“Tapes?” I asked.
“Those examiners usually have their hands filled up with body parts and covered with blood during an exam. Makes writing notes a bit of a messy challenge. So, they all record their notes while they are doing the examination. I asked them whether or not they checked to see if there was a recording of the examination.”
“And?”
“Hell,” Ralph said, then let go a crackling laugh, “there were two investigators sitting with me in that interview room, and both of them looked at each other like they never expected me to ask anything about any recording. I kept after them, asking about the recording, till they finally told me a few things.”
“What did they tell you?” I asked. I had a uneasy feeling stirring around in my gut. The type of feeling that can either be described as dread or intense curiosity. It was probably closer to dread I was feeling. I wanted Ralph to tell me Alexander was dead and buried. If that was the case, the email I received was from a copy-cat, probably from Thomas O’Connell or one of the cops looking to break my balls. When Ralph told me Alexander’s body was gone, I knew who the email came from.
“They told me the recording started with the normal stuff you’d expect to hear on a recording of an autopsy, but then ended in a rather disturbing manner. One of those investigators told me the last thing the doctor said was a cry for assistance. Now, if you remember what I told you a few moments ago, she thought her assistant was still milling about somewhere in that morgue. You remember me telling you that?”
“I remember,” I said, my voice was low and guarded. I felt like anything I agreed to or remembered was forcing me to accept a reality I really didn’t want to accept.
“Good,” Ralph said. “I sure am happy you’re paying attention. Now, the investigator told me the last voice they heard was that of the medical examiner, calling out to her assistant for help. But, since she was alone, no help showed up. After her call for help, all that was heard was what sounded like a struggle and someone gagging. Those investigators didn’t elaborate on whatever theories they had about the gagging noise, but I’m pretty certain I know who was making them sounds and why they were being made.”
“Alexander strangled her. Killed her, didn’t he?”
“Well, once again, you and I are thinking along the same lines. But there’s a bit more to this story than what I’ve told you so far.”
“You plan on telling me the rest?” I asked.
“Indeed I do, my freelancing buddy. Indeed I do. And I will. I just wanted to make sure you were following along and were thinking roughly the same as I am. With that bit of wonderment satisfied, let me tell you what I believe happened to the medical examiner and to Alexander Black.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ralph spoke for fifteen minutes about his theories, beliefs and ideas. It would have taken him half the time but, in keeping with his personality, he stopped talking after every minute or so to ask me if I was following. A few times he wouldn’t proceed until I had accurately recounted what he had previously said.
Talking with Ralph was always a combination of frustration and comfort. It was frustrating how it would take him five times as long as it should to say something and comforting listening to how calm and certain he was about whatever he was talking about. There were countless times since I had met Ralph that I thought I would have never quit being a cop if he was in charge of the department. Ralph Fox was backwards, unkempt, too damn straightforward when it came to him saying what he felt about something or someone, but he was also the most honest man I knew. What’s more, I trusted Ralph more than anyone else in the world.
“So let me summarize for you here, Derek. What I believe happened that night in the morgue was the doctor got to cutting Alexander’s chest cavity open, saw there was no heart sitting in there, called for help, then was grabbed around the throat by Alexander.” Ralph paused for a few seconds and I could hear him drawing on a cigar; his lips smacking a hollow sound. “The recording kept recording for forty minutes after the doctor’s call for help. The investigators said they couldn’t make out any words, but they did say they heard what sounded like whispering. What I think happened is Alexander snapped to awareness, grabbed the doctor by her throat, whispered to her, telling her to close up his chest and fix whatever else she could fix, then killed her. The recording registered a brief struggle then it picked up the sound of the door closing. The recorder was set to automatically shut off after thirty minutes of being turned on, so whatever happened after that, wasn’t picked up by the recorder.”
“And they never found any trace of the medical examiner?” I asked.
“It’s like she just vanished. Never made any calls to no one. Was never seen by anyone that would recognize her, and, if she is dead like I believe her to be, her body hasn’t shown up floating in any river and hasn’t been dug up from some roadside grave.”
I signed. “So, this email I received, probably did come from Alexander.”
“If I were a betting man, I’d say that is an accurate statement. I would also say the call I received a few minutes prior to receiving your call was from Alexander as well.”
“He called you?” I snapped. “What did he say?”
“Hard for me to say,” Ralph said, his voice much too calm for my take on the severity of the situation. “He was whispering as loud as he could, but my ears don’t work like they once did. Hell, I think I pissed off the heartless wonder when I kept asking him to repeat himself. I wasn’t aiming to get him angry, though. Damn truth is I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying.”
“So the half you did understand,” I said, “what did he say?”
“I can boil it down for you into a couple of words. He said he has some unfinished business to take care of, and once that was done, he’d being stopping by to even the score with me.”
“You taking any precautions?” I asked.
“I did tie up my boot laces a bit tighter than usual.”
“What the hell will that do?”
