Skeleton Justice

by Michael Baden

“Jake! You know something that you haven’t told me.”

  He started, as if he just noticed that he wasn’t alone in the bed. “Not that I haven’t told you. It’s something that just clicked.” He grabbed Manny’s hands. “If victims one through four are children of Los Desaparecidos, but the ones I talked to claimed no connection with Argentina, then how did three of them get here to New York? Even the businessman tourist from Chile claimed he was born in Chile. So, who took them out of their country? Who raised them?”

  “They’re all adopted,” Manny said, catching his excitement and building on it. “But they don’t know one another. … They probably don’t even know that they’re adopted. Their adoptive parents concealed their true heritage—didn’t want them to know their biological parents had been murdered.”

  “Maybe because—” Jake’s grip on Manny’s hands tightened.

  Her eyes widened. “Because the people who adopted them were responsible for the parents’ deaths. Were part of the junta. Why else keep the adoptions secret, when today everyone’s so open about the process?”

  “Adoption,” Jake said. “We’ve just found where another of our puzzle pieces fits.”

  “The Family Builders adoption agency. They must have facilitated these adoptions. That’s why Ms. Hogaarth left them money in her will.”

  “We have to talk to the director.” Jake glanced around for Manny’s phone.

  She reached out and pulled him back. “It’s three-thirty in the morning, Jake. We have to wait a few hours.”

  He flung himself back on the pillows and yanked the covers up to his chin. “I hate waiting.”

  Manny snuggled up beside him. “So do I.”

  Ten minutes passed in silence. The only light in the room came from the reflected glow of streetlamps far below. Mycroft snored gently.

  “Are you asleep?” Manny asked.

  “No.”

  “My mind’s racing.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “There’s really only one cure for this,” Manny said.

  Jake slid one leg over the edge of the bed. “You’re right. I may as well get up and go to the office.”

  Manny twined her arms around his neck and yanked him back. “No! Not that!”

  “Oh,” he said, catching on. “Yeah, that works, too.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?” Manny murmured. “Keep your mind open to all the possibilities.”

  “We have never handled international adoptions,” Lydia Martinette said.

  Jake sat across from the director of the Family Builders adoption agency, surrounded by the relentless good cheer of her office’s happy family photos and precious children’s drawings. Not liking the answer he’d received, he posed his question again. “This would have been late 1970s, early 1980s. Argentina.” He was certain that Family Builders had brought the children of the Desaparecidos to New York. All he needed to do was make Mrs. Martinette comprehend.

  “I understand the time frame, Dr. Rosen. You mentioned it before. But I’m telling you, this agency has never handled international adoptions. In fact, bringing foreign-born babies to the United States for adoption is antithetical to everything we stand for.” When Jake had called the director at home at 8:55 that morning, demanding an interview at her office, Mrs. Martinette had been polite and helpful, but now her voice took on an edge.

  But Jake was not deterred. “These names, Mrs. Martinette.” He read the list of victims one through four. “Do they sound familiar? Did you place any of these children?”

  “I’m sure we didn’t, but if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll look them up.” She took the list from him and tapped the names into a database on her computer. After each search, she shook her head. “Not here.”

  Jake felt a rising tide of desperation. There just had to be a connection. Yet he believed Mrs. Martinette. He looked at a photo of a kid with stumps for arms surrounded by his new family. She found homes for kids like that. Her agency’s reputation was stellar. He couldn’t doubt her sincerity or her honesty. Still, he persisted. “How about Dr. Raymond Fortes. He’s an OB-GYN specializing in fertility. Have you ever worked with him?”

  “No.” Seeing his distress, Mrs. Martinette’s attitude softened a bit. “Look, I can give you the names of agencies that do handle foreign adoptions, but honestly, Argentina isn’t a common source of infants. Guatemala, Colombia, Peru—those are the Central and South American countries that American couples most frequently turn to when they’re looking to adopt.” Her usually smiling mouth turned down in disapproval.

