by Joseph Flynn
Dr. Dahlgren wanted to say some people’s work — hers — should be taken seriously. But then she supposed a cop could say the same thing. She’d heard about Ron Ketchum defusing that dirty bomb. An avid downhill skier, Perri Dahlgren would have been heartbroken if her favorite slopes had been despoiled by radioactive fallout.
Also wouldn’t have been good if people had been killed, she supposed.
So, yes, cops had their serious moments. That being the case, they should have recognized when other people did work you shouldn’t joke about. She never understood the concept of black humor. Or pretty much any humor.
Her colleagues said she had just the right bedside manner for her job.
She ignored their barbs.
What she couldn’t deny was that some misbegotten mass of protoplasm, one she couldn’t believe was fully human, had drained Hale Tibbot of enough of his blood to do a barroom full of vampires credit. A normal adult male had roughly six quarts of blood on board. Any blood loss of forty percent or more could cause circulatory failure and death.
Hale Tibbot had been tapped for three quarts, half his blood supply.
Seated in his erect posture, the remainder had pooled in his lower extremities.
Given the volume of blood loss the victim had suffered, the walls of the room where he’d been found should have been painted red. The crime scene photos showed just the opposite. Not a drop of blood was to be found anywhere. Doctor George Ryman had speculated, fancifully, that perhaps a desiccant-filled collar had been affixed to the murder weapon. Queen Elizabeth the First hadn’t worn collars big enough to do the job.
No, the means of this spotless killing had a much simpler explanation. Dr. Dahlgren knew from the size of the wound what the murder weapon had to be, a large bore needle. Maybe sixteen gauge or even fourteen. At any rate, it was a size similar to that used to do transfusions and donations. Just like a donation, Tibbot’s blood must have wound up in a plastic bag.
To be used for what purpose, Dr. Dahlgren wondered.
She stopped herself from even speculating.
She didn’t want to know.
There weren’t any vampires out there but there certainly was a ghoul.
Walt Ketchum, owing to the almost two months he’d spent at Clay Steadman’s place, had become a known quantity on the streets of Goldstrike. Not wanting to get behind the wheel of a car for fear his brain might go haywire again and he’d run over a pack of Cub Scouts, Walt walked everywhere he went. After the first week, his legs and feet hurt so bad he thought he might have to be put into a wheelchair. The prospect hadn’t pleased him. Whenever it might be that he breathed his last, he wanted to be operating under his own steam.
He’d confided that to Clay, who said he shared the sentiment.
The mayor also brought in a bright-eyed little Chinese woman who stuck so many needles into Walt he thought he’d have to join the pincushion union. She also massaged his feet and calves until he felt so good he decided he wanted to die with her hands on him. If he ever felt he was slipping away, he intended to put in an emergency call to Jia Li.
The acupuncturist and massage therapist said she charged extra to usher someone into heaven. Walt said he didn’t expect to make it that far, but he paid her fee twice over in advance to make sure she’d show up.
Just as Walt had become familiar to the owners and customers of the shops he passed — and of course the cops who patrolled the town — so too had he come to know them. He’d spent most of his police career in a radio car, but driving or walking, any smart copper knew enough to keep his eyes open whenever he stepped out his front door.
You saw the kind of violence people visited upon each other every damn day, you wanted to spot the predators before they drew a bead on you. Even in Goldstrike, where the median income would incline people to hire out their thuggery, you had to be watchful.
So after seeing and waving to a growing number of people he’d come to think of as acquaintances if not friends, and feeling more like Officer Friendly than he ever had during his working days, Walt spotted an honest-to-God bad guy drive by.
Shit, what was his name again?
He was that pretty boy they’d collared in Hollywood, him and …
Christ. Now, he couldn’t even remember his old partner’s name.
A guy he’d worked with for … he couldn’t remember how many years.
Had the shot he’d taken from Hale Tibbot been that hard?
Must’ve been. He couldn’t remember what errand had brought him into town.
John Tall Wolf, sitting at a café table outside Patisserie Leroux, a glass of orange juice and a pain au chocolat in front of him, saw an elderly man who resembled Ron Ketchum shuffle past. The man’s eyes were unfocused and his gait was unsteady. John’s impulse was to lend a hand, but he saw a patrol officer on a bike and pointed the man out to him.
The cop took a glance at the man, seemed to recognize him, and gave a wave of thanks to John as he pedaled over to the old-timer. Having the cop talk to him, snapped the guy out of his reverie. The cop spoke into the radio clipped to his shirt and a moment later a patrol unit picked up the old man, let him sit up front, a guest not an arrest.
The courteous treatment reinforced John’s impression that the old man was related to the chief, his father maybe. The man who’d gone into court and testified that if his son had any uncharitable thoughts about people of color, he’d gotten them from him. Just a moment ago, though, the old man hadn’t had any problem accepting help from a Latino bike cop.
Of course, the old guy, if he was Ron Ketchum’s father, had worn a badge himself.
Maybe sharing membership in a smaller tribe, cops, had momentarily trumped the difference in their complexions. Usually, when a person had a problem getting along with someone else, it took more than one point of disparity. It was when people had no tribes in common that things could get ugly.
