Cause of Death (Detective Damien Drake Book 2)

by Patrick Logan

  Suzan immediately loaded the bulletin board on which she had first noticed the strange questions regarding the forensic pathology course. She was about to scroll down to the newest post, when she noticed that the icon of the envelope near the top of the screen had turned red.

  Curious, Suzan clicked on it, and a new message appeared onscreen.

  Are you interested in pathology?

  Suzan’s heart started to thrum in her chest. When she read the handle of the person who had sent the message, a thin sheen of sweat formed on her forehead.

  Arsonist514.

  She swallowed hard.

  Arsonist514 had been the name of the person posting about forensic pathology.

  The same person who had responded to Eddie’s posts about wanting help with the exam.

  Should I tell Beckett? Chase?

  Suzan stared at the message for so long that she started to get tunnel vision.

  “No,” she said out loud. The sound was loud in the confined space that was Beckett’s office, and it startled her.

  If she told either of them, she knew what they would do. They would do exactly the same thing her dad would have done had he still been alive.

  They would tell her to go home, to forget all about this.

  They would try to protect her.

  Only Suzan didn’t want protection; she wanted to catch a killer. Besides, they couldn’t protect anyone, not really.

  Had they protected dad? Made sure that he comes home from work to tuck me in?

  “No,” she said again, her voice hitching. Gritting her teeth, she leaned forward and hit the reply button.

  Chapter 45

  “Hey Drake, it’s Screech,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

  Drake stepped into his Crown Vic and shut the door.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Just wondering if you’re coming in this afternoon.”

  There was a hint of nervousness in his partner’s voice, which seemed out of place.

  “Why? What’s going on? You find out anything about the murders?” Drake asked as he put the keys in the ignition and the Vic roared to life.

  “No, not that. I’m still looking…”

  “Then? What is it?” he cast a look back toward the door of 529 3rd Ave, hoping that Steff would come out and flag him down.

  It remained closed.

  “It’s—well, I was putting in more cameras for the GILFs that visited this morning, and I switched over to Mrs. Armatridge’s feed by accident,” Screech paused, and Drake started driving.

  “And? Screech, spit it out, man. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Fuck, sorry. It’s just I saw the maid, uh, Consuela or whatever her name is, and she was helping Mr. Armatridge to bed.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, she didn’t just put him to bed,” Screech said hesitantly, “but she went to bed with him.”

  Drake wasn’t sure he had heard right. A horn honked, and he realized that with his attention elsewhere he had drifted into the opposing lane.

  He righted the vehicle.

  “With him? Like, with him?”

  “With him,” Screech confirmed.

  “Jesus, he must be what, like eighty?”

  “At least.”

  Drake put his blinker on and turned away from the heart of the city, taking a winding road that was flanked by large berms of freshly cut grass.

  “Well?” Screech asked. “What do you want me to do?”

  Drake thought about it for a moment.

  “Do we record it?”

  “Yep, everything is backed up in the cloud.”

  Drake instinctively turned his eyes upward, staring at the setting sun. He still couldn’t get used to the idea of information being stored in a cloud, digital or celestial.

  “Alright, then you don’t have to do anything. Just make sure you don’t lose the recording. I’ll speak to Mrs. Armatridge in the morning. In the meantime, I need something to go on with the pathology murders, Screech. Eddie’s roommates were a dead end. Get me something.”

  He thought about Eddie, about how nervous he had looked when he had come to see him, the way his eyes had darted about like a possum rising from the earth after the rain.

  If I had only…

  He shook his head and turned onto another street, the Manhattan skyscape shrinking in the distance.

  “Hey Drake, you okay? You sound… different.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Just see what you can find, okay?”

  “Alrighty. I’m on it, boss.”

  Drake grimaced at the use of the word; it was the same term that he had used jokingly with Chase when they had been working the Butterfly Killer case.

  Do you miss it? Screech had asked.

  Drake had said no, that the money was good in PI, that he was moving on, that he had given up on the life that had taken so much from him.

  But now, feeling the blood coursing through his veins with renewed vigor, he realized that it had been a lie. This whole time, he had been lying to everyone.

  The worst part was that he had been lying to himself.

  With a heavy sigh, Drake turned his head to the iron archway over the worn dirt path that marked the entrance to Fallen Heights Cemetery.

  Then he stepped out into the sun.

  ***

  Drake slumped into the front seat of his car and then wiped the tears from his eyes.

  He had hoped that coming here, that visiting Clay’s grave would give him some insight into the murders, help him think like Clay had, but it had been a fool’s errand.

  The only thing that coming here had given him was a bad case of memories.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, clearing his throat before answering.

  “Screech? Did you find something?”

  It seemed impossible, given that they had spoken less than an hour ago, but up until a week ago the idea of having miniature cameras set up and transmit live, high-quality video directly to his cell phone had seemed like science fiction, as well.