  He’d been so focused on his own agenda that he hadn’t been paying attention to the signals Mrs. Martinette was sending. He stopped trying to drag her where she didn’t want to go and allowed her to give him the information she wanted to share. “Why don’t you approve of international adoptions, Mrs. Martinette?”

  She came out from behind her desk and sat next to Jake. “I don’t disapprove in all cases. People want the experience of raising an infant from birth, I understand that. It can be difficult for some to adopt an infant in this country. But I resent all these celebrities traipsing off to Africa and India and Cambodia to ‘rescue’ children when there are thousands, tens of thousands, of children in America who need good adoptive homes. And the ramifications of culture shock for older children taken away from their countries of origin can be considerable.”

  Jake watched Mrs. Martinette as she spoke, noting the way she leaned forward, the way she looked into his eyes, the way her voice shook with intensity. In her he saw a kindred spirit, a woman who cared as deeply about her work as he cared about his own. She didn’t happen to have the information that he had come here seeking, but he thought she could be useful to him anyway.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Martinette,” he said. “Is it ever justifiable to conceal a child’s origins from him, to never tell him he’s adopted because of the circumstances of his birth?”

  “We often place children who are the products of rape, and we don’t recommend telling the child that detail, but we never say that a child shouldn’t know he’s adopted.”

  “What about reuniting children with their birth parents? If an adult child comes here wanting to know the identity of his or her birth parents, do you tell that person?”

  Mrs. Martinette brushed a strand of glistening white hair away from her face. “Magazines and TV are filled with heartwarming stories of birth parents and children being joyfully reunited, but the truth is more complicated than that. Both parties have to want the reunification. Many times, the birth parents don’t want to be found; they’ve separated from the baby they gave up and they don’t want to reopen that wound.”

  She spread her hands out on her lap. “And many children have no interest in meeting the parents who surrendered them. Their adoptive parents are the only parents they want in their lives. We have to respect that, although it’s very distressing when one party wants the reunification and the other doesn’t.”

  “So what do you do in those cases?” Jake asked.

  “We have to honor the wishes of the party who wants privacy. We provide any information on health and well-being that would be reassuring, but we don’t reveal the identity.”

  “And do people ever have … er … violent reactions to that decision?”

  Mrs. Martinette cocked her head. “What an odd question. Sometimes there are tears and pleading. If I feel the person is having serious trouble adjusting to the idea that he’ll never be reunited, I have a few therapists I can recommend.”

  “Hmm.” Jake stared down at the pale blue carpet beneath his tattered loafers.

  “Dr. Rosen? Is that all?”

  “Huh?” Jake pushed himself out of his chair with a jolt. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Martinette.” He shook her hand and walked toward the door.

  With his hand on the knob, Jake paused and looked back. “Ma’am, aren’t you at all curious about why Ms. Hogaarth left Family Builders all that money?�
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  The older woman fingered a strand of beads around her neck before she spoke. “I gave up looking for reasons years ago, Doctor. I used to want to know why a father would beat his crying infant so hard that the child would never be able to form words again. I used to want to know why a mother would drop her toddler in a scalding bath because she wet the bed. I don’t ask why about those things anymore, so I sure don’t ask why when something good comes my way.”

  Manny sat on a park bench a few blocks south of the Central Park Zoo, Mycroft curled at her side. A jaded New Yorker, Mycroft found little of interest in the passing tide. Squirrels and pigeons were beneath his contempt; joggers, bladers, and skateboarders didn’t merit a second glance. A four-foot-tall Afghan hound provoked a low growl; a strolling incense vendor prompted a sneeze. Only a toddler with a tenuous grip on a hot dog got the poodle to sit up and tense for a spring into action.

  Manny tugged his leash. “Don’t even think about it. I’ve got something better.” She glanced at her watch. “You don’t have much longer to wait.” Her other hand rested inside her purse, fingers already curled around a tin of bacon and liver strips. Mycroft wouldn’t perform for just any treat. He scoffed at Milk Bones, ignored Snausages. While he wouldn’t eat Fortune Snookies, he’d do just about anything for fusion cuisine from the China Grill, but it really wouldn’t be practical to toss a handful of lobster pancakes onto the path when her prey came into sight. But like his mother, Mycroft could be a bundle of contradictions. He’d also kill for a dirty-water hot dog from any street vendor in New York.

