The Blood Betrayal

by Don Donaldson

  “Because we’re friends, I’m not even gonna ask why you want my house,” Daniel said.

  “I appreciate that.”

  Daniel waited for Carl to say more. When he didn’t, Daniel said, “So why do you want it?”

  Carl lowered his voice so Doris couldn’t hear. “Some people are after us. And I can’t go home or stay in a motel or anyplace public.”

  “Jesus,” Daniel said. “What have you done?”

  “It’d take me a couple of hours to explain, and even then, you’d have questions. “We still do.”

  “Was that supposed to make me lose interest? ’Cause it didn’t.”

  “So what about your house?” Carl said.

  “There’s an extra key inside a fake rock in the front flower bed. It’s the small one beside two bigger real rocks.”

  “A fake rock? That’s the best you could think of?” Carl said. “You’re a computer security genius for god’s sake.”

  “A duplex ain’t a computer,” Daniel said. “And it works, so why overthink it.”

  “I’d argue the point with you,” Carl said, “but we need another favor, and I don’t want to upset you.”

  Daniel threw his arms out. “Just consider me your own private chicken and pluck away.”

  “We have to change vehicles. But Beth doesn’t drive. We’d like you to follow us ’til we can dump the SUV. Then we’ll need to be driven to a car rental agency.”

  Daniel grinned. “Only if I get to play myself in the movie version.”

  “When the time comes, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Less than thirty minutes later, standing by the car Carl had just rented, Daniel put his hand on Carl’s shoulder, looked hard at him and then at Beth. “Seriously, you two. Be careful.”

  ACROSS THE ASPHALT, the cast concrete, dark windows, and martini-glass columns of the Arkansas State Crime Lab sat soaking up the morning sun. Ernst Mahler had positioned his car at the far west end of the parking lot so he could watch the lab’s front door. He’d been there since dawn, waiting to see if Carl Martin and Beth Corbin would bring the cremated remains they’d stolen to the lab for analysis.

  The cell phone on his seat began to ring. “Mahler.”

  “Anything?” Meggs said, calling from where he was watching Carl’s house.

  “I’ll let you know if I see them.”

  “Anybody ask why you’ve been there so long?”

  “No. Apparently they’ve all got their heads so far up their asses looking at the evidence from old crimes, they don’t see anything else. They don’t even have any security cameras out here.” Feeling his bladder calling out to him, Mahler said, “That all you wanted?”

  “For the moment.”

  Mahler ended the call and tossed the phone back on the seat. He reached down to the passenger side of the floorboard and picked up the empty plastic Evian bottle he’d been using all morning to evacuate his bladder, after which he’d empty it onto the asphalt. A moment later, as he was lining himself up with the mouth of the bottle, a gray four-door Dodge sedan pulled into the parking lot and found a slot over near the spaces reserved for police vehicles.

  It wasn’t the black SUV stolen from Artisan, but he didn’t expect the two he was after would be so stupid as to keep that vehicle. So as he waited to see who got out of this one, all his faculties were focused on getting a look at the driver, which meant the Evian bottle remained empty.

  The row of cars between Mahler and the Dodge prevented him from inspecting the driver until the guy was halfway to the lab door. What he saw was a man of average height dressed in jeans and a lightweight tan jacket. He had long black hair sticking out from under a tan baseball cap and was carrying a large cardboard box.

  UNDER THE TAN cap and black wig, Carl had the feeling he was being watched. So it was with difficulty that he kept his eyes on the crime lab’s front door and continued to walk toward it at a purposeful yet not abnormally rapid pace.

  Chapter 26

  UPON ENTERING the foyer of the crime lab, Carl saw a large sign on the white wall directly ahead that said EVIDENCE CHECK-IN. An arrow pointed to the right. Hoping he was just being squirrelly out in the parking lot and there really hadn’t been anyone watching him, he followed the arrow to a white Formica counter under a window cut in the wall.

  Through the window he saw an older black lady seated at a desk working a keyboard. A pretty Asian woman in a blue lab smock stood beside her watching what was appearing on the computer’s monitor. Neither acknowledged his presence.

  Beside the window was a small button with a sign above it that said PLEASE PRESS FOR SERVICE.

  He pressed. This set off a buzzer that didn’t make any impression on the two at the computer but did summon another woman from a back room. This one was dressed in a mannish white shirt and blue slacks that clung to her saddlebag hips. She had hair like corkscrews and a deeply tanned complexion so creased it looked as if she kept her face balled up in a drawer at night.

  “Whattya got?” she asked, the frown lines etched on her forehead deepening.

  “I’m Dr. Carl Martin.” He put his hand on the cardboard box resting on the counter. “I’ve got two sets of cremated remains here and I was hoping I could get them analyzed.”

  The woman shook her head. “We only work for law enforcement agencies.”

  “I didn’t expect you would do this for free. I’ll pay for the analysis of course.”

  “Listen to what I’m saying . . . we only work for—”

  “There may well be some crimes associated with this material.”

