A corpse—crumpled into the shape of a ball—wobbled a few feet and toppled on the floor.
Several cops covered their noses and mouths as a putrid smell filled the baggage area.
The victim was female, dressed in leather S&M garb. Her raven, black hair was matted with blood and clung to her contorted face.
“Christ,” Walton said. “It’s the Tate woman.”
Nina Tate, the socialite real estate mogul, had been reported missing. She was missing no more.
My bomb scare story was suddenly a high-profile murder story.
I held my camera phone between the slats and snapped pictures of the crime scene.
I was mindful of the Wheaties test.
CHAPTER 16
It was Sunday. Word of Nina Tate’s murder had yet to reach the skeleton crew in the newsroom.
I had to call sources at home. Tate’s friends were stunned, as were officials from several charities she had raised money for.
My toughest call was to Alan Tate, her husband. He was too distraught to talk, saying only that he had no idea who would want to kill his wife.
I left a message for Walton at SDPD and typed up my story.
“What are you doing here?”
I looked up from my computer, surprised to see Don there on a Sunday.
“I could ask you the same,” I said.
“Working follow-up on the mayor. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Got something better.”
Don leaned over my shoulder and read my story on the screen.
He whistled and said, “Criminy! What do the cops say?”
“Nothing yet. I’m working them.”
“Art?”
I handed him a flash drive with my photos from the airport.
Don turned to the copy desk. “Okay, listen up. We’ve got a new lead story. Nina Tate’s body has turned up.”
Mary Sykes, the chief copy editor, brightened. “If it bleeds, it leads,” she said.
I grabbed a burger and a Stone Pale Ale at Downtown Johnny Brown’s, a sports bar on Third. A crowd watched the football game on TV. The Chargers were up 7-0 in the first quarter off a Reggie Wilkinson touchdown. After a shaky start to the season, the team was back on track. I was back on track, too.
When I returned to the Sun, I checked with Mary to see if the copy desk had any questions.
“It’s been spiked,” she said.
“What?”
“The story’s been killed, Ty. I’m sorry.”
I looked at Don’s office. He was already walking toward me.
“Mrs. Rampling tore me a new one when she saw your name on the news budget,” he said. “I argued, but—”
“What the hell, Don, are we now in the business of covering up the news?”
“Darcy’s been assigned the story.”
I shook my head.
“It gets worse, Ty,” Don said. “Mrs. Rampling added another three months to your probation.”
I stormed off.
“I warned you to lay low!” Don called after me.
When I reached my desk, I hastily packed all my files and notes into my satchel. I yanked open a drawer and removed a few personal items. I stuffed those in my bag, too.
I noticed a business card in the drawer. It belonged to Rudy Bell, editor of the online San Diego Wire. I flipped it over. His home phone number was written on the back.
I grabbed the phone and dialed.
“It’s Ty West,” I said when Rudy answered. “When can I start?”
CHAPTER 17
There were days when his life seemed so enviable that even Dr. Aaron Lindblatt envied himself.
The renowned brain surgeon lived in a sprawling Spanish-style house perched on the cliffs above Windansea Beach. He drove a BMW M6 convertible. A Mercedes S-Class sedan and a Porsche 997 Turbo waited in the garage, for the odd rainy day or the times he wanted to zip through his marvelous life a little faster.
There was the ski chalet in Aspen, each of its six bathrooms outfitted with a sauna, whirlpool and steam shower. For longer breaks, he had the villa in Tuscany and the fishing lodge in the Lake District of Chile.
Several times a year, he flew his own Lear jet someplace to pick up his latest award. Less often, he flew to some third world country, where he operated pro bono on a few select destitute patients. His humanitarian work kept his profile high and gave him a write-off on his taxes.
He frequented the best tailors, drank the finest wines and dated the most beautiful women.
On this very evening, he had just left the cozy company of Mandy. Or Mindy. Or Marcy. He could never keep them straight.