John consumed his juice and pastry and called Marlene Flower Moon.
“I need some help,” he said.
“I’m your boss, Tall Wolf. You do remember that occasionally?”
“Every time I make you look good.”
“I meant …”
Marlene’s voice trailed off. John knew what she meant. He was supposed to do support work for her, not the other way ‘round. But Marlene hated to let Tall Wolf know he’d gotten under her skin, and he did make her look good. Never caring about claiming credit for himself when he cracked a case.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“Information. What’s the name of the local Native American tribe in or near Goldstrike, California.”
“Near,” Marlene said. She paused to check her memory. “There may be one or two Washoe people in town, I’m not sure.”
“Washoe then. Who’s the local head man?”
“Herbert Wilkins.”
“You know him?”
Marlene, master politician that she was, made it a point of meeting everyone who might help with her future ambitions. No one was too humble for her to overlook, and do a favor for if she could. But Marlene was a loan shark when it came to collecting on favors. The interest on repaying her kindness multiplied daily.
“We’ve met a time or two.”
That was all it took; the guy owed her.
“I need an introduction.”
“Why? What does this have to do with domestic terrorism?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“So you’re just fishing.”
He was, but he was good at it. He waited Marlene out in silence. She’d hired Tall Wolf, but he’d tendered a signed resignation on his first day of work. It wasn’t dated. He’d left that for her to fill in. Didn’t matter. It was still his declaration of independence.
She hated it that she held no claim on him.
Right now, Marlene had to calculate whether accepting even a token repayment from Herbert Wilkins, something she was loath to do, would be worth the return of whatever Tall Wol
f might produce for her.
“All right,” she snapped. “I’ll call and ask Herbert to see you.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Don’t patronize me, and Tall Wolf?”
“Yes?”
“When you meet the man, try to remember who you are.”
“A special agent of the BIA on loan to the EPA?”
“A Native American.”
“Oh, yeah, that.”
“I’ll be coming to Goldstrike sooner rather than later. To see if the fish are biting.”
“Can’t wait.” John clicked off.
That was always Marlene’s hole card. Crowding him.
Letting him know Coyote was watching his every move.
His phone rang before he could put it back in his pocket.
Ron Ketchum. He asked, “Did you just ask a cop to help an old guy?”
“Yeah.”
“That was my father. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I got a call from the county medical examiner. Detec … Retired Detective Powell and I are going over to Community Hospital to get Dr. Dahlgren’s report. You want to join us?”
“Sure,” Tall Wolf.
After a chat with Marlene, visiting a morgue would be a real pick-me-up.
Ron and Keely had been sleeping in each other’s arms when Sergeant Stanley tracked them down at the Renaissance. He’d learned from his lady friend, Marjorie Fitzroy, that the chief had picked up the key to the VIP suite and, yes, he had an attractive woman with him. Marjorie hadn’t seen either of them leave the hotel.
She forwarded Sergeant Stanley’s call to the suite.
For her part, Keely made sure to clear her throat and sound at least mostly awake before taking the call. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and told Ron, “Sergeant Stanley.”
Ron gave his head a shake and took a sip of flat ginger ale from a glass on the nightstand. He watched a nude Keely make her way to the bathroom. For all the years they’d worked together, it had been their first time. Neither of them had been disappointed.
They were both of an age where falling asleep afterward was a perfectly acceptable alternative to a second go-round and —
“You there, Chief?” the sergeant asked.
“Yeah, Sarge. What’s going on?”
“Dr. Dahlgren has a preliminary report on Hale Tibbot, if you want to talk with her.”
“I do. She’s at Community Hospital?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask her to give me thirty minutes.”
“Will do.”
Ron ended the call and went into the bathroom. The shower stall was more than big enough for two people, but he asked if he might share the space. Keely rinsed the shampoo suds from her eyes so she might see what his intentions were.
“Just a scrub?” she asked.
“For now. The county ME is waiting to see … well, you and John Tall Wolf. But I want to hear what she has to say.”
Keely gestured him into the stall.
“You’re going to let us run our own investigation, right?”
He nodded.
“Good. I won’t meddle in your eco-terrorist case. Tall Wolf said he has to keep a hand in, but I don’t think he’s the usual pain in the ass you get with a fed.”
“Yeah, not your usual hard charger out of D.C.”
“On the other hand, it’s the sneaky ones you’ve got to watch for.”
To prove her point, she goosed Ron and slipped out of the stall before he could retaliate.
Chapter 11
John Tall Wolf caught up with Ron and Keely just before they could enter the hospital’s morgue, where Dr. Dahlgren awaited them.
“I put a call in to the Nuclear Regulatory Commission,” he said, “asked them to estimate what the damage might have been to Lake Adeline and Goldstrike if the bomb had gone off.”
Ron gave a soft snort. “Guess there’s no question what the damage would have been to me.”
No one argued that point.
Tall Wolf said. “What I was thinking, we ought to know how big the bomber thinks. Might give us a clue as to how he makes his plans. What he might try next time.”