  So Manny watched for Paco, armed with organic bacon-and-liver-infused dog snacks ordered from Canine Gourmet and a hungry, bored pet. Although the sun was long past its peak, she wore large dark glasses and had stuffed her red hair under a bucket hat.

  She knew the Ultimate Frisbee game Paco played with his friends every Sunday afternoon in the park must have ended by now. Paco lived farthest downtown, so the other friends would have peeled off for their homes by the time he reached this point on the path.

  Manny watched the bend in the path to see who would come along next. Two black women pushing white babies in strollers—Haitian nannies taking their charges home; a middle-aged man talking on his cell phone; three old biddies clutching one another’s arms for support.

  Then she saw what she was waiting for. A long, casual stride, a familiar toss of dark hair. Paco Sandoval emerged from the shadows of some maple trees and headed toward her. When he was ten feet away, Manny opened the container in her purse. Mycroft sat up and sniffed.

  When Paco was seven feet away, Manny tossed two gourmet strips across the trail. Mycroft shot after them, a blur of red trailing his bright green leash.

  “Oh, my dog! He’s loose! Get him!” Manny rose from the bench but made no effort to chase Mycroft. Paco glanced her way, questioning.

  “I can’t chase him. I sprained my ankle. Please grab his leash for me,” Manny said, averting her face by looking down at her Ace bandage-wrapped ankle.

  Dutifully, Paco sprinted after Mycroft, who wasn’t terribly hard to catch. Having downed two bacon and liver strips, he was busy sniffing the grass on the off chance he might have missed a third.

  Manny limped across the path, holding her hand out for the leash. When Paco extended it to her, Manny took it with her left hand and linked her right arm firmly through Paco’s. “Thank you, Paco. You’re very good with animals.”

  He looked down at her in surprise, still not recognizing her.

  “Let’s walk a bit, shall we? We have a little talking to do.”

  Her voice triggered Paco’s memory and he tugged to release his arm.

  “Don’t run, Paco,” Manny said, her voice quiet and firm. “If you do, I’ll start screaming that you stole my wallet. You know I’ll do it.”

  She felt his arm, which was still hard with tension as he continued trying to pull away. No time for an opening argument; just move straight to the cross-examination.

  “The mailbox explosion, the Vampire—it’s all related, and it all goes back to your family’s past in Argentina, isn’t that right?”

  Paco’s glowing olive complexion seemed a little grayish now, his lips pale and pressed to a thin line. His head swiveled left, then right. “We can’t be seen together,” Paco said, his voice low and urgent. “Don’t you understand? If they see me talking to you, they’ll kill Travis.”

  “Who will? Who has Travis?”

  Paco stopped on the path. The old ladies who had passed Manny earlier were now sitting on a bench, taking a breather. Two joggers passed in iPod-induced oblivion. The only place for anyone to hide was in the trees overhead. They were near Fifty-ninth Street and Manny spotted a red-and-black carriage pulled by a dappled mare clopping along.

  “C’mon, Paco.” Manny tugged his arm. “Let’s see the park like the tourists do.” Mycroft looked at her as if to say I was just there this morning. Boooring …

  After finally settling Mycroft at their feet, Manny leaned forward and spoke to their driver, who only seemed interested in stating the duration and price of the ride.

  Manny turned to look directly at Paco. “Tell me where Travis is now.”

  Paco shook his head. “I don’t know, honestly. But I’m worried. I haven’t heard from him in two days.” He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Travis contacts you regularly?”

  “No.” Manny had to strain to hear him. “They do.”

  “Who?”

  “The Vampire. Sometimes it’s a man, sometimes a woman.”

  Paco straightened and faced Manny. His dark eyes glistened with tears. “I got Travis into this mess. I was supposed to be the one to get arrested.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The first contact came about two weeks ago.” Paco closed his eyes as he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear to see his confessor. “A text message saying I needed to call this number to get important news that would affect my family.”