He wanted to stay with the woman longer, but he had an early morning surgery at Scripps Hospital.
He was scheduled to remove a brain tumor from the son of a Saudi prince. Lindblatt would receive two million dollars for the operation. If the boy were still alive after a year, Lindblatt would get a twenty-million-dollar bonus.
He already had his eye on an island in the South Pacific. Not for a new vacation home, but to buy.
Ah, the good life, the surgeon mused, someone has to lead it.
Lindblatt was a block from his house when he spotted the flashing red light in his rearview mirror.
He ticked off the possibilities in his mind.
He may have been going a tad above the speed limit, but it was more likely he rolled through the stop sign at the corner of Nautilus and Neptune. The cop must have been parked, waiting for a violation.
Lindblatt was close enough to his house to pull into his driveway rather than stop on the street.
He drove down the driveway that circled a marble-ringed pond filled with white swans. He cut the roadster’s engine in front of the house.
The red light continued to flash in the mirror as Lindblatt reached in the glove box for his registration. He pulled his license from his wallet, as well as a one-hundred-dollar bill. He had yet to meet a cop who couldn’t be persuaded to issue only a warning.
Lindblatt heard footsteps in the gravel. He opened the car door and started to step out.
“Sir, remain in the vehicle.”
Lindblatt closed the door and rolled down the window. He casually held out his license, registration and the hundred-dollar bill.
“Sorry, officer, I know I rolled through that stop sign. I’ve got an early surgery tomorrow, so I hope we can settle this quickly.”
For a moment, Lindblatt focused on the ring. Big and bulky. A class ring, maybe? He couldn’t make out the letters. But it was getting closer.
Lindblatt looked up. “What? No!”
Friar Tom wore his black leather executioner’s mask. He continued reaching through the window. He pressed a liquid-doused rag to the surgeon’s face.
Lindblatt struggled as he began to lose consciousness.
“Count back from ten, doctor,” Friar Tom said.
CHAPTER 18
Lindblatt’s nude body was stretched out atop a medieval rack. His legs were fixed by iron ankle restraints. Five spiked rollers dug into his back. His arms were pulled back above his head, a taut rope running from his wrists to a wooden-handled winch.
Beads of sweat formed on the surgeon’s tanned forehead. He groaned, feeling his shoulders about to dislocate. Through teary eyes, he saw flickering candlelight cast an eerie glow on the strange room. Blood pounded in his ears, but they still picked up the haunting strains of a Gregorian chant recorded by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos: “Media Vita In Morte Sumus” (“In the Midst of Life We Are in Death”).
“Wh-where am I?” he moaned.
“In my operating room, doctor,” Friar Tom said.
Lindblatt swiveled his head, his darting eyes taking in the sinister sights. The ax and block. The Judas Cradle. The branding irons. The knee-splitter.
The masked man.
Lindblatt flashed on the torture exhibit at the opening night gala for the Museum of Medieval History. The party where Mayor James Stanton died in the sh
arp clutches of the Iron Maiden.
“You—” Lindblatt gasped.
“Yes,” Friar Tom said.
Friar Tom stepped to the head of the stretching rack. Lindblatt tried to follow him with his eyes, but lost sight of him. The surgeon cried out in anguish as Friar Tom gave the winch a small turn to the right.
Lindblatt clenched his teeth. He was stretched so tight it hurt to breathe. He tried to hold perfectly still, but his quivering body betrayed him. The muscles near his armpits burned, then the fibers began to rip. His knee, hip and elbow joints started to pull from their sockets. There was an audible burst of pops and cracks.
“That would be your spinal column loosening up,” Friar Tom said. “You’ll soon be a tall man about town.”
“Wait, no!” Lindblatt pleaded. “I’m rich. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Sorry, doctor,” Friar Tom said, “you’re too late.”
“No!” Lindblatt screamed. “You don’t have to do this!”
Friar Tom gave the handle a hard turn to the left. Lindblatt flinched, then sighed as he felt the rope slacken.
