“Perhaps not, but depending on the extent of the damage, a full implant might make sense, or the patient might choose it for cosmetic reasons.”
“Did your John Doe have any of those other conditions?”
“Well, actually, not that I could tell from the autopsy, but keep in mind that his organs had decomposed to an extent that makes it hard to draw firm conclusions. Still, his lungs didn’t show signs of smoking, and the condition of his joints didn’t indicate rheumatoid arthritis.”
“So you have a real medical mystery on your hands.
“I suppose you could say that. The truth is that, in the absence of any of the other factors I mentioned, the only time you see full implants at an early age is in combination with—”
Gin paused, as the germ of an idea formed. There was one condition that could have led to implants, but it hadn’t occurred to her because the other telltale sign of the disease occurred in the hands—which had been hacked off.
“I think John Doe may have had ectodermal dysplasia!!”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it,” Rosa said, surprised. “It sounds horrible, whatever it is.”
“I can’t believe I missed it. Although, some of the symptoms are subtle, like the frontal bossing and prominent supraorbital ridge. But the hands—”
“Slow down, Gin. What exactly is this condition?”
Gin took a breath and tried to focus her racing thoughts. “Ectodermal dysplasia is characterized by defects in tissues derived from the embryonic ectoderm, specifically the skin, hair, nails, sweat glands, and teeth. Patients can have any or all of these defects, in a broad range of severity. In the case of the teeth, they can be missing or malformed, and often a full implant is the best course. The thing is, the hands are often the most obvious symptom when the patient is afflicted with ectrodactyly—that is, fingers are missing or fused together, or can have a cleft down the middle, commonly called ‘split hand syndrome.’” Something else occurred to her. “Cleft palate also commonly co-occurs, and while our John Doe didn’t have that, he could have easily had a microform cleft, which looks like a scar above the upper lip. Given the state of decomposition, if the cleft had been minor, it may have been impossible to detect.” She would have to review the photographs again.
“Sorry if this comes out wrong, but I still don’t understand why you’re so excited about this.”
“Oh, sorry, Rosa. It’s just that ectodermal dysplasia is rare enough that if our John Doe knew he had it, or if his ectrodactyly was obvious, it might help us track down who he was. Listen, I can’t thank you enough, because I never would have figured this out without you—you’re a genius!”
“I still don’t know what I said but … thanks,” Rosa said. “I think I’ll stick to teaching fourth graders. They can be a pain some days, but at least the only mysterious conditions affecting them most of the time are sniffles, sneezes, and a bad case of talking back.”
16
As Gin drove home from Rosa’s house, her mind went into overdrive reviewing what she knew about ectodermal dysplasia. There was the hair—often thin and sparse. Check. She hadn’t noticed any abnormalities in John Doe’s feet or toes, but the severe mottling and blistering that she’d chalked up to normal decomposition could also have been the result of dyshidrosis, a blistering of the skin of the hands and feet. It was often treated with topical steroids, which could account for the thinning and resultant rapid breakdown of the skin.
She pulled into the drive and hurried into the house, tossing her purse on the hall table. Light emanated from the study, where she found her father reading one of his beloved thrillers, a snifter of scotch at his side.
“Oh, hi, sweetie, you just missed Mom,” he said. “She has to be up early, so she said to tell you—”
“Dad,” Gin said, unable to contain herself. “In your practice, did you ever come across an organization for people suffering from ectodermal dysplasia? Like a support group or something?”
“Not really,” Richard said, taking the abrupt subject change in stride. “I mean, there are organizations at the national level, and a pretty active one in the UK, if memory serves. But at the local level, at least in rural areas like ours, I would imagine there simply aren’t enough affected people to support the formation of local clubs. In fact, in all my years in Trumbull I can only recall two cases, both men, but one moved away years ago and the other one died just last winter from a heart attack.” He snapped his fingers. “One of Mark Krischer’s patients, come to think of it—wasn’t that who you were asking me about the other day?”
“Wait,” Gin said. “You’re saying Dr. Krischer had a patient with ectodermal dysplasia who recently died? Do you happen to know if he was buried locally?”
