The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “The FBI will tell you that they’ve got on record a few cases where a doctor functioned for years without academic credentials or medical accreditation but I couldn’t take a chance that Patterson would be found out.”

  “You got worried when the FBI started to check his credentials. You’ve already moved your operation to Washington and didn’t want to start a new venture with a partner who might become a liability,” I said.

  He smiled, picked up a drumstick and scribed something with it in the air.

  “One hundred and twenty-seven,” he said.

  I shook my head to show I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Only one hundred and twenty-seven test subjects, Meg,” he kept nodding and smiling at me. “That’s all it took for me to develop the implant such that it functioned perfectly—and only on my command.”

  “You killed one hundred and twenty-seven people to… In Mongrove? You’re insane.” My breath stuck in my throat.

  “Test subjects have notoriously short lives. They gave their lives for science and an excellent cause. Of course not all came from Mongrove. Majority were like this,” he wiggled the drumstick at the gurney. “No one to ask about them. When did you first start to suspect me?” he asked.

  “When I got here.”

  “I don’t believe it. You know, Meg, I’ve never lied to you. Surely you can afford me the same courtesy?”

  He was right. He always said exactly what was on his mind, secure in knowing that we would never take him seriously—or consider him capable of such heinous crimes. He told me that whomever the mastermind was behind the deadly implants, he was playing God. I believed him. He said we should go after the bomb-maker and not worry about his motives. We believed him. He predicted there would be more deaths from exploded chests. We all shivered from fear but believed him. He said the arrogant criminal was going to take the next higher step and chest-implosions would turn explosive in the real sense of the word. We all stared at him with horror—and believed. He dismissed my worries about him, flippantly giving me examples why they were groundless.

  That was his only mistake. Sitting for hours on my living room floor, I analyzed this case and everyone working on it—or connected to it. When I ran out my front door my head was filled with beliefs—and only one speck of black doubt. I came to see him because I believed the dark overlord who had been exploding Baltimore citizens’ chests was still alive—and because I wanted to show Joe the two scraps of brown utility paper scribbled with formulae.

  When I arrived the cold emanating from the emaciated body on the gurney changed my mind. I pulled out of my purse the evidence that vindicated my doubt, not the hard evidence, the facts.

  I shook my head, non-committal. The whisper noise was coming closer. I couldn’t afford to take my eyes off him and at the same time I had to be able to examine my surroundings, plan my escape route.

  “It’s no use to stall, Meg. I know you. You didn’t call anyone. Well, maybe your partner but with Brenda having such a narrow escape…no one’s coming, Meg. Come on, I’m curious. What was it that gave me away?”

  I needed time, which meant I needed Joe talking.

  “It was something you said during the lunch we had with Brenda, at Hopkins,” I said.

  He frowned and tossed the drumstick over his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what I would have said that wasn’t true. You have a good ear for truth, Meg and I told you I’ve never lied to you. I enjoyed that lunch very much. You were so concerned about me. I was touched, Meg, really. What was it?”

  The whisper noise was so insistent now it was unnerving. I didn’t want to be caught off-guard. At the same time I needed him to keep talking—to gain time.

  “I worried about you and you scoffed at my concern, said you had nothing to worry about because you weren’t an economist, or a programmer, or a waiter—or a tradesman. Christopher Palk was a tradesman. He was the next victim but at the time of our lunch, Palk was still very much alive. Then all this,” I motioned briefly at the gadgetry in the ceiling. “This is your research lab, not just a morgue. Is this how your new calm and relaxing business venture is going to look like, Joe?”

  “I’m retiring as a pathologist, Meg. I didn’t lie to you about that.”

  “I believe you, Joe. I always did. So—where are you opening your new funeral home in Washington?” This part was a product of a very recent brainstorm. Even as Joe fumed about Quigley calling him a mortician, my analytical side kept examining this issue over and over. Joe was the type of doctor who would tell a patient with a deadpan expression, “I’m planting a bomb in your chest, sir, not a life-saving pacemaker,” and then he’d laugh with the patient, enjoying his own cruel wit.

  “Clever, Meg, very clever. Now, let’s get down to business. I need you to unfreeze those accounts,” he said in a spine-tingling genial voice.

  “Then you should have invited Inspector Weston for this educational blow-and-tell,” I said. “He’s the one who’s working with Tavistock management and principals.”

  “Come on, Meg. Do you think my genius is confined only to medicine, cybernetics and biochemical warfare agents? Do you think it’s just coincidence that the two of us have been such good friends for years? Blank’s your father’s old and trusted friend. These past fifteen years, he’s been a guest at all of his residences often enough. Other than galleries filled with portraits of his ex-wives, your father has at least one or two pictures of you at every place he owns. And your brothers, naturally,” he added, smiling into what I knew were my shock-widened eyes.

  “You’re a monster,” was all I could whisper.

  “Not at all,” he said, staring at me with slitted eyes. I felt as if a snake, poised for a strike, was watching me. He continued, “I’ll be particularly careful when I’m planting my explosive pacemaker in your brother Tim’s chest. Our Congressman Tavistock deserves the best of my professional care.”