“Thank you,” he sobbed, “thank you.”
“You’re right,” Friar Tom said, “I don’t have to do this.”
Lindblatt inhaled deeply. He was sore, but sensed no permanent damage.
“There are other options,” Friar Tom said. “I’m going to give you a choice.”
He lifted two objects from a shelf and set them on the rack for Lindblatt to see.
“This is a head crusher, and this is a skull-splitter,” he said. “What will it be?”
“Oh, God, no!” Lindblatt wailed.
“I know, it’s a tough decision,” Friar Tom said. “So let me explain how each of them works.”
He cradled the head crusher in one arm and pointed to its features. “Your chin rests on this lower bar, here, see?”
Lindblatt looked away and whimpered, “No, no, no.”
Friar Tom grabbed the surgeon by his chin and forced him to look. “This metal cap fits on top of your head. It works like a vise. As I turn this handle, your head will be squeezed into a smaller and smaller space. If you stop screaming long enough, you’ll be able to hear the sound of your teeth crunching, then your jaw snapping.”
Lindblatt sobbed as Friar Tom set down the head crusher and lifted the second mechanism.
“The skull-splitter, on the other hand, is a more precise instrument,” he said. “This iron halo fits snugly around your head. As I twist the screws, these spikes will bore into the bone. With a good yank, your cranial cap will pop right off.”
Lindblatt wept uncontrollably.
“Make up your mind, doctor,” Friar Tom said. “I have other patients to get to.”
“Please, no.” Lindblatt sniffled. “I’m begging you, please, don’t do this.”
“You’re right,” Friar Tom said. “Both of these procedures are inappropriate for your condition. They work too fast. You’d be dead in minutes.”
He tapped his temple. “Let me think. Yes, of course! We’ll go with one of the classics.”
CHAPTER 19
I sat on my couch in my underwear. It was my first day on the new job.
My laptop was opened to the home page of the San Diego Wire. I read the announcement of my hire.
“Good news,” I said to Maya and Torpedo, who spooned on the floor. “Looks like we can buy pet food this month.”
I picked a banana and gathered the newspapers. A bold headline in the Sun read: FAMED BRAIN SURGEON AARON LINDBLATT DROWNS. The Wire had missed the story. What kind of “news” outfit had I joined?
Darcy McLaren’s story said Lindblatt was found in the swan pond of his Windansea estate. There was a photo of the ornate marble pond, ringed by a circular driveway. Lindblatt’s BMW was parked steps away. The story noted that the driver-side door was open when the housekeeper discovered the body.
Unnamed police sources said that the doctor had been drinking. He probably stumbled getting out of his car, fell into the pond and drowned. That rang true. Lindblatt was a notorious playboy, with a weakness for long, liquid nights.
Darcy had another story updating readers on the Nina Tate murder investigation. The police had no leads on who killed the real estate developer. An autopsy concluded that Tate was already dead when she was stuffed into the suitcase. The post-mortem bleeding and the compressed state of the body were attributed to the tight fit of the luggage. The cause of death was still unknown.
Darcy had my old job, but she wasn’t acting like an investigative reporter. She was reporting, not investigating. Her stories merely covered statements by official sources. They weren’t breaking new ground.
Three esteemed San Diegans had died within the last week. Sure, it was likely that their deaths were unrelated—but I’m inclined to look for links.
The obvious connection was that the three victims were wealthy, public figures. Another was that two of them—the mayor and Dr. Lindblatt—had attended the opening night gala of the city’s new museum. And the third, Tate, would have been at the party had she not gone missing.
Was the Museum of Medieval History somehow involved in all this?
As I mulled that doubtful scenario, I was reminded of an old journalism adage: an investigative reporter in need of a story is a dangerous person. In his zeal to make the front page, he can get sloppy, ignore the facts and find links where none exist.
If that’s true, a disgraced investigative reporter in need of a story is downright scary.