“That is an odd question,” Richard observed, “but I suppose experience has taught me not to ask. I don’t know the answer, but it should be easy enough to find out.”
“Do you remember his name, by any chance?”
“Sorry, honey. I can’t remember half of my own patients’ names, much less my colleagues’.”
Gin was already headed for the door. “That’s okay,” she called over her shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”
She went to her room and grabbed her laptop, then got into bed, leaning back against the propped pillows. She tried various google searches and found dozens of mentions of Dr. Mark Krischer, including photos of him at several fundraisers and galas and articles in several journals to which he’d contributed, but little about his individual patients. Taking a different tack, she tried searching on “ectodermal dysplasia” and “Trumbull”, then when she still came up dry, “Allegheny County” and then other nearby towns. Finally, when she tried “Clairton,” she was rewarded with a recent obituary of a man named Douglas Gluck.
Douglas Gluck—Beloved husband of Connie Dover Gluck; Devoted father of Kenneth (Jean) Gluck and Cheryl (Fred) Ingram; Caring brother of Daniel. Employed at Harris Carton for nearly forty years, Doug was recognized for several innovations in the industry. Doug enjoyed golf, travel, and music, and belonged to the St. Theresa’s men’s choir for the last sixteen years. Passed away February 2, 2016 at the age of 56. A celebration of life service will be held at 11:00am, Monday, February 9th at the Ingleside Mortuary, 925 Wayne Avenue, Clairton, PA. Interment will follow in the East Riverton Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, donations may be sent to the National Foundation for Ectodermal Dysplasia.
Bingo. It took her a little longer to find a photograph, but in a 2012 article in an online trade magazine in which Gluck posed with other members of the Harris Carton management team, his hands appeared to have only two or three digits each. The sparseness of his hair, and characteristic facial structure, were far more obvious than they had been in the body’s current condition. Gin’s excitement grew as she realized that Douglas Gluck had to be the same man whose mutilated body had been discovered. She reached for her phone and tried Tuck, but he didn’t pick up. She left a message for him to call her and deliberated only for a moment before calling Bruce. This gave her the perfect opportunity to mention the information she and Tuck had found about Logan Ewing, if she could find a way to work it in.
“Bruce here.”
“This is Gin Sullivan calling. I’ve got a couple of pieces of information for you. Well, one piece of information, to be accurate, and one theory about the John Doe I’d like to share.”
“I’m all ears,” Bruce said sarcastically. “Did you discover that John Doe has a tattoo with his name on it somewhere where the sun don’t shine, that we all somehow missed?”
Gin bit back a retort. “No, but I think I’ve figured out who he is.” She gave him a quick description of ectrodermal dysplasia, its potential effects, and explained how she’d found out about Dr. Krischer’s patient, with her father’s help. “It makes sense now that I’ve seen a photograph of him. The hands would have made it obvious, but I might have figured it out from his distinctive facial features, if I’d seen him before decomposition.”
> “Even teachers’ pets like you make a mistake now and then, Gin. Try not to get depressed over it.”
Gin seethed. “I’m hardly depressed. I’m only trying to be helpful.”
“So what’s your margin of error here? Is this a slam dunk or just a hunch on your part?”
“My confidence is quite high,” Gin said stiffly.
“Okay, well, I’m going to make a few calls, see if we can—oh, shit.”
“What?”
“I just googled Gluck. Dude looks like a giant elf. An old, giant elf.”
Gin winced. “Patients with ectodermal dysplasia have to deal with unpleasant side effects already. Insensitive characterizations of their appearance hardly help to—”
“Jeez, ease up, Gin, okay? Guy’s dead, he can’t hear me. Listen, I’ll add him to the list. Guess we’ll have to take a look at his grave, see why no one noticed it was robbed. Not sure how we’ll explain that to the grieving widow. ‘Hello, ma’am, about your husband…’” He laughed. “I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
“But you are going to look into this, right? I mean, at the very least you could take a look at his grave and see if it’s been disturbed.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Bruce said. “But yes, I’m inclined to pursue this. Let me remind you that once you step out of the morgue, you’re just an ordinary citizen, Gin. So while I appreciate this fascinating little tidbit you’ve shared with me, it doesn’t entitle you to tell me how to run my case. Now what was the other thing? You said you had two things to tell me?”
