by Kathy Reichs
“Precisely.” Proud teacher to bright pupil.
“Can we just do this?” Slidell is out of patience.
Lips crimped in displeasure, George gloves, removes the scrap, and positions it in the VSC. A white rectangle fills the screen. I still can’t read the writing.
George takes a seat at the table. “You’re seeing what the camera sees. I’ll now apply an IR filter to block all visible light. Only radiation longer than six hundred forty-five nanometers will be seen by the camera.”
Slidell sighs and thumb-hooks his pants. Though the visit is his idea, it’s clear he thinks the effort is a waste of his time.
The monitor goes green. The letters on the scrap luminesce like glowworms in an underground cave.
Slidell and I lean in, lime pixels highlighting our frowns.
A short, shocked pause.
“It’s ballpoint.” No one listens to George.
“What the fuck?” Slidell explodes. Straightens.
“Language,” George admonishes.
Legible on the scrap are letters and digits. K Mil ik AZ 364 8111
“Where’s the phone?” Slidell’s eyes are bouncing around the room.
George points to a side counter. Slidell beelines, snatches the receiver, jabs keys, listens, face moving through a series of grimaces and scowls. Thirty seconds, then he slams home the handset.
“I need a copy of that.” Hooking a thumb at the message shimmering on the screen.
“Of course.”
George gives Slidell the original denim scrap and makes a print of the enhanced version. I say thank you as we hurry off. Skinny does not.
It’s five. The lab-coated experts I’d imagined now crowd the floor. The wait for an elevator seems interminable. Inanely, Slidell thumbs the button again and again.
I don’t expect Slidell to share intel on the investigation; still, I’m offended. Standing beside him, I seethe quietly.
Finally, I can hold back no longer. “It’s the phone number at Millikin’s clinic, right?” I keep my voice low and discreet.
Slidell adjusts his emu tie. Says nothing.
“Is AZ an abbreviation for Arizona?”
Slidell lets out a clip of a snort. “Yeah. The guy was a Suns fan.”
I ignore the sarcasm. “Larabee thought you had Millikin here. Is he still in the building?”
Slidell’s eyes flick to me. No response.
“You’re heading downstairs to interrogate him.”
Slidell jabs the button.
“I want to observe.”
“No way.”
“I’m an anthropologist. I have training in the subtleties of human behavior.” Bullshit. But suddenly I’m on fire to see Millikin questioned.
“Look, Doc. I appreciate—”
“Ingram and Wong were both shot in the head, then burned. Ingram died in Millikin’s trailer. I found the evidence you need to tie Millikin to Wong.”
“What I need is for you to keep out of my way.”
“So that’s my response the next time you come begging for help?”
The elevator doors slide open. We enter. Are body-packed to the rear wall.
“Well?” I whisper.
“Jesus, Mary, and the Mousketeers.”
The elevator stops on two. Slidell elbows his way out. I follow in his wake, heart plowing my ribs.
I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
Slidell legs it so fast I find it hard to keep up. We blow by doors, signs showing the hornets’ nest logo of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD.
Men move along the corridor in both directions, most in shirtsleeves and ties, one in khaki pants and a navy golf shirt featuring the intrepid wasp symbol. Some carry mugs or vending machine snacks. All pack a lot of firepower. I assume they are detectives.
Slidell thunders into a room marked VIOLENT CRIMES DIVISION. I thunder behind. The space is large and divided into cubicles housing desks, some solo, some in pairs. Each desk holds a phone, in- and out-baskets, the usual office paraphernalia. Flying by, I grab quick peeks of photos, sports memorabilia, sun-starved plants.
Some cubicles are occupied. From one floats a fragment of an argument about ballistics. From another, unrestrained snoring.
Greeting no one, Slidell weaves to a work space with two desks shoved together so the occupants sit face-to-face. Rinaldi is at one, receiver pressed to his ear with one hunched shoulder. He glances up. Looks mildly surprised.
Slidell half-turns, sees me. Something flickers deep in his eyes. Wordlessly, he drops into his chair.