  The only response was heavy breathing.

  Drake sat up straight.

  “Screech? Everything okay?”

  “It’s… it’s Steff.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed, and he thought about the way that Jake had spoken to her, to both of them.

  He better not have hit her.

  “Steff, everything okay?”

  “I don’t—I don’t have much time. He’ll be back soon, and he doesn’t want me talking to you.”

  “Who? Who doesn’t—”

  “Jake. Can we meet? I don’t have much time.”

  Drake slammed the car into drive.

  “Patty’s Diner. You know it?”

  There was a short pause.

  “I can find it.”

  Drake’s foot jammed down hard on the gas pedal and his Crown Vic leaped forward.

  “Good, I’ll meet you there in twenty,” he said as he sped back toward the city.

  Chapter 46

  Kenneth Smith took a long pull on his cigar, admiring the way the tendrils of smoke wrapped around the glowing end.

  “Raul? Any update on the numbers?”

  Raul stepped around the front of his chair, a silver tray with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and a single glass resting on the top in his outstretched hands.

  “You are still ahead by three points on most polls,” a stone-faced Raul said in his thick Spanish accent.

  As Raul poured two fingers of whiskey and set the glass on the table beside Ken, he took another drag of his cigar.

  “But Dr. Hammond still has a lead in all districts around NYU. Have I got that right?”

  “Jes, sir.”

  Ken took a sip of whiskey. After what had happened to Thomas, he had thought that his mayorship was all but a given. But while he had garnered some—most—of the sympathy vote, and he had the backing of the NYPD, a doctor with the impeccable record that Dr. Hammond possessed proved to be
a tougher challenge than expected.

  Impeccable record… no one is that clean.

  Ken thought back to his conversation with Damien Drake all those months ago, and realized that he was still missing someone on his staff with the man’s particular skill set.

  All-in-all, he was pleased with the way that things worked out in the wake of the Butterfly Killer. Rhodes had played his role well; he had forced Drake out of the force, just as Ken had intended. But then something strange happened.

  Drake didn’t take the bait; he never came knocking on Ken’s door, asking to take him up on his offer as he had expected, as he had planned.

  Raul had done some recon,= and had found out that Drake was now running a small PI firm in the East end of the city.

  He knew Drake, and people like him. He had come across dozens of iterations during his time as a litigator. People like Drake just couldn’t stay away. They could try, and by all accounts Drake had given it a valiant effort, but it was only a matter of time before everything else in his life seemed inconsequential.

  The man had been marked at birth; marked to track down the most villainous, immoral members of society. And nothing could temper that uncompromising urge.

  And yet Ken had never expected it to go this far, had never thought that he had to enact part two of his plan.

  Ken finished his whiskey and indicated for Raul to pour him another glass.

  Six months until election day.

  And when that day came, he wanted Damien Drake at his side.

  “You okay, sir?” Raul asked, concern in his voice.

  Ken took a drag from his cigar, once again watching the hypnotic way the smoke curled and wrapped itself around the air before dissipating.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  He needed Drake by his side, and it was only a matter of time before he had him. Because what Ken Smith wanted, Ken Smith got. And that was how he was wired.

  Chapter 47

  Screech cracked his knuckles then he took a deep breath and attacked his keyboard, typing with such speed that his fingers became a blur.

  He was still in shock that Drake had gone ahead and offered him half of Triple D. A week ago, Screech had considered his position, and honestly, the PI firm as a whole, a stopgap measure. After all, before Mrs. Armatridge, things had been going very, very slowly. Drake wasn’t well liked by the NYPD, and although the idea of having an ex-NYPD detective as a PI was appealing to most, clients were still hesitant. People knew Drake, and their knowledge was based on what the media published, which wasn’t favorable.

  But then Mrs. Armatridge had showed up, seemingly out of nowhere, and all of a sudden things had changed.

  Which was fine by Screech. He wasn’t one to question the karma of the cosmos; quite the contrary. He went with the flow. And if solving these murders managed to get Drake back in the NYPD and the public’s good graces, then that would only serve to increase the number of Mrs. Armatridge-types that came in through the door.

  But it was more than that; no moral justice warrior was Screech, and yet there was something to be said for being part of a team that took a murder of the street. That had to be worth more than helping old bitties put a maid in jail for stealing silverware.

  Much more.

  Screech spent the next half hour looking into the forensic pathology course notes, focusing on their availability online. But when this brought up no leads, he took a short break to crush a Mountain Dew and reconsider.

  What had Chase and Drake said? That the young doctor was key. He was the odd man out, the one that didn’t quite fit with the drifters and those shunned by society that had turned up dead.

  When Screech turned back to his computer, he changed his approach. Instead of looking into the pathology course, he started to read about the students, about the lives that medical students and residents lived.