  “Who answered?”

  “It was a recorded message directed to me. The voice said they had information that would destroy my father’s career, put him in prison. They told me to go to that club in Hoboken, said that someone would make contact with me there. I wanted to go because I needed to protect my mother from any harm, but I was nervous, so I asked Travis—”

  “If he wanted to go clubbing.” Manny sighed. Her poor client. He wasn’t even supposed to have been there. The Vampire had set up the mailbox bombing as a trap for Paco, but the wrong little mouse had stumbled into it. And Paco had stood by and watched his friend go down and did nothing to help.

  “Let me get this straight,” Manny said in the tone she reserved for liars on the witness stand. “You let your friend be arrested on a charge of terrorism and you said nothing to the police about the strange phone call that brought you two to Club Epoch?”

  Paco bit his lip, but to give him credit, he didn’t look away from her. He met her gaze and held it. “By that time, I knew what they had called me there to tell me.”

  “Which was?”

  Paco held his hand up to deflect her question. “I couldn’t speak up on that night. I had to have time to think. Travis and I were separated by the police. They let me go, so I assumed they’d let him go, too.”

  “But they didn’t. And you still didn’t speak up. So do the right thing now. Come forward and tell everything you know to the police.”

  “No!”

  Paco’s shout made the carriage driver glance back over his shoulder. Then he turned discreetly away. Manny guessed he’d probably witnessed plenty of lovers’ quarrels in his career.

  “The next day, the Vampire contacted me again. He told me they would kill Travis and his mother if I went to the police. After Travis got out of jail, he told me the same thing. Every time I speak to him, he begs me not to tell the authorities. He says if we wait it out, everything will be okay.”

  The gentle sway of the carriage should have been rela
xing, but Manny had never felt more tense. “And you believe that? Paco, these people have attacked six people and tortured and killed two more. You can’t possibly trust anything they say.”

  “I don’t trust them, but I trust Travis. He says the FBI won’t believe anything he says. They’re convinced he’s a terrorist.”

  Manny took a deep breath. She could hear an edge of hysteria building in Paco’s voice. She needed to calm him down and get his story straight from the beginning. Then she could talk some sense into him.

  “We need to talk about the past, Paco,” she began. “What were your parents doing during the Dirty War?”

  Her sudden about-face startled Paco. “Nothing,” he said loudly. “My parents are good people.”

  “The Vampire knows something about your father’s past, doesn’t he?” Manny continued. “Something that would destroy your dad’s diplomatic career. This killer is using you, Paco. He’s taking advantage of your desire to protect your family. I understand you don’t want anything to happen to them, but this has gone on long enough. Innocent people are getting hurt.”

  “Innocent?” Paco spat the word out like a piece of bad meat. “Amanda Hogaarth wasn’t innocent. Raymond Fortes wasn’t innocent. They got what they deserved.”

  Surprised by his intensity, Manny considered her next move. Clearly, she was on to something here, but she had to tread carefully to keep him talking. She had no idea why Paco claimed Ms. Hogaarth deserved to die, but she could guess why Dr. Fortes had met his grisly end.

  “Dr. Fortes was tortured because he was a torturer himself during the Dirty War, right?”

  “The worst kind.” Suddenly, Paco wanted to tell her more. He glanced around, but no one was near but another carriage ten feet behind them. Paco’s face shined with recently awakened idealism. “He supervised the torture. Told the soldiers just how far to go so the person wouldn’t die. So that he would live to be tortured some more the next day. This is how he used his medical training.”

  Manny shivered. She had seen the autopsy photos of Fortes’s rat-gnawed body, imagined his slow, agonizing death. At the time, she couldn’t fathom how one human being could do such a thing to another. But Paco’s claim, if it was true, made Fortes’s death seem, if not justifiable, maybe understandable. How chilling to think that Fortes had coolly directed the torture of young people for maximum effectiveness, then left that life behind and came to New York to take up legitimate work as a researcher. Imagine developing fertility drugs to create new life when you were a cold-blooded killer.