I stand as Slidell ignores me and Rinaldi talks on the phone. It’s awkward. I would rather be with my ancient cremains.
Slidell leans back, toes free a bottom drawer, rests one foot on it, and ankle-crosses the other on top. His socks are orange. I wonder if the choice is a fashion statement or simply bad taste.
Rinaldi wraps up his conversation and unfolds to get me a chair. I thank him and sit. He directs subtly lifted brows at Slidell. A poorly camouflaged question.
Slidell shrugs. “She tailed me from four.”
My cheeks flame. He makes me sound like a puppy.
Rinaldi asks about our visit to the crime lab. Slidell describes the note in Wong’s pocket. Maybe Wong. I don’t correct him. He doesn’t mention my role in finding it.
“So Wong knew Millikin. And Ingram was killed in Millikin’s crib.”
“Booyah,” Slidell says. I don’t know what that means.
“Finding Ingram’s body in the trailer doesn’t mean Millikin knew him,” I toss out. “Or that he died there.”
Rinaldi nods. Slidell asks him, “You get a prelim from the arson boys?”
“Both the trailer and the car fire were deliberately set. They found accelerants at both. Want to see the report?”
“No. What’d you dig up on Ingram?”
“Not much.” Rinaldi looks down at his notes. “Ingram’s office was shut down three years ago for failing to comply with health regulations. Got nailed on a random inspection.”
“The state yank his license?”
The licensing body would be a dental board, but I say nothing.
Rinaldi shakes his head. “He was fined and reprimanded. But the media hopped on the allure of unsanitary conditions, ran the story a few days.”
“Slime and drool always boost ratings,” Slidell says.
Rinaldi digs a photo from a folder and hands it to me. “You asked about Ingram’s weight?”
The man looks like an orange grove with legs. His hair, lashes, and brows are carrot, his skin, behind a blizzard of freckles, sunburn pink. He is seated in a leather chair, which he dwarfs, belly overhanging his belt and forcing his thighs wide. He holds a book low to divert attention from the unglamorous crotch. Or maybe he was actually caught reading.
“Ingram was a big guy,” I say.
“Three twenty.” Rinaldi returns the pic to its folder.
“Wife got motive? Insurance?” Slidell.
Rinaldi shakes his head. “She gets nothing. And without his income she’ll have to sell their home. Ingram was in debt to his eyebrows.”
“Tell me about Wong.”
“Acupuncturist. His office shares space on East Boulevard with a couple of massage therapists and a hair salon.”
“No one reported the guy missing?”
“He wasn’t gone that long. A masseuse saw him leave his office around noon the day before yesterday. He said Wong bunched his appointments to avoid working daily.”
“The home front?”
“Wong was single, lived in Dilworth with a roommate.” Rinaldi flips a page in his notebook. “Derrek Hull. Hull sells hospital equipment and claims he’s been in Florida the past five days. Says he has a list of clients can put him there. I talked to the employer and his story tracks.”
“Any issues between Hull and Wong?”
“I checked for 911 calls to the address, complaints about noise, that sort of thing. Found zip. Canvassed. None of the neighbors ever heard yelling
or saw them fighting.”
I think this amount of digging is premature without a positive ID on Wong, keep it to myself. Less than a minute later, I’m glad. While Slidell is gone getting coffee, Rinaldi’s phone rings. It’s Larabee. He has the dental file and will be signing off on Wong.
When Slidell returns, Rinaldi gives him the news. Skinny shoots me an “I told you so” look. I think. Hard to tell since he’s focused on unwrapping a Mounds bar.
“Either of these yaks have a jacket?” Slidell asks through chocolate and coconut.
“No,” Rinaldi says.
A full minute crawls by. Around us, male voices, sporadic laughter, ringing phones. Finally, Slidell folds the candy wrapper and uses an edge to probe a molar.
“How ’bout you keep digging while I go at him?” he asks Rinaldi after irrigating the irritant tooth with coffee.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Both detectives consider me. I feel my stomach tighten, my jaw clench.
Rinaldi shrugs. “She found the link to Wong.”