  And then, after nearly an hour of searching, he came across something that he thought interesting. It wasn’t an article about NYU medical students, but an article in the Montreal Gazette about McGill University, a prestigious university in Montreal, Quebec. In explicit terms, the article outlined the transgressions of the medical staff, their mistreatment of the students, about how their medical school license was in jeopardy as a result of their actions. It didn’t appear to be the case of the students being spoiled brats, either. There were reports of young doctors who weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom for hours on end for fear of being berated in front of their peers, about forty-hour shifts without breaks. All of this had culminated with a patient being prescribed a contraindicated medication that put the poor schlep in a coma for more than a week.

  Screech leaned back again, letting this all sink in.

  “Huh,” he said, grateful that his route of post-secondary education, as short as it had been, had taken him into computer engineering and not medicine. Groaning, Screech stood and made his way to the fridge, withdrawing the last Mountain Dew. He popped the top, waited for the fizz to die down, then returned to his chair.

  On a whim, he typed the name of the doctor who had created the forensic pathology slides, Dr. Tracey Moorfield.

  As expected, nothing interesting came to the fore. But when he combined her name with ‘academic misconduct’ he got a hit.

  Just a single article, published more than two decades ago.

  Swishing the citrusy liquid around in his mouth, Screech rubbed his eyes, then started to read.

  Chapter 48

  There was something about Broomhilda’s presence in Patty’s Diner that felt oddly comfortable to Drake, that felt normal.

  “Coffee, please,” he said when she came over to serve him. While he had recognized her immediately, her flat expression suggested that she had no idea who he was. Drake supposed that was a good thing, although he wasn’t entirely sure. “And Key Lime pie, if it’s fresh.”

  The woman grunted then turned back toward the kitchen.

  A moment later, the door opened, and Drake felt his breath come more quickly. He pictured Ivan Meitzer coming through the door, a dark hood pulled over his head, a bulge in his chest where he kept the envelope full of cash.

  But it wasn’t Ivan who entered Patty’s Diner, but a woman. Like Ivan, however, she had the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, shrouding her face in shadows.

  “Steff?” he said just loud enough for her to hear. “Over here.”

  The woman turned to face him, and then hurried to the booth.

  “I don’t have much time,” she said. Drake tried to lean down to get a better look at her face, but she tucked her chin, hiding her features.

  “What’s going on, Steff?” he asked with concern.

  She ignored the comment.

  “There is no way that Eddie committed suicide. Sure, he was struggling, but all of his friends were struggling, too. Based on everything that he told me, Dr. Campbell is tough.”

  Drake considered this for a moment, trying to picture his friend with the spiky hair, the wide smile, doing his best Mussolini impression at the front of the classroom.

  But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get the image to stick.

  “He said… he said he had found something, something about the forensic pathology course that had scared him.”

  Drake nodded and for a brief moment, he debated telling the girl that Eddie had come to see him with the same concerns, before deciding against it. He didn’t want to bias her; he was here to listen to what she had to say, and that was all. That was his role in this.

  For now.

  “Did he say anything else? Anything that might help find the bastard who did this to him?”

  Steff tilted her head backward, just enough for Drake to make out her chin and lower lip. He thought he caught sight the beginnings of a bruise at the corner of her mouth, and his mind turned to Jake back in the kitchen.

  He’s started hitting her.

  Drake hated abusive boyfriends and spouses nearly as much as he hated the m
urderers he had spent the better part of a decade chasing.

  “Eddie told me that he was looking for a tutor online and he came across a bulletin board. Someone reached out to him, and told him that he had the answers to the upcoming final exam.”

  “Did he say anything about this guy? Did he go and meet him?”

  Steff shook her head and as she did, her hood slipped backward, revealing a nasty welt below her right eye.

  “He just said that the man somehow obtained the answers, that’s all.”

  “Did he give a name? A description? Anything to go on?”

  Steff chewed her lip again.

  “The only thing that he told me was the man’s handle on the bulletin board.”

  “And? What was it?”

  Steff leaned forward and was about to say something, when her phone buzzed. With a trembling hand, she pulled it from her pocket and stared at the glowing screen, her eyes going wide.

  “Shit. He’s looking for me.” Steff leaped to her feet. “I have to go.”

  Drake stood as well. He reached for her, but she cowered away from him.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go. I can’t…” she let her sentence trail off.

  “Don’t go back to him, Steff,” Drake said quickly. “I’ve seen people like him, and the abuse… it’s not going to stop. It’s only going to get worse. Don’t go back to him.”

  Steff started toward the door, her pace frantic now.

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t. I have to go.”

  She was nearly at the door by the time Drake managed to slide out of the booth.

  “Wait! Steff, wait!”

  But she didn’t wait; instead, she pulled the door wide so violently that the small metal bell above the door almost flew off the hook.

  Drake, aware that everyone in the diner was now looking at him, but not caring, shouted, “What was the handle, Steff? What was the man’s handle?”

  Steff paused and then turned back.