Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant

by Lee Goldberg

  All week, Mark resisted the urge to call Ben Kealoha or Claire Rossiter, the forensic anthropologist, to see how their work was going. He did, however, look about a thousand times at the souvenir recipe card on which he'd replicated Danny's handwritten note: Re: Ideal Oven, Ask Jim Lowe. A loose, trendy cook.

  There were three Jim Lowes in the state of Hawaii and he'd called all three, only to find that Sgt. Kealoha had as well. None of them worked in the kitchen appliance business, nor were they chefs, nor had they ever met Danny Royal. The Jim Lowes also wondered why a doctor from Los Angeles was calling and why they should answer any of his questions.

  Mark got that reaction a lot over the years. He was used to it.

  So, antsy and anxious, Mark pestered Steve about the homicides he was working on. Unfortunately, the cases weren't very perplexing, nor were the guilty parties hard to spot. Husbands killing wives. Gang members killing rivals. Stalkers killing the objects of their obsessions.

  For Steve, it came down to paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork, and Mark couldn't help him with that.

  After just a week back, Steve was ready for another vacation. In a completely different sense, so was Mark. He needed something to challenge his mind, and his work at Community General wasn't enough.

  Finally, he woke up early one morning to find an e-mail from Claire Rossiter waiting for him, with the digital files of Danny Royal's facial reconstruction attached. He down loaded them, and a face slowly appeared on his computer screen.

  The face staring back at Mark on his computer monitor looked nothing like the Danny Royal he'd met. This man had a fuller, fleshier, more lived-in face, which made sense, since it approximated the one he'd actually been born with. Even though it was a computer-generated image, this face had imperfections rather than the airbrushed smoothness of a male model on a magazine cover,

  Mark felt strangely disappointed. He'd expected to see something revealing in the face, something that betrayed Danny Royal's past or true character. Instead, the face was just that: another face. It conveyed neither intelligence nor malice nor anything else. Would a real picture, as opposed to a computer-generated image, have been more revealing? Would he have seen the qualities he'd been hoping for? He doubted it.

  He forwarded the picture to FBI Special Agent Ron Wagner, an old friend at the Bureau he'd worked with on the Pac Atlantic Flight 224 investigation, and asked him to run the photo through their databases. He gave Steve a copy when he came up to breakfast and asked him to see if Danny's description matched any open cases at the LAPD.

  "You could just forward this photo to Ben Kealoha," Steve said. "He could put it out on the wires himself."

  "I've got contacts at the FBI he doesn't have," Mark said. "They'll get to it quicker if it comes through me rather than Ben."

  "I'm sure Ron would have pushed it through as fast for a friend of yours as he would for you," Steve said. "Be honest, Dad, you just want to be involved."

  "Okay, I confess, I want to solve this myself," Mark said. "I spent time with the victim. I saw his murder. I examined his corpse. I can't leave it at that. It feels personal to me now."

  "It's not because you met Danny or saw his murder," Steve said. "It's because you figured out the shark attack trick. At that moment, in your mind it became a cat-and-mouse game between you and the killer, and you can't walk away from the playing field."

  "You're right," Mark conceded. "And I won't stop until I catch him."

  "Dad, there's no telling where this investigation will take you," Steve said. "Danny Royal could have come from any where. Unless it turns out to be an LAPD case, I'm not going to be able to back you up. It's not like I can call in any vacation days—I just used them up."

  "I understand," Mark said.

  "I'm not sure you do," Steve said. "You're chasing a professional killer. You get too close, he'll take you out of the game."

  "It's not the first time I've faced that risk," Mark said.

  "But it may be the first time you do it alone," Steve said. "If it comes to that, if it looks like you're going to be out there without me to watch your back, walk away from it. Don't die for this. I'd never forgive myself."

  Now it all became clear to Mark. This was the reason Steve was so opposed to him continuing to investigate the case. Steve was worried he wouldn't be able to protect his father from harm.

