer, it can be interpreted as a ‘yes’,” Beckett said slowly. “For the purpose of my residency class, were Subjects A and B both released to the NYC Renewed Life Halfway House?”
Beckett let the dead air extend for ten seconds before nodding.
“Thanks, Dunbar, I owe you one.”
Beckett hung up the phone and then looked around. He was halfway to his office now, but he’d had a change of heart.
He wasn’t going there anymore. No, Beckett suddenly had more pressing matters to attend to.
Chapter 34
Fuck off, Suzan, Beckett thought as he looked at her number that lit up his cell phone. He didn’t know how many times she’d called during the day—at least a dozen—but he’d refrained from answering a single one of them.
The truth was, Beckett wasn’t sure he could trust her anymore.
Not after her supposed ‘friend’ had broken into his house.
Not after the same man had been released to the halfway house that Beckett currently sat outside of in his car, waiting for the sun to finally go down.
Not after he’d seen Brent Taylor’s face, as clear as the day was long, carrying the cardboard box to his office on video.
Beckett had indulged on some greasy fast food between going home to collect supplies and making his way to the halfway house, the remnants of which were on the floor of the passenger seat.
And now, he’d resigned himself to watch people come and go, waiting for one, or maybe two, people in particular.
It wasn’t enough for him to just take out those responsible for removing and delivering the organs; Beckett had to find out what the man had on him, and if Suzan really was involved.
I know what you are. I know what you did.
“Yeah, and I know what the Fuck you are, too,” he grumbled.
Beckett glanced at the passenger seat, his eyes falling on the leather case lying on it. Inside were some rudimentary lock-picking tools, two new scalpels, as well as several syringes. Only this time they weren’t just filled with midazolam but a mixture of midazolam and the powerful paralytic agent succinylcholine.
He’d opted for the same style tracksuit as he’d worn for his encounter with Winston Trent, but had forgone the saran wrap beneath. It was simply too hot and restrictive. Besides, with all the riff-raff he’d already seen come and go outside the halfway house, in the rare event that he left some DNA behind, it wo
uld be just one of hundreds of samples.
And, worst case scenario that there was a match with his profile from the Craig Sloan incident, he had a reason for it being there: he’d had an altercation with Brent Taylor at his house and Grant McEwing had been in his office that very day.
Beckett reached for his balaclava and with gloved hands turned it into a hat. It was an eclectic look, one that would have normally been out of place during a warm late summer evening, but based on what he had already seen, everything from a Paperbag Princess to man in a tux, he thought he fit right in.
His phone rang again.
Take a Hint, Suzan.
Beckett exhaled deeply and let it go to voicemail.
His mind drifted as he waited, and Beckett found himself wondering if he’d filled the ink from his home tattoo kit since Winston Trent.
He thought he had, which was good. Good, because he had a feeling he might be adding another tattoo to his collection very shortly.
Beckett leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.
The last few days had taken more out of him than he’d initially realized. The lack of sleep didn’t help, either.
But all that would change.
Based on prior experience, he knew that after he ended this, his reward would be one full, uninterrupted night of sleep.
Beckett had no doubt that the nightmares would come later, but not tonight.
Not after he killed Grant McEwing.
Even though it had been Brent’s face on the recording, Beckett had already come face-to-face with the man.
There was no way that Brent had the skill, or the foresight, to remove a liver and put it on dry ice.
No, he may have been the messenger, but the eidetic freak Grant was behind all of this.
Beckett swallowed hard.
And maybe Suzan.
The thought sent a shudder up his spine.
Beckett heard a couple talking and slowly opened his eyes.
A couple, dressed in nice but not ostentatious clothing, approached the front of the halfway house. There was a young man leaning against the wall near the entrance—he’d been there for the last half hour or so, chain-smoking—who seemed oblivious to everything except for his cigarettes. But when he saw the couple, he flicked his cigarette away and stood up straight.
Beckett leaned closer to the windshield and tried to get a glimpse of the newcomer’s faces.
And then, just as smoking man reached for the door and pulled it wide, the couple turned.
Beckett smiled.
He’d been right all along; it was Grant.
Grant McEwing was responsible for murdering those kids.
Beckett took one final deep breath and then grabbed the leather case from the passenger seat and tucked it into the inside pocket of his sweatshirt. He was about to step out of his car when he saw someone else start to approach the still open door.