Slidell eyes me so long I’m certain I’m about to get booted. Then his mug hits the desktop with a sharp crack. Not bothering to mop the spillage, he dials an extension and asks that an interrogation room be set up pronto. That Millikin be brought to it.
After downing the dregs of his coffee, Slidell glares in my direction. “You sit and say nothing.”
I follow Slidell out of the squad room, down the hall, and into a tiny cell containing a metal table, two folding chairs, a speaker, and a phone. The floor is dull and scuffed, the walls cinder block painted puke beige. Centered on one is a rectangular window made of one-way glass.
Slidell motions me to a chair and leaves. When the door clicks shut my jaw relaxes. My gut doesn’t buy in. I take a seat and place my purse on the table.
In minutes, the audio sparks to life in a symphony of hollow sounds. A rattling door. Footsteps. A scraping chair. The window lights up.
Millikin is at a table identical to mine. Behind him is a wall similar to those surrounding me. He’s a skinny white guy wearing a cranberry sweater, plaid shirt, and baggy jeans. His hair is dull brown, side-parted and thin. Deep dark hollows underline his eyes.
Slidell sits opposite Millikin, looking like someone who eats kittens for lunch. An unopened folder lies before him on the table.
“Why am I here? A man died in my home. I’ve lost all my possessions. I should be under medical care for traumatic stress.”
“Damn shame. How’d it happen?”
“What can I say? I was out of the country. I authorized no one to enter my trailer. I’ve no idea why Dr. Ingram was there. Or how he got in.”
“You expect me to buy that?”
“It’s true!”
“Why the junket to Mexico?”
“I needed a break.”
“So you split without so much as an adios to your patients?”
Millikin’s hands are tightly clasped on the tabletop. He stares at them.
“Tell me about Ingram.” Slidell isn’t even trying for good cop.
“I treated him. We weren’t close.”
“Why would a dentist from Gastonia visit a street clinic in Charlotte?”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information.”
“You gonna pull that patient-doctor crap on me?”
“Hardly crap. It’s the law. And a physician’s duty.”
“Uh-huh.” Slidell flips open the folder and studies a paper. I know it’s a ruse. “Tell me about Mark Wong.”
Millikin’s face blanches and his fingers tighten. I notice they are trembling. I notice something else. A feature heightened by the newly paled skin.
A tumbling split second as the detail beyond the window collides with a recently stored image slapping into my forebrain. AZ.
“Holy crap!”
I fire to the adjacent room and pound on the door. As expected, Slidell is not pleased with the interruption. Before he can bluster, I pull him out into the hall.
“Millikin has AIDS.”
“What the Christ are you—”
“The lesion on his nose.”
“He’s got purple crud. So what?”
“It’s Kaposi’s sarcoma. Millikin has AIDS.”
Slidell looks at me like I’m batshit crazy.
“Even under infrared, the note in Wong’s pocket wasn’t fully legible. I think AZ was part of AZT, a drug for treating AIDS. AZT isn’t available in the U.S. yet.”
It sinks in slowly.
“Can you get it in Mexico?”
“Yes.” I overnod.
“Millikin was treating Ingram and Wong for AIDS. That’s why Ingram hauled ass from Gastonia to Charlotte.”
“It makes sense.”
“Millikin was running AZT from Mexico. You think the sonofabitch was dealing through his clinic?”
“His lifestyle doesn’t suggest that he was in it for the money. If he was in it.”
A tight jerk of his head, then Slidell whips around and storms back in to the interview. When I return to my window, he’s already grilling Millikin.
“—know you went south of the border to score AZT. How much were you nailing these poor bastards? A three hundred percent markup? Four? Five? Or am I thinking too small?”
Millikin doesn’t respond.
“Or were you hoarding the stuff for yourself?”
“It wasn’t like that.” Barely audible.
“Yeah? What was it like?”
“These men live in shame. No one wants to treat them.” All Adam’s apple and black-sun pupils. “I try to help.”
Millikin’s next words make my heart rate gallop.