  Mark surprised Steve by giving him a hug. The Sloans weren't a very affectionate family, despite their devotion to each other. So whenever they touched, it came as a surprise and was unexpectedly emotional.

  "Now you know how I feel every time you go to work," Mark said.

  "There's a big difference, Dad," Steve said. "I've got a badge and a gun."

  "It doesn't make you bulletproof," Mark said. "I still worry."

  Steve considered that for a moment, then said, "This is why I don't have kids."

  How touching, Wyatt thought.

  He sat on his bed in his room at the Santa Monica Holiday Inn, looking at the facial reconstruction on his laptop and listening to the Sloans' sickly sweet conversation.

  He was pleased that Mark considered this a contest between the two of them. This was a lonely profession, and to have someone out there, a dedicated adversary, was a new and exciting change for Wyatt. He retained his essential anonymity, and yet was actively engaging another individual in a game.

  It was a game that Mark Sloan couldn't possibly win, not with Wyatt's unfair advantage. Still, it was fun.

  Wyatt had to admire Mark Sloan's resourcefulness. This forensic anthropologist he'd found was first-rate. The facial reconstruction was a remarkably accurate recreation of Danny Royal's original face. Mark was well on his way to discovering the truth about the dead man.

  Wyatt was pleased, because now the bugs and tracking devices would really start paying off, making his difficult assignment so much easier. Already he'd learned about Jim Lowe, though he had no idea where Mark had found the name or what its significance might be.

  Wyatt had spent days compiling lists of Jim Lowes in every state in the nation. There were hundreds, and he was doing full background checks on each of them. It was tedious research, hours spent hunched over his laptop, but it was necessary. The key was not to let the tedium dull his senses, to make him blind to the revealing fact when it finally showed itself amid all that irrelevant data.

  The fact hadn't emerged yet, but Wyatt was relentless. He'd find it.

  If Jim Lowe was one of the others, then Wyatt had to find the man before Mark Sloan did.

  And then Jim Lowe would have to die.

  The Federal Building in Los Angeles was an unappealing monolith of white concrete rising from Wilshire Boulevard, directly across the street from the sprawling Veterans Memorial Cemetery. When viewed from the cemetery, the building looked like a gigantic tombstone. Mark wondered if that unfortunate effect was intended as some misguided architectural attempt at stylistic unity, or if it was entirely accidental.

  Mark was at the Federal Building at the urgent request of FBI Special Agent Terry Riordan, with whom he'd recently worked on the Silent Partner serial killer investigation. All Terry would tell him was that the meeting regarded the inquiries Mark made to Agent Wagner in Virginia. But Mark was excited. The facial reconstruction must have meant something to the Bureau or he wouldn't have been summoned less than eight hours after he'd sent the file.

  Terry Riordan was a big Texan with a gregarious smile and a bone-breaking handshake. Mark knew him to be an aggressive agent, not only when it came to his investigative approach but also in the way he played Bureau politics. Before the Silent Partner investigation, Terry hardly registered on the FBI radar. Now Terry was a player, and he didn't make a move without considering the political ramifications of his actions.

  Mark figured Terry owed him a few favors, and he was prepared to cash them in.

  The agent, in his usual presidential navy blue suit and red power tie, met Mark at the security checkpoint, gave him a clip-on ID badge,
and led him into a conference room, where two other agents were waiting for them. Terry introduced Mark to Special Agents Sandra Flannery and Tim Witten, both from the Las Vegas office. Sandra was a too-thin, short-haired brunette in her early thirties with a cold, focused gaze. She wore a scoop-necked white shirt under a long, almost knee-length black jacket and matching pleated pants. Tim was rugged in a preppy, let's-go-sailing kind of way. He looked like he stepped out of the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog and straight into the FBI. Mark was willing to bet Tim's idea of casual was wearing a sweater over his shoulders, the arms tied loosely around his neck.

  The introductions were barely over when Sandra held up a glossy print of Danny Royal's facial reconstruction.

  "We want to know where, how, and why you found this man," Sandra said.