“Oh—right.” Gin had gotten so caught up in the discussion of Gluck’s condition that she’d nearly forgotten. “It turns out that the owner of the cabin where Douglas Gluck’s body was found is a friend of a friend.” True enough, if Gin considered her alter ego, Beth Conway, a ‘friend.’ “I understand you spoke to the owner’s son, Keith Walker. What you may not know is that Keith’s sister has a son, Logan Ewing, who is the same age as Jonah Krischer. I looked at his Facebook page—he ‘liked’ a lot of pages of radical groups that promote white supremacist interests, as well as violent gaming culture.”
Bruce snorted. “You’re a super sleuth now, Gin? Thought you’d do a little investigating?”
Gin reminded herself to stay calm while she roiled on the inside. “I was only trying to help. It just seems to me that it might be worth seeing if Logan is involved somehow.”
“What, just because he’s got a hard-on for shoot-‘em-up video games? Hate to break it to you but it’s the same with half the pimply kids who couldn’t get a date to prom.”
“These aren’t just ordinary first-person shooter games,” Gin argued. “The one he’s most into—it’s called Dead Lands 2—the imagery is truly disturbing.”
“Oh yeah? Try me.”
Gin took a breath, reluctant to even describe the horrific depictions of murder and torture she’d found while investigating Dead Lands 2. “There are graphic depictions of dismemberments, disemboweling, decapitation … there are characters who rip out their enemies’ organs and eat them, characters who are slowly pressed to death by massive weights. There is one character who kills his victims by peeling off their skin and leaving them to die.”
Bruce snorted dismissively. “Nothing worse than the stuff me and my buddies used to talk about. Besides, haven’t you ever heard about teenage angst, Gin? Or did they not have it at the country club where you grew up? Never mind that—did Logan even go to the same school as Jonah? Any evidence that they were friends anywhere but online?”
“No,” Gin admitted. “Not that I’ve found so far, anyway. But don’t you think it merits looking into, given the rise in violence committed by hate groups like the ones Logan is interested in? Especially given the atypical nature of Gluck’s appearance. I’m not saying I know what motivated someone to tamper with his body, but all through history there have been those who were repulsed—or fascinated—by physical deformities to the point that they attacked and even killed people and populations affected by them. Eugenics is only the most recent example.”
“Now you’re stretching so far, I can barely follow the connection you’re making. If I understood you right, you’re saying that Gluck had this disease that freaked people out to the point that its victims got hunted down and murdered? Sounds like fantasy to me. Unless you’re claiming that the kid killed him in the first place, I don’t get—well, actually, I don’t get it at all. Why would a kid dig up a corpse afflicted with a condition that, in your words, repulsed and fascinated him, only to re-bury him somewhere else? Unless he was doing some sort of Dr. Mengele experiments on him … but I didn’t exactly see evidence of that in the autopsy room.”
“Look, I didn’t say I had it figured out,” Gin said, flustered. “Only that I thought it was worth talking to him.”
“Listen, Gin, I’m writing this down, okay? And if it makes you feel better, go ahead and shoot me an email with everything you found about this kid—links to his social media, these so-called hate groups he’s into, et cetera, et cetera. I’ll try to take a look at all of it, but as you may have noticed, we’re understaffed and underpaid and under the gun to keep this from blowing up in some sort of media frenzy.” He paused. “That was pretty good, huh? Understaffed, underpaid, under the gun. I’ll have to use that with Wheeler. Anyway, have a good day, Gin.”
“Wait! Are you going to let me know what you find out?”
Bruce sighed audibly. “Remember the part where you’re an ordinary citizen? Think about that for a minute.”
There was a click and Gin realized that he’d hung up on her. She stared at the phone in frustration. But Bruce was right—not only was she merely an ordinary citizen, Tuck wasn’t much better off at the moment. Even if they were right about the identity of their John Doe, anything beyond a casual visual investigation of his grave would require a warrant, and there was no way Tuck would be able to secure one while on leave.