Someone else he recognized.
The smile immediately sloughed off his face.
“No, it can’t be. Please.”
PART III - Halfway Home
Chapter 35
Grant and Suzan… they’re working together, Beckett thought.
Is the same thought that he’d had a dozen times already, one that he just couldn’t shake.
Twice he had stepped out of his car, only to get back in again. Their partnership made sense, in a sick way.
I know what you are.
Suzan most definitely knew about him, about what he was. He didn’t think that she knew all the details, but maybe she was just referring to what had happened Craig Sloan.
I know what you did.
Well, Suzan knew that, too. She knew that Beckett had brained Craig Sloan, bashed his skull in with a rock until he was dead. She couldn’t have known about the way his fingers tingled afterward, the overwhelming sense of euphoria that embraced his entire being, but she didn’t have to.
The author of the notes had only said that they knew what he’d done and what he was.
What Beckett had done was killed, which made him a killer.
Sure, he had his rules, his moral code, but he was still a killer.
And while Suzan might not know about the others — about Ray Reynolds, Donnie DiMarco, Bob Bumacher, Boris Brackovich, and Winston Trent — you only needed one notch in your belt to be labeled a killer.
“Fuck,” Beckett said through gritted teeth. He still didn’t understand her connection to Grant McEwing or the reason why they’re putting organs on his desk.
And he couldn’t fathom Suzan actually committing murder. Sure, she was snarky and feisty, but a murderer?
Beckett knew killers; he’d stared into Winston Trent’s eyes less than a week ago.
He also looked in the mirror every day since.
Neither Grant nor Suzan shared the same, blank stare, the empty eyes.
But the evidence…
Not today, Beckett thought. Not now. Go home, get some rest. You can’t make a mistake, not with the stakes this high. Not when it comes to Suzan.
After what felt like hours of deliberation, but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since Suzan had followed Grant and his date into the halfway house, Beckett put his leather case back in the glovebox.
Then he started his car and drove home.
***
To Beckett’s dismay, Suzan’s appearance at the halfway house wasn’t the final surprise of the night.
There was a man seated on the stoop of Beckett’s house when he pulled into the driveway.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The man raised his head and held a bottle of Scotch out to Beckett.
“I promise that it wasn’t opened when I got here… but hell, Beckett, you work so damn late, I just had to dig into it.”
Working… that’s one way of looking at it.
Beckett didn’t feel like a social call, not now, but it was clear that the man had been waiting for a while.
“Ron, you alright?”
Ron shrugged and Beckett got a good look at him in the light for the first time. He wished he hadn’t asked; Ron definitely didn’t look ‘alright’. He was pale and clammy.
And judging by the reek of alcohol coming off of him in waves, he was drunk to boot.
“Never mind, don’t answer that. You want to come in for a drink?”
Ron offered a weak smiled and then used the railing to haul himself to his feet. He grunted so loudly that Beckett immediately went to his friend to lend a hand only to be shooed away.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Ron said between labored breaths.
Chapter 36
“You look into that thing that I asked you about?” Beckett said as he peeled off his sweatshirt and tossed it onto the couch. He took one whiff of the armpit of the t-shirt beneath and recoiled.
It smelled rank.
He got a fresh one from the top drawer of his dresser.
“I did, actually. Looks like your pal Dr. Singh picked it up and slapped a UNOS number on it. I’m thinking that it’s found a new home in someone very deserving. Maybe even someone famous.”
Beckett, who was in the process of removing his shirt, paused.
“Famous, huh?”
Ron chuckled.
“Maybe, who knows.”
Beckett smiled despite himself.
Maybe even Ryan Reynolds. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Wouldn’t have a problem setting Delores up if that were the case.
Ron extended a finger with glass in hand toward Beckett’s side as he put on his t-shirt.
“New tattoos?”
Beckett glanced down at the horizontal lines beneath his arm and then quickly pulled his shirt down.
“Did them myself. Trying to work up the courage for something a little more elaborate.”
Ron sipped his Scotch.
“Well, keep practicing.”
Beckett took the bottle of Scotch off the table and poured himself a glass. He drank greedily, barely tasting the liquid as it r
olled aver his tongue. Knowing Ron’s taste, he expected it to be something cheap and powerful.
Organ Donor_A Medical Thriller Page 12