“The last thing I want is for one of my boots to go flying across my living room when I get to kicking that Alexander’s ass. I got them nice and tight, now.”
Ralph’s confidence seemed to flutter between arrogance and foolishness. We had both seen what Alexander was capable of and dismissing him as a viable threat was not a plan of action I was about to take. I stood, stepped across my apartment, reached my front door and slid the deadbolt lock home. “Ralph, no offense, but...”
“Listen Cole,” Ralph interjected, “the way I figure things, old Alexander either will never make it back up to my neck of the woods, or, if he is able to secure transport up here, I’ll have plenty of notice.”
“How do you figure?” I asked as I walked into my bedroom. I wanted to get my .40 caliber out of the safe, loaded up, and stuffed into my inner waistband holster. I wasn’t going to rely on well-laced boots for protection. If Alexander Black was planning on making a call on me, I was going to have a hell of a welcoming party ready for him.
“Now Cole, you’ve always presented yourself as a capable detective. Hell, I’d say you’re a bit more than just capable. But right now, you’re thinking more like a victim than an enforcer. Thinking like that is what gets people killed.” Ralph paused again. I wasn’t sure if he was expecting a reply from me or was pausing for effect.
It wasn’t that I disagreed with what Ralph had said, in fact, I couldn’t have agreed more with what he said. Nine times out of ten, an attacker’s main advantage point over a victim is in state of mind. A victim doesn’t become a victim until their mind tells them to play the role of victim. Ralph wasn’t about to play that role.
And neither was I.
“If I am right in my thought process,” Ralph continued, “Alexander has already started crossing things off his ‘to-do’ list. He probably already located a person or persons he aims to exact his revenge on, or at least has figured out a means of travel. If he hasn’t figured out and completed his first ste
ps, he’d be a fool to reveal his plan to the two of us.”
“Which means he could be standing outside your cabin or my front door right now,” I said. Saying that got my stomach flipping again.
“You need to read the email he sent you again. He told you he had unfinished business to tidy up first, right?”
“Sort of.”
“And he told me the same thing. Near about, anyway. You still have your old client’s phone number?”
“Thomas O’Connell’s?” I asked. “Sure. Somewhere.”
“I would call him pronto, Derek,” Ralph said, his voice taking on a sudden tone of urgency. “Call him, let him know Alexander is still alive and what you and I believe he’s fixin’ to do.”
“I will,” I said. “How about you and me teaming up again on this one? Watching each other’s back?”
“That day may come, Derek. That day may indeed come. But that day is not today. Make that call to Thomas. That’s what today is for.”
________________________
I’m not what you would call an “organized person.” Up to the point when a past client of mine gave me a Moleskine Notebook for note taking, I used any scrap of paper I could find, the back of my hand, napkins from a whatever diner or bar I was in or, as was most often the case, didn’t write anything down and forgot what the hell it was I wanted to remember. But since I got that little leather notebook, I got much better at not forgetting things. The funny thing about that notebook is what I wrote on the first page. “Remember to bring a pen.” May seem obvious, but while I had the Moleskine on my person most times, I still would end up scrambling for a pen. But for what I needed to use the notebook for then, I wouldn’t need a pen. I grabbed one off my sofa table, just in case.
I flipped the pages forward around thirty or forty pages, till I found what I was looking for. Over the next few pages were the notes, ideas, questions and contact numbers I had jotted down during the Alexander Black case. Reading those notes and those names was like visiting ghosts for me.
Scribbled names seemed to jump to life as I read them again. Dr. William Straus. Michelle Mix. Dr. Stanley Mix. Ken and Jan O’Connell. Dr. Mark Rinaldo, Henry Zudak, Peter Adams.
Many of those names belonged to people who were dead; some by the hands of Alexander Black, and some by the directives given by Straus. My thoughts started drifting. I wondered what ever happened to Stanley Mix. The last time I saw him, he looked about as healthy as Alexander. Grayish pallor, thin-skin clinging to cancer violated bones. And I recalled the look in Michelle’s eyes. Distant and knowing. Filled with pain and a fierce determination to keep whatever days her husband had remaining peaceful ones.
The other names I had scribbled in the notebook didn’t stir up any emotions, except for one emotion: They were dead. And all of them were dead because of the secrets those doctors tried in vain to keep. All of them, killed because of a decision made over twenty years ago.
I found Thomas O’Connell’s number, dialed it and heard the ringing conclude with Thomas’ outgoing message.
“This is Thomas. Can’t answer right now, but your call is important to me. Please leave a message and I’ll do my best to get back to you soon.”
I waited for the beep, then left a message asking Thomas to call me. I rattled off my cell number then disconnected the call. Phone still in hand, I dialed Jan O’Connell’s cell. I had only spoken with her once and had no idea what kind of a person she was. I had no idea if she’d answer my call or call me back.
Only one way to find out.
Her phone also went to voice mail. I left another message, almost word for word as the one I left for her son.