  "I'll be glad to tell you everything I know," Mark said, "right after you tell me who that is."

  Sandra glanced sharply at Terry, who smiled.

  "Sandra, Dr. Sloan has helped the FBI out on several investigations," Terry said. "He's what you might call a friend of the family."

  "He's a civilian," she said.

  "Do you want to hear what Dr. Sloan knows or not?" Terry said, his smile fading.

  She sighed and nodded to Tim, who cleared his throat, opened up a thick file in front of him, and stood up, as if delivering a presentation in class.

  "The man in that picture is Stuart Appleby." Tim took a photo out of his file and held it up. It looked like a passport or ID photo, but it was clearly the same man. The resemblance to the computer-drawn image was almost perfect. "He's a fugitive, wanted on kidnapping, extortion, and murder charges."

  "What happened?" Mark asked.

  "We believe he was the point man in the kidnapping of eighteen-year-old Connie Standiford five years ago." Tim laid a picture of the teenage girl on the table in front of Mark. She was in her cheerleader's uniform, a buoyant smile on her face, her cheeks red and her eyes sparkling. "They were waiting for her at home when she came back from school. They cut off her pinkie and left it for her father as evidence that they had her."

  "Her father was Roger Standiford," Sandra said. "The casino owner."

  Mark was familiar with him. Standiford was widely credited with reinventing Las Vegas with his over-the-top, family-friendly, theme park casinos like the T-Rex and Gilligan's Island. Standiford certainly had the deep pockets to fund a prolonged hunt for the fugitives and pay for their demise.

  "Roger Standiford got a call on his private line demanding 4.5 million dollars in cash in six hours or his daughter would be killed," Tim continued. "He did as he was told. He got the cash together and was given delivery instructions by cell phone. After the handover, they told him she was buried alive in a storage container in the desert beside his house."

  Tim slid another picture in front of Mark. It showed the teenager, curled in a corner of the storage container, clutching a poorly-bandaged and to her chest. She was obviously dead.

  "Her father was too late," Tim said. "There was a pipe to the surface for fresh air, and the kidnappers left her with a couple bottles of water, but it was a hundred-plus degrees out there that day."

  "We don't think they meant for her to die," Sandra said. "But that doesn't change the result."

  Mark realized the kidnappers had made a crucial miscalculation. They'd assumed all she'd need was air and plenty of water.

  They didn't take into account that her terror and pain would change her needs. Fear would have quickened her breathing, increasing the amount of oxygen she needed and carbon dioxide she was exhaling. Her rapid breathing would also have made her become dehydrated more rapidly, moisture escaping from her body with each frantic breath.

  With no light in the container, and the claustrophobic horror she must have been enduring, Mark doubted she even touched the water. All of that combined with the suffocating heat, the pitiful airflow, and the buildup of carbon monoxide, and Mark doubted she would have survived more than a couple of hours.

  It would have been a horrible death.

  "You said 'they' didn't mean for her to die," Mark said. "So there are others."

  Tim spread out a fresh array of photos in front of Mark. "Diane Love, William Gregson, and Jason Brennan. They were his crew."

  "Are they also still at large?" Mark asked.

  Sandra nodded. "It was an inside job. Within hours after the murder, it was apparent who the kidnappers were. Stuart Appleby was one of Standiford's assistants. Diane Love worked in the cashiers' cage at the T-Rex. William Gregson and Jason Brennan both worked for Standiford's construction and development company. They all disappeared the day of the kidnapping and haven't been heard from since."

  "If Danny Roy—" Mark stopped and corrected himself. "I mean, if Stuart Appleby is any indication, these pictures are useless. They've all had extensive plastic surgery and are living quiet lives on their shares of the ransom money."

  Mark explained how he met Stuart Appleby, the details of his murder, and how the fugitive established his new identity on Kauai. Sandra listened very carefully while Tim took notes.

  "The puzzle magazines were a mistake," Sandra said.

  "How do you mean?" Mark asked.

  "Appleby used to love to do crossword puzzles in his free time," Sandra said. "That and his limp were the two things he couldn't shake."