Keely said, “So you think there will be a next time? The guy who called the PD wasn’t just blowing smoke.”
Tall Wolf nodded. “I think it was real. Bet there won’t be any more technical glitches either.”
Ron took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The bastard who called to claim credit said we wouldn’t be lucky again.”
None of them wanted to speculate whose luck would prevail.
“Let’s see what your ME has to tell us,” Keely told Ron.
Hale Tibbot’s body had been put into cold storage. Dr. Dahlgren received the three cops in the small office she borrowed on the occasions she was called to Goldstrike. She looked at the others and said, “Let’s not all inhale at the same time or we might risk asphyxiation.”
Pathologist humor. Everyone smiled politely. Perri Dahlgren zeroed in on Tall Wolf.
Wearing his sunglasses indoors.
She asked him, “Light sensitivity or terminal cool?”
“Sensitivity.”
“Do you ski, downhill?”
He shook his head. “Sun reflecting off snow, that’s hard for me even with the glasses.”
“Shame,” she said.
“Doc,” Ron prompted.
Assuming a professional demeanor, Dr. Dahlgren described how Hale Tibbot had been killed. The amount of blood that had been taken from him.
She said, “I think you’re looking for someone with at least some medical training. A doctor, a nurse or a tech who worked at a blood bank. Someone who not only doesn’t mind plunging a needle into a blood vessel but has the eye and the experience to make a clean stick the first time and not spill a drop.”
Keely said, “Not too many people make blood donations from their necks, do they?”
“Well, no.”
“I always use my left arm,” the retired detective said. “So I can still shoot with my dominant hand, if I need to.”
Dr. Dahlgren conceded, “Arms are the most common donation sites, and people do tend to use their secondary limbs.”
Continuing her line of thought, Keely said, “Wouldn’t it be more likely that someone with medical experience and a background in, say, trauma care or surgery might be less squeamish about going for an artery in the neck?”
“I suppose,” Dr. Dahlgren said.
“Well, you’re a physician, but you work with bodies not people. Would you have more apprehension about going for a throat than a forearm?”
“I … I. Yes, I would.”
“So we’ll look for someone a little higher up the medical food chain than a tech.”
“Or maybe it’s someone who just likes to stick pointed objects in things,” Tall Wolf said. “Has liked to do that since he was a kid. Worked his way up to needles and people.
Everyone looked at Tall Wolf, uneasy with the prospect he’d raised.
Ron turned the questioning back to a more practical consideration “Wherever blood is taken,” he asked, “isn’t it much easier to do if someone’s holding still?”
Dr. Dahlgren said, “Of course, it is. Making a clean stick on a moving body part would be pure luck.”
All three cops looked at each other.
None of them believed Hale Tibbot’s pin-neat homicide had been a matter of chance.
Tall Wolf asked, “So how did the killer clamp the victim’s head down.”
Dr. Dahlgren said, “I wondered about that, too, and I found the answer.”
She led them out of the office into the morgue and rolled Tibbot’s body out of the refrigerated compartment in which it rested. His head had been shaved clean. For a moment, Ron was dismayed that the victim had lost his meticulously coiffed hair. Then he relaxed, remembering that Officer Benny Marx had taken photos of Tibbot at the crime scene.
Dr. Dahlgren rotated the cadaver’s head so the rig
ht-hand profile was up. She stepped back and allowed the three cops to take a look. What they saw was a pre-mortem bruise in the shape of a hand. The margins of the fingers, thumb and palm were not clean lines, but the approximate size of a man’s hand was there plain as day.
Ron said, “You didn’t get any fingerprints, did you, Doctor?”
Perri Dahlgren shook her head.
“The victim’s hair was too thick to leave prints on his scalp.”
“Did you find any flakes of skin among the hair you shaved off his head?” Tall Wolf asked.
“I didn’t look yet,” Dr. Dahlgren said. “But I made sure I collected and bagged every strand. When I get back to my own lab, I’ll do a search.”
Keely told Ron, “Scrunch down a little.”
The chief intuitively knew what was coming, but obliged.
Keely wrapped her left arm around Ron’s head, placed her left hand flat against the side of Ron’s head. She leaned forward and pointed her right index finger at his throat and gave it a light jab. She let go and Ron stood up straight.
“That’d work,” she said. “The killer must have been strong to leave a bruise like that through a thick covering of hair. He could have immobilized the victim to get the needle in, if he knew what he was doing.”
Tall Wolf said, “If he collected Tibbot’s blood, where would the plastic bag have been? Wouldn’t the weight of the blood filling the bag pull it free from the needle line?”
Dr. Dahlgren thought about that. It was a question she hadn’t considered. But she came up with an answer all the cops could buy.
“If the bag were attached to the inside of the killer’s forearm, just below the hand he used to make the stick, it wouldn’t have been dangling. It would have been fairly secure.”
Ron still had a point he needed cleared up.
He said, “Even if the killer held Tibbot still long enough to get the needle in quickly, how did he keep the man from flopping around, yanking at the needle, pulling something loose and spilling blood? Were there any signs of death throes?”