There was only one other phone number I had written down that would—hopefully—connect me to a living person. Everyone else was dead.
Michelle Mix answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded lighter than I expected. To me, Michelle was still the person standing in the lobby of the hotel up in Alexandria Bay, thanking me for not letting Ken O’Connell know I had found them. In my mind, she was still keeping time with the death clock which was slowly counting down the seconds of life her husband had left.
But that was nearly a year ago. I shouldn’t have been surprised her voice didn’t sound like it was supporting a few tons of emotional distress.
“Michelle,” I began, “this is Derek Cole. You and I met a little over a year ago.”
“I remember,” she said, her voice instantly transforming into one laden with painful memories. “What can I do for you?”
I like to get right to the meat of the topic when I speak to people. It’s not that I don’t see the value in small talk, but in potential life and death situations, small talk eats away time. I told her about the email I received from Alexander. I told her everything Ralph Fox had told me about what he knew about what happened after the incident down in Hilburn. I told her while I didn’t think Alexander had any unfinished business with her, that she ought to take precautions.
“You’re telling me to run and hide?” she asked.
“Not telling you to do anything,” I said back. “Just thought you should know Alexander is probably still alive and, based on his history, he’s probably someone you’d want to make sure you don’t cross paths with.”
There was an extended pause on her end. I was wondering if calling her was a mistake. I really didn’t think Alexander would try to take out his anger on her, but, she was an open loop in the Alexander Black case. A loop I never closed. Never even thought about closing. For all I knew, Michelle had remarried, moved off to Alaska and was as safe from the reach of Alexander Black as was anyone. Certainly safer than I was.
“My husband, Stanley, died a few days after I met you, Mr. Cole. He died in the hotel bed in the room you reserved for us. No pain, no anguish. He just fell asleep that night and died in his sleep.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Michelle.”
“Alexander died, too. He died when my husband died. At least, he did to me. What my husband and the other doctors did all those years ago was unforgivable, as was my keeping quiet when Straus brought Alexander into Ward C. Stanley died because of the guilt of his role in everything. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Cole, everything about Alexander Black, the lies that were told, the secrets kept, everything died with my husband. Thank you for your condolences, but I’m not interested in hearing anymore about Alexander Black or the O’Connell family.” Michelle paused for a second before continuing. “I’m sorry, but someone’s at my front door. I have to run. Goodbye, Derek.”
She ended the call and I just stood there, iPhone pressed to my ear for a good thirty seconds.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Black:
You don’t seem as interested as I thought you would be. After all, what I am telling you, or rather, what I am about to tell you, concerns you very much. I have made you as comfortable as is possible, considering our surroundings, and have given you my word no harm will come to you. That is, as long as you fulfill your end of the agreement. All I’ve asked of you is to listen. Attentively.
Are you comfortable enough to give me the gift of your attention?
Good.
What I am going to tell you is the truth. While I cannot claim to understand or know the thoughts of many of those whom we shall discuss, I am confident my interpretations are accurate representations of how they would detail my life and their participation in it. As near to accurate as is reasonable.
Again you stir? What troubles you now? The knots I have tied are quite secure. Your struggling against them will only increase their tightness. You will not escape, I have assured you of that. Your struggling only serves to weaken my conviction that you were wisely chosen. Either relax or I will no longer need your company and will find another. Speak when not asked for your opinion, and I will liberate your tongue from your mouth.
Understood?
Excellent.
Let me begin.
CHAPTER SIX
Derek Cole:
&n
bsp; I wasn’t comfortable just sitting around, waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t that I wanted something to happen; I just don’t like waiting around, doing nothing when I know that no matter how still, quiet and peaceful things may be, someone is scheming a disruption. I checked my emails for a while, filtering through the never-ending stream of them sent from people who had read about my involvement with the Alexander Black case and wanted to either interview me or to hire me. I deleted all the interview requests, just as I had done to the previous few thousand messages people had sent me since the Shawn Nolley article. Soon after his article was published, my inbox was filled with at least a hundred email requests per day. My inbox that day only had ten or eleven, so things were getting better. Returning to normal, or so I thought.
I opened the other emails sent by potential clients. I had just finished the case in Maine, had spent a week recovering from a dislocated shoulder I suffered on the last day of the case. I was itching to get back to doing what I love: Solving crimes and putting badasses away. Actually, that’s not entirely true, though it sounds rather noble. According to the therapist I was mandated by the Columbus PD to start seeing after Lucy’s death—and the same therapist I was mandated to continuing seeing after I put a bullet through my face—my attraction to being a detective was not as much about me helping others but more about my anger and denial about Lucy’s death. That made no sense to me when the therapist said it, but she must have believed she was right. Over the nine months I visited with her, she must have repeated her belief a hundred times.
“Derek, tell me, what about being a freelance detective do you think will bring you closer to Lucy?” she asked during one session.
Still Heartless: The Thrilling Conclusion to Heartless (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 5) Page 2