  She leaned forward. “Unless it comes in as part of an investigation, obtained under appropriately legal guidelines, it ain’t evidence. And if it ain’t evidence—”

  “Maybe I can help,” the Asian woman said, joining them. She extended her hand. “I’m Dr. Sato, the staff forensic anthropologist.”

  Her hand felt like a tiny bird in Carl’s much bigger mitt. She was so much what the other woman wasn’t, they almost seemed like different species. They shook briefly, then Carl released her.

  “What do you have in there?” she asked.

  “Two metal urns that supposedly contain the remains of my friend’s parents. But because of some circumstances so complicated I’m sure you don’t have time to listen to them, we’re wondering if they’re really in there.”

  “I’m sorry to say this, but the analysis of cremains produces a very limited amount of information. Unless we would be so fortunate as to find an intact tooth that would match some dental records, we couldn’t say whose remains those are. Sometimes, a bit of metal like a screw from a pair of glasses can rule out say, a person who didn’t wear glasses . . . or the presence of a surgical screw might tell us the cremains include material from someone who once had a bad bone break. But beyond that—”

  “I was hoping you could tell us something much more basic about these.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’re wondering if they’re even human.”

  She smiled, showing a set of teeth that, though slightly uneven, did nothing to mar her appearance. “Now you’ve hit upon something we can do. By burning a sample at twelve thousand degrees Fahrenheit and measuring the vaporization signature of the inorganic metals in the sample, we can see if it matches human standards.”

  “Are you saying you’ll test them?”

  “I’ve got a new lab tech I’m training this week. I could use your material to show her how to set up the combustion chamber and read the results. It would be a much more meaningful exercise if we could include a true unknown with our standards.”

  “How long would it take to get an answer?”

  “If we get right on it, maybe an hour. There’s a break room with some magazines in it down that way, around the corner. You could wait there
or come back.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  On the way to the break room, Carl spotted three courtesy phones separated by wooden dividers on the wall. They reminded him he should check in with Marge. Even though his cell phone had gotten wet in the cave and so far hadn’t been able to pick up a signal even now they were back in the city, he’d kept it, hoping it would dry out and be okay. He tried it now.

  No signal.

  Finally accepting that it was permanently damaged, he tossed it in a nearby waste can and went over to the wall phones, where he stepped inside one of the enclosed spaces and called his lab. “Marge, it’s me. Have you done the eighty percent replacement yet?”

  “Finished an hour ago. They’re up now and looking good. All the others are fine, too.”

  “Incredible. I’ve got some personal business I have to take care of that’ll keep me away from the lab for a day or two. If today’s animals don’t crash, go all the way tomorrow.”

  “Sure you don’t want to be here?”

  “Want to, but can’t.

  “I’ll take care of it. Good luck on whatever you need to do.”

  “Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

  Carl left the phone and went into the break room, which was outfitted like a 1950s kitchen, lots of speckled Formica and chrome. He walked over to a sofa with plastic cushions and thumbed through the pile of magazines on the end table beside it.

  On top was Real Police, followed by Police Review and Law Enforcement News. Then he found a Good Housekeeping and a Little Rock real estate book that was two years old.

  Finding none of that interesting, he dropped into the sofa and instantly began to wonder how Beth was doing back at Daniel’s rental house. She wanted to come along to the lab but agreed that if anyone was watching the lab, a couple with a box would draw much more attention than a man alone. At least the place was furnished and had a small TV she could watch.

  He sat for a moment with his arms folded over his chest looking at the pale green vinyl squares on the floor, then he thought of a much better way to spend the time than sitting there.

  Back at Evidence Check-In, he was still invisible to the lady at the desk. So once again he hit the buzzer. When the woman who wouldn’t help him earlier came to answer, he said, “Where would I find the medical examiner’s office?”

  “Basement. Elevators are down the hall.”

  In the basement, Carl followed the sign admonishing all visitors to go to the main office. He soon found that office to be a spartan windowless room where two overweight women who could have been identical twins sat at separate desks. Both were clacking away on their keyboards, making sure every recipient of their services went into eternity with the circumstances of their death neatly recorded and filed. As if orderly paperwork could mitigate having someone you loved suddenly torn from your life.

  Down here he wasn’t invisible. The twin on the left looked up and raised her heavily penciled eyebrows as he entered.

  “I’m Dr. Carl Martin. My father, Robert Martin, was killed in a hunting accident last April. I’d like to see his records.”

  She couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d asked to see her panties. “You’ll need to speak with the doctor who handled the case.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I’ll check.”

  She slid her computer mouse around on the desk, clicked it a few times, then pecked at the keyboard. Her eyes traveled down the monitor apparently reading a list. She looked up. “You want Dr. Tillman.” She reached for the phone and entered a number. Her eyes focusing a millimeter in front of her, she waited for Tillman to answer.

  Apparently he wasn’t there, because she entered another number, then said into the phone, “Dr. Tillman, please come to the main ME office. Dr. Tillman . . .”