  "You can change your face, your name, and your identity, Agent Flannery," Mark said. "But you can't change who you are."

  Terry looked at the two agents. "Looks like you're both on your way to Hawaii."

  "I wouldn't bother," Mark said.

  Sandra smirked. "With all due respect, Dr. Sloan, just be cause you spent a few days on the island asking questions and looking at some paperwork doesn't mean there isn't more to be learned. We intend to dig a lot deeper and a lot more thoroughly than you did vacationing."

  "And while you're there, looking into Appleby's life as Danny Royal, the killer will be continuing to stalk the other fugitives," Mark said. "That's why he burned down Appleby's house and restaurant. He was sending them a warning."

  "The murder may have had nothing to do with Appleby's past," Tim said. "It may have arisen out of some conflict in his new life as Danny Royal."

  "Perhaps," Mark said. "But I doubt it."

  Sandra and Tim shared a look. Clearly they didn't have much respect for Mark's opinion and didn't bother to hide their disdain.

  "Really?" Sandra asked. "You're chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital, is that correct?"

  "Sandra," Terry said firmly.

  "Hold on, Terry, I'm just getting some clarification here." Sandra looked Mark in the eye. "So in your professional opinion, Appleby couldn't have been killed for any reason except his involvement in this five-year-old kidnapping case."

  "Yes." Mark said.

  "That's helpful, doctor," Sandra said. "Maybe I should ask my chiropractor for his opinion, too."

  "This is only the first killing," Mark said. "The other three kidnappers will be killed, too, their deaths made to look like accidents. It may not be this month, it may not be this year, but this man will find them."

  "Not before we do," Sandra said.

  "He beat you to Appleby when the Bureau gave up years ago," Mark said. "What makes you think he won't beat you to the others?"

  Mark got up and walked out. His odds weren't much better than the FBI's as far as finding the others before the killer did, but at least he knew it. The FBI's arrogance may have been one of the obstacles to its success.

  He wondered again what mistake Appleby had made.

  How did the killer find him after so many years? What did the killer know and what resources did he have that the FBI didn't?

  Mark was committed to the hunt now, but had no idea where to begin or how to develop some kind of edge over his clever adversary.

  Terry Riordan caught up with Mark as he was leaving the building.

  "I apologize for Agent Flannery's attitude," Terry said. "They just f
lew in from Vegas and walked in five minutes before you did. I didn't get a chance to brief them. She doesn't know you. She isn't familiar with your track record in this arena."

  Mark nodded. He didn't really care what the agents thought about him. He cared about stopping more killings.

  "I'd like to take a look at the file on the kidnapping," Mark said, "and anything you have on the four suspects."

  Terry snorted. "I'm sure you would, but we aren't a library."

  "You just finished complimenting me on my abilities in this arena," Mark said. "What do you have to lose?"

  "You mean besides my career?" Terry said. "I know your experience and your abilities. But you're still a civilian as far as the FBI is concerned. Unlike the Silent Partner investigation, you have no standing in this case."

  "There wouldn't be a case now if I hadn't discovered the shark attack was a trick, and if I hadn't asked Claire Rossiter to work up a facial reconstruction."

  "And we appreciate the effort," Terry said. "We'll reimburse you for what you paid Rossiter. I'll even send you an official commendation on FBI stationery if it will make you feel better."

  "What would make me feel better is to catch this killer before he kills another one of the kidnappers," Mark said. "Whoever he is, he's a skilled professional who doesn't come cheap. It took a lot of time, talent, and money to track down Appleby."

  Terry pulled Mark aside. "Can I give you some advice? Let it go. We're on the job. We're the FBI. Believe it or not, we're pretty good at what we do."

  "Not as good as he is." Mark started to walk away, but Terry stopped him.

  "Wait," Terry said, then lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. "We've been hearing rumors for years, nothing we can substantiate yet, about a man who approaches wealthy families who've lost a loved one to an unsolved violent crime and offers them closure."