But … there was one other person who might be able to help.
Before she could change her mind, she dialed Liam Witt’s number.
“Hey, Gin,” he answered.
“Hi, Liam. I’m sorry to be calling you at home. But something’s come up that I could use your help on. But I know it’s a bit … unorthodox for me to be making this call at all.”
“I’m intrigued, Gin.”
“All right.” She explained the situation to him, from her findings at the autopsy, to her realization that they added up to a diagnosis of ectodermal dysplasia, to what she had learned about Logan Ewing, to her frustrating conversation with Bruce. “I wish I had confidence he would follow up on this,” she ventured. “But I’m afraid that if he delays, this will be forgotten, and it will go nowhere. We could end up never knowing who was responsible for tampering with his body.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Liam agreed. “But it’s easy enough to make a few calls. I can’t promise anything—this could go either way. Look, I’ll drive by the cemetery and take a look first. If there’d been anything obvious, like a big hole where the headstone used to be, someone would have reported it by now. But assuming that the grave site is intact, we’ll need to get a warrant to dig. It’s rare, but it’s not unheard of. And if we get a sympathetic judge, he could put it through right away.”
“We could also wait for a DNA result to identify him—but that could take weeks.”
“Yeah, no, I think we’ll want to move on this quickly. I mean, it won’t look good if the family finds out we had a lead on his identity that we didn’t bother to follow up on.”
“I don’t mean to cause trouble between you and your partner, though. Will Bruce be upset that you went over his head?”
“Eh, Bruce isn’t so bad. I mean, I know he has a problem with women—taking direction from them, anyway—but with me, I’ve just learned how to manage him. The trick is getting him to think things are his idea. I’ll just tell him that we ran into each other up in the city. That we got talking and I dragge
d it out of you, the stuff about your John Doe theory. And then I’ll ask for his opinion, you know, make him feel like he’s schooling the newbie. Like, ‘Hey, Bruce, I’ve never run into anything like this before. I don’t even know where to start.’ Trust me—that’s all it’ll take.’”
“You’re a genius,” Gin said, impressed. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
17
The next morning, as she was working on the classroom grant proposal at the kitchen table, Gin got a call from Bruce.
“So, I’ve made some headway on this whole clusterfuck,” he said, sounding considerably more upbeat than he had the day before. “I snagged Judge Amador and he was more than happy to help. He shares my opinion that this shouldn’t wait. So, I’m headed over there in a few minutes to pick up the paperwork and then I’ll drive over to East Riverton to take a look at the grave and talk to whoever’s in charge. Wheeler’s talked to the family, and they’ve given their permission. They obviously didn’t know shit about Gluck wandering away from his grave, and they want answers as much as we do. With any luck, we’ll get a shovel in the ground today.”
Gin ignored the remarkable shift in Bruce’s tone. Clearly her talk with Liam had paid off. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m going to need you to come along. Can you clear your schedule?”
“You mean—right now?”
“Yeah. You’re our decomp specialist, right? So we might as well make use of you.”
“Funny how yesterday you didn’t consider me a bona fide member of the department,” Gin couldn’t resist pointing out. “And as a private citizen—those were your words, weren’t they? I’ve got no obligation to help. However, I’m committed to doing whatever I can to get to the bottom of this.”
Bruce snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Don’t take too long putting on your lipstick or whatever—we’ll probably be paying the gravediggers time and a half.”
* * *
The East Riverton Cemetery wasn’t the largest in the area, but Gin had always thought it was the prettiest, with a gentle slope bordered by rows of stately trees and an ornate iron fence that dated back more than a hundred years. Her own grandparents were buried there, near the crest of a ridge with views of both the river and the beautiful grounds of the country club they’d belonged to for over half a century. She had worried that visiting the cemetery might trigger more anxiety as well as memories of those other graves, half a world away. Instead, she found herself feeling motivated—almost excited, even—to get to work.
In the Darkest Hour Page 16