  Carl heard the page echo down the hall. In a confident tone the woman said, “He should be here in a few minutes.” She pointed at a heavy wooden chair with the finish on each palm rest worn off. “No need to stand.”

  Carl nodded and sat down. After he’d crossed and uncrossed his legs a dozen times, he heard footsteps in the hall. A figure appeared in the doorway.

  “Dr. Tillman, this is Dr. Martin. He’d like to speak with you.”

  Tillman was a big man with doughy features and pure silver hair he wore long on his neck like a Shakespearean actor. He was wearing green scrubs.

  Tillman extended his hand and in a mellow bass voice said, “Dr. Martin . . . good to meet you. No need to be wary of my touch. I always wear rubber gloves when handling the dead, although it might also be a good idea for some of the living.” They shook hands and Tillman said, “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Carl followed him down a few doors to one bearing a big color photo of a squashed possum on a country road. When the county had come along to repaint the median line, they’d sprayed a yellow stripe right over the carcass. The caption of the photo said: It’s not always necessary to be there to know what happened.

  The floor in Tillman’s office was bare terrazzo, which gave it a cold impersonal feel. Along the left wall was a collection of malformed fetuses, each in a big glass jar. The one with the single central eye seemed to be looking right at Carl.

  Tillman went behind his desk and sat in the big gray upholstered chair behind it. Carl took one of the two smaller models in front.

  Without waiting for an invitation to explain what he wanted, he repeated what he’d told the secretary. “Last April my father, Robert Martin, was killed in a hunting accident. I’d like to see his file. The secretary said I’d have to speak to you about that.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Tillman said, “but I’d feel a lot better about this conversation if you could show me something to establish your identity.”

  “Of course.” Carl dug his Arkansas Pharm ID out of his wallet and handed it across the desk.

  Tillman looked at the picture on the card and then at Carl. Seeing the expression of concern creeping across Tillman’s face, Carl suddenly remembered what he was wearing. He pulled off the cap and the wig and shoved them inside his jacket. Not even attempting to explain why he was disguised, he said, “See, it’s me.”

  Merely raising his eyebrows and cocking his head like an Irish setter at this strange behavior, Tillman gave the card back and said, “I remember your father’s case. Why do you want the file?”

  “He had a closed casket funeral, so I never got to see him. He was just there one day and gone the next. I can’t seem to accept what happened. I thought if I saw him as he was after the accident, I could move on . . . not forget him, but just . . . be able to set his death in perspective.”

  “Dr. Martin, that comes with time. Six months isn’t long enough. What you’re feeling is natural.”

  “That may be, but I’d still like to see the photos.”

  Tillman shook his head. “There was a reason he had a closed casket funeral. A shotgun wound to the face produces a horrible wound. That’s not the way you want to remember your father.”

  “I won’t. I’ll remember him as I knew him. I just need some tangible evidence of the event that took his life.”

  “Believe me, it’s a very bad idea.”

  “Are you refusing to let me see them?”

  “Just trying to give you the benefit of thirty years of experience dealing with unexpected death.”

  “Please get me the file.”

  With an expression of resignation on his face, Tillman reached for the phone and entered a number. “Connie, would you bring me the file on Robert Martin, please. It’s a case from last April.” He hung up and looked at Carl. “She’ll have it for you in just a moment.”

  There ensued an awkward silent interval in which Carl felt the one-eyed fetus staring at the side of his head. Tillman folded his arms over his chest, leaned
back in his chair, and cast his eyes downward, looking at nothing. After what felt like an hour’s wait, but was actually less than a minute, there was a knock at the door and one of the twins appeared with a file folder in her hand. She crossed the room, handed it to Tillman, and left.

  “Thanks, Connie.” Tillman put the file on his desk and opened it. From a pocket attached to the back of the folder, he extracted a white envelope. Holding the envelope close to his chest, he looked at Carl “Last chance. Sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Tillman leaned forward and handed Carl the envelope.

  Chapter 27

  CARL OPENED the envelope and removed a half dozen Polaroid photos. Because they came out upside down, his mind couldn’t immediately arrange the reds and blacks and flesh tones into anything resembling a person.

  In medical school, Carl had done a two-week rotation through the medical examiner’s office. During that rotation, he’d seen many horrible injuries, including a sawmill employee who had fallen into a log chute and been cut into right and left halves by the whirling blade at the bottom. Part of his insistence on looking at the photos of his father’s injury was the belief that, having had that experience, he could handle whatever was in those pictures. But when he turned them around, it was like the air had suddenly been sucked from the room.

  For a moment he couldn’t catch his breath. Chest heaving, he looked at an image that, except for a bit of forehead and matted hair on one side, didn’t appear human. Tillman had not exaggerated. The blast from the shotgun had reduced his father’s face to a bloody collage of bone and tendon and muscle.

  Tasting copper in the back of his throat, he shifted the top picture to the bottom and looked at another view of the horror that was once his father. Unable to take any more of this without some relief, he shifted his eyes to the floor. With the respite, he could finally take a full breath. Thus fortified, he returned to the recorded carnage in his hand.