  All my worries suddenly focused on my family.

  He chuckled again. “Aw, Meg, come on—what happened to that analytical talent of yours? Did you really think that it’s just coincidence that we’ve been such good friends these past eight years? You were the reason why we settled on Baltimore as our first center for field trials of my device. Blank loved the irony of the situation as much as I did. Details and foresight that go into long-term planning are the hallmarks of success, Meg. Of course some amount of luck always helps. Then again, I knew that if my first persuasive example were your cold case, Brick, you would become involved. We’ve been very successful, don’t you think so?”

  “I never discussed my cases with you, Joe,” I said haltingly. It was possible that when I came to seek information on post-mortem injuries I might have mentioned one or two names figuring in our historical cold cases but only as a passing mention. Was that enough for him to fashion his plan, center it on me, or more precisely to foresee my involvement in a fresh homicide?

  “Give me some credit for analytical skill, Meg. Brick was a missing person, therefore he would be part of your historical cold case files. I know Bourke. I can read people as well as you can. He’d give Brick’s case to you and Ken. That’s all I needed to carry out my next step.”

  “The waiter in my father’s penthouse,” I said, understanding how meticulously he planned this, how he manipulated us like pawns.

  “I need the access to those accounts, Meg,” he said when after a few moments I still stared at him, unable to say anything.

  I swallowed then moistened my lips with my tongue. “What if my father refuses?”

  “That would be most unfortunate,” he said and started backing away from the gurney. I too shuffled backward toward a wall to at least protect my back. Joe bent his knees without taking his eyes off me and brought out a briefcase from underneath the gurney. He flicked the locks and raised the lid. It was a laptop.

  “Two billion dollars is a great deal of money, Meg,” he said. I heard his fingers clicking on the keyboard. I wondered when he w
ould draw his gun. He was fast. Two years ago when he pressed it into my neck as I leaned over his shoulder to see an incision in a cadaver, I never saw his hand flash to take it out. I was sure he still had the skill and speed.

  He stared at me, his expression hardening and said. “Call the banker, Meg. I need access to those accounts.”

  I watched him, seeing what I suppose I knew has always been there—greed, cruelty, cynicism and utter contempt for life other than his own—but like others I mistook it for human faults and frailties.

  “Still reluctant to call Daddy, Meg?” he asked in a wintry voice. “Well, you were right. Limos have always been an integral part of our operations. Church groups rent them a lot these days. Before my Creeslow outfit closed down, they did a brisk business with St. Leopold’s. I believe the good parishioners have rented my limo on quite a few occasions.”

  I shivered. A moan escaped me. St. Leopold’s was Mrs. Tavalho’s church group. She said they found a new limo supplier, Arrowmain but that’s only after they already rented from someone else.

  If he didn’t hear my moan, he read my look.

  “I talked to Brenda, you know. Your housekeeper has your daughter tonight. They’re at a charity Bingo casino. I’ve improved my last generation of implants, Meg. The radius of destruction is not just a few feet. Look around you. This is a very large morgue. I assure you that the pieces of the homeless citizen are as far as you can see, even on the ceiling.” Just then, as if to underscore his threat, a clump of blackened human flesh dropped down and landed at my feet with a sickening splat.

  “Your daughter would be close by. Perhaps she’s holding the housekeeper’s hand right now.” He raised a hand holding a chunky black cell phone. “All it takes is a call, Meg. I won’t tell you the range but it’s impressive. Use your imagination. Brick kept testing it and he ended up on the hood of Ken’s car—in Woodbrook. Call the banker.”

  Even though I knew I had to comply, I feared calling my father. What if he was still in a meeting? That would mean Field was still there and didn’t pick up my message—and no one was coming. When I ran out of my house facts, feelings and instinct sat bundled in my mind like a ball of twine. As I told Joe, I only found the beginning of the string and started unraveling it when I arrived here. I didn’t lie either.

  “So it’s been money all along?” I asked, clearing my tightening throat. Joe was talkative tonight. He needed an audience even if it was as slim as one listener.

  “That and idiots like Quigley who won’t take a chance, no matter how promising the new discovery.”

  “Is that why you adapted Quigley’s implant research into bombs?”

  “I didn’t adapt his anything!” he shouted. “Everything you see in here is my invention. That toxin could have been applied to beneficial use, dissolving tumors. He wouldn’t even consider a field trial with tissues. He said he didn’t need help from a mortician. That’s what gave me the idea. The prick was useful. Get out your cell phone, Meg,” his voice vibrated threateningly. Once again he shook the black cell phone at me to underscore his meaning.

  I had no choice but to comply.

  “It’s me,” I said when my father answered. “I need you to unfreeze those accounts.”

  “Where are you? What are you doing?” he asked anxiously.

  Joe pointed the black box at me and said, “Make sure he understands what’s at stake here.”

  “What the hell is— Where are you, dammit!” my father shouted.