I had to be careful. If I got reckless and popped a big story that wasn’t 100 percent accurate, the chances of reclaiming my reputation and career were over.
The phone rang. It was my new boss.
“Yeah, Rudy,” I said, “I’m on it.”
My first stop was the San Diego County Medical Examiner’s.
“Heyyyy, Ty,” gushed Trudy, the ME’s flirty receptionist.
“He in?”
“Room three,” Trudy said, smiling.
I entered Exam Room 3 and found Deputy ME Ron Hamaka wrist deep in an autopsy.
I know Ron from the Torrey Pines Men’s Golf Club. He’s wild off the tee, but deadly with the putter. He’s a good player to have in a four-man scramble. He’s also good to know if you’re poking around about suspicious deaths.
Ron looked up and waved at me with a bloody scalpel.
“Talk to me, buddy,” he said excitedly. “Tell me we’re in.”
“We’re in,” I said. “Seven a.m. shotgun on the twenty-ninth.”
“Club championship, baby! This is our year. I’m gonna take a personal day tomorrow, play a practice round. Come with?”
“Can’t,” I said, “jury duty. Listen, tell me about Lindblatt.”
“Jury duty? Blow it off.”
“So says the dutiful public servant.”
Ron removed the liver from the body cavity and placed it on the scale. He took a golf stance and made an ugly swing with the scalpel. “I got one of those new Cobra drivers,” he said. “Three degrees closed face. Bye-bye slice.” He looked at the scalpel and laughed.
“Ron,” I said, “the Lindblatt autopsy?”
Ron snapped out of it. “Asphyxiation by accidental drowning.” He removed the liver from the scale and returned it to the corpse.
“Any other damage to the body?”
Ron grabbed a file folder from the counter and read. “Just some bruising on the abdomen. But that’s consistent.”
He tossed the folder on the counter and returned to the autopsy.
“Consistent?” I said.
“With a fall across a blunt surface.”
“The pond’s marble edge?”
Ron nodded.
“And the water in his lungs?”
“It contained algae,” Ron said. “We also found fibers from swan feathers.”
“No question he drowned in his pond?”
“Where else?”
“So you tested the pond water as wel
l as the water in his lungs?”
Ron looked up from the corpse and made a face. He’d need to cancel that practice round.
CHAPTER 20
The following morning I entered Superior Court on West Broadway a little before eight o’clock. I took a plastic seat in the vast, drab jury assembly room. Irritated citizens eager to be elsewhere surrounded me.
I pulled out my phone and worked sources.
Around nine, my name was called. I joined a panel of prospective jurors in Judge Helen Weinberg’s courtroom. About fifty of us sat in the spectators’ section and the jury box.
Judge Weinberg told us that the case to be tried involved an armed robbery. I didn’t hear what she said after that.
I wasn’t paying attention. There was no need to. I knew I wouldn’t be picked to serve on this jury, or any other. Prosecutors and defense attorneys routinely exclude journalists from juries for cause or through peremptory challenge. We’re viewed as skeptical and hard to manipulate. No sane lawyer wants a reporter deciding his case.
So I zoned out.
As I daydreamed, I was vaguely aware of the ongoing voir dire, the Q&A process the prosecution and defense use to impanel a fair and impartial jury.
I used the down time to brainstorm about the recent rash of notable deaths. I made a mental list of possible leads. There had to be a connection.
“Earth to Mr. West.”
I was suddenly pulled from my reverie.
As my focus returned to the courtroom, I realized that two different people had been calling my name.
I turned toward the last voice I heard.
“Yes, your Honor?” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Please answer the prosecutor,” Judge Weinberg said, nodding across the room.
I swiveled my head. A striking woman in a blue pinstriped suit stood at the prosecution table.
It was Jordan.
Of course I knew that Jordan Sinclair was a deputy district attorney. But San Diego had hundreds of them.
I couldn’t believe my good luck. After all the returned letters and unanswered calls, Jordan and I were face to face. At last.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 5