“Dr. Ingram and Mr. Wong were both under my care. As I’ve stated, information pertaining to their medical histories is privileged.”
Slidell starts to erupt. Millikin raises a hand.
“What I can tell you is that I am also treating a patient who detests both of those men.”
“Why?”
“He believes that his”—Millikin searches for a word—“issues are due to interactions with Dr. Ingram and Mr. Wong.”
“What issues?”
“I can’t say.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t say.”
Slidell looks like he’s about to throttle the guy. Instead he leans back, crosses his arms, and speaks in a voice made of steel. “You know I’m gonna get it.”
“I do,” Millikin says. “But not from me.”
“I can make your life hell.”
“You can.”
“This patient. Is he heated enough to kill?”
“I’m not a psychologist.”
Slidell draws a deep breath. Exhales. Pooches out his lips and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Then he leans forward, elbows on the table. “Look. I want to help you, Doc. But you gotta give me something.”
Millikin meets his gaze. His conscience allows, “This gentleman was also furious with a third party. For similar reasons.”
“A patient?”
“No.”
“Then a name’s no problem.”
“Nero Height. He goes by Nehi.”
Slidell jots it on the file folder. “What’s Height’s story?”
“He’s just a kid, a corner boy who also turns tricks.”
“What’s he deal?”
“Crack, H, speed, the usual.”
“Where’s he live?”
“I have no idea.”
Slidell tosses down his pen and glares.
This time, Millikin glares back.
—
Thirty minutes later I’m in my lab at UNCC. Slidell has dismissed me and, grudgingly, agreed to keep me updated. I don’t believe him.
I find it hard to stay focused on my thousand-year dead, I’m so jazzed on the events of the past two days. The fires in the Airstream and Corolla. The gunshot wounds to the skulls of Ingram and Wong. Millikin’s AIDS. His excursion to Mexico to buy AZT. His story of an angry patient. O
f the street kid, Nehi Height. Shortly after seven I give up and head out.
On the way home, I divert to Reid’s and buy marinated flank steak, sweet potatoes, and asparagus. Pete’s favorites. On guilty impulse, I grab a miniature spruce trimmed with spiffy red bows and candy canes. Christmas is just a week away and our townhouse wears zip that is festive.
Surprisingly, Pete is home when I arrive. His case has settled. He has placed a plastic Santa on the mantel and hung mistletoe from the dining room arch. I show him my tree. We both laugh. I realize it’s been a while since I’ve done that.
We vow to keep dinner a work-free zone. While cooking, we discuss our upcoming Yuletide plans with Harry and her new squeeze. Pete thinks he’s Arturo. I go with Alejandro. We agree that the name is unimportant, since the poor chump will be gone by year’s end.
The plates have barely hit the table when I mention my trip to police headquarters. Pete asks about Slidell. I tell him Skinny and I may run off together. He gives me a faux sad face, queries other developments. I fill him in on the day’s progress. I think he’ll comment on Wong’s murder. He doesn’t.
“Millikin’s right. People with AIDS take a double hit. Not only are they sick, they’re stigmatized.”
I start to agree, but Pete hasn’t finished.
“An AIDS diagnosis is a death sentence. There’s no support system, no effective treatment, and society just turns its back on these people. Why? The public sees AIDS as a gay disease. There’s an attitude that scum like homosexuals—”
“And IV drug users.”
“—don’t deserve special attention. Everyone wishes the poor bastards would shut up and die in private.”
“Not everyone.” I’m surprised by Pete’s vehemence.
“True. But there’s that element. Some say AIDS is what homosexuals deserve, that they started the epidemic. That it was brought about by gay orgies, free sex. One genius has proposed tattooing everyone who’s infected.”
“That’s insane.”
“Can you imagine how it must feel? No one will kiss you on the cheek or let you hold their baby?”
“It must be truly awful.”
“The problem is we don’t know the cause.”
“Ever heard of a nineteenth-century physician named John Snow?”
“He related to Chrissy?” Pete refers to the ditzy blonde on Three’s Company. I ignore his quip.