  “Just do as I asked, sir and please do it quickly,” I said and put the phone in my pocket without shutting its flap.

  My father would make a phone call and that took time. I hoped Joe would grow impatient because impatient people were prone to mistakes. I needed Joe to look down at the laptop, not just keep glancing at it.

  “Nothing’s happening,” he growled after glancing at it.

  “Give it a minute,” I said, watching him. Suddenly, the laptop bleeped. Joe dipped his head down. My father’s muffled voice issued out of my cell phone in my pocket but it wasn’t enough to distract me.

  I drew my gun even as I moved. My target was the chunky black cell phone Joe held in his bandaged hand. I was six feet away from him, my outstretched hand reaching when a crisp salvo of shots rang out.

  The black box flew out of Joe’s hand. He cried out. I threw myself after it and caught it before it hit the ground. My gun clattered down as I rolled on the floor, protecting the device. I hit the wall with my shoulder. The impact bounced me back and helped me to sit up. I struggled to get up on my knees.

  When I lifted my head I saw Joe was kneeling too. We were on the same level. He held a gun in his hand. I saw it waver. His green tunic started to bloom with a crimson rose. He glared at me. I felt nothing. He sneered and I saw his finger on the trigger twitch. I snatched away my hand with the black cell phone and hid it behind my back where he couldn’t shoot it.

  He grunted and his face twisted in a distorted smile. “You should have—” was all he managed to say.

  I blinked when the shots rang out again. One shattered Joe’s gun. The others the rest of Joe’s lofty ambitions.

  Field lifted me up, saying, “I got your message. Are you all right?” He ran his hands over my face and shoulders. “You came here and didn’t bother with a Kevlar vest?”

  My vest was in my car trunk. I was coming to pick my friend Joe’s brain, show him the formulae. It didn’t occur to me to dress up in armor.

  “Jazz, Mrs. Tavalho? I pushed away his hands.

  “They’re all right. The moment I listened to your message I thought of my family. Mattis and Ken took your housekeeper to Hopkins. I’ve been here long enough to hear that Joe was grandstanding. He was bluffing. I don’t think Mrs. Tavalho’s been implanted with a chest-bomb but they’ll check her out at the hospital. Jazz is with Courtney—at home.”

  He must have seen on my face what flashed through my head because he chuckled and said, “It was either to leave her with Agent Gould or bring her along.”

  “Well, in that case it’s all right,” I murmured. “Let’s call it in.”

  “What for? We’re already in the morgue.”

  Chapter 44

  “Joe has set up a funeral home in Washington that also has as part of its business function an escort service?” Bourke asked, incredulous. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  He hadn’t but I wasn’t going to stress him out even more today.

  Agents Gould and Mattis returned to Washington to deal with the Randolph Funeral Emporium. It was an upscale, bold new venture that sprang up in our capital city just about two months ago. The escort part of the business was bizarre—but also enterprising and clever. Prominent people were more inclined to plan their funerals. What could be more natural than visiting a funeral home with those intentions? The newspapers would never suspect that a Senator visited a funeral home to contract an escort service and sought sex in the back of a limo with black-tinted windows. A hearse-limo was shrouded in the same respect and sanctity that applied to death. Even a tabloid photographer might balk at “desecrating” a carriage intended for the deceased with his obscene curiosity. I’m sure that’s how Joe would have reasoned. After all, he was the keeper of the dead.

  And if the Senator made frequent visits to Randolph’s Funeral Emporium, these would be explained as planning follow-ups, making changes to his initial funeral arrangements.

  Bourke kept shaking his head, murmuring, “Not Joe. I can’t believe it. Not Joe. Why?”

  “Money,” I said. Quigley played a role in Joe’s walk over to the dark side but I didn’t want to go into details. If Quigley had enthusiastically endorsed Joe’s futuristic toxin and his state-of-the-art implants, the medical examiner still might have gone ahead with his explosive, cold scheme. He would have shaken Quigley’s hand with a deadpan expression and accepted awards for his marvelous invention—then done an about-face and continued serving Blank. He was a doctor to the dead. One title made him a healer
, the other—a killer.

  “How long did you say Joe’s been implicated in this scheme?” I heard Bourke ask and unfocused from my reflections.

  “Ever since I’ve known him, sir,” I said. “He was that good at his jobs—both of them.”

  “So are you,” Bourke said. “When did you figure it out?”

  I didn’t want to lie but I also didn’t want Bourke to backpedal on his compliment.

  “When I ran out of suspects, Joe ran out of scapegoats. That’s when he called me,” I said.

  “Weston said something odd to me the other day,” Bourke said, changing the subject. “He said I should have a chat with you about your career. He thinks you’d make a damn good lawyer and that the Bureau could use a good legal counsel. Can you afford to go back to school?”

  I smiled in an answer. I really didn’t want to stress him out more today.

  “I’ll think about it, sir,” I promised. “Now, I just want to go home, sit down with my daughter and draw a family tree that’s filled with living people—not ghosts.”

  The End

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