Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  The next huge test of the Baer marriage came three years later when David, their son, turned fourteen. Andy took him on a skiing vacation in the Bugaboos for some adrenaline pumping downhill. David lost control on a steep slope and ended up sailing over a cliff, while Andy could do nothing but watch in dumb horror. By the time rescuers reached the broken body, David was cold and dead.

  Trish and Laura never forgave Andy. Trish filed for divorce two months later.

  Staring out the window, he sipped scotch and wondered how his own marriage had become so entangled in a thickening bramble of constant little irritations for the past two years. This phone call, for example. What was the Chinese saying? Death from a thousand little cuts?

  The really frustrating thing was being totally powerless to change the downward spiral. His personality—typical of a surgeon—was to diagnose the problem and fix it. Simple. This approach didn’t work for his marriage because Laura refused to talk about their problems or see a marriage counselor. To make matters worse, he believed, was her agitated depression. Angry explosions over seemingly nothing, leaving him mystified.

  “Laura, maybe you’re depressed. Maybe a small dose of an antidepressant might help.”

  “Oh, now I have mental illness? Perhaps you should look at yourself, Lucas. Have you ever thought of that? Who’s going to argue with the neurosurgeon?”

  “Is this what you want? To always be on edge around each other?”

  “What do you mean, ‘around each other’? You’re always at the hospital, always have more important things to do. Maybe you should’ve shared some of the responsibility of raising Josh?”

  So, where did that leave them?

  On the slippery slope toward divorce. And he hated that. He wished he could find a way to change things back to the way they’d been five, ten years ago as a happy couple. He thought of the shared joy of buying their first house and the work spent together making it their house: Painting walls, cleaning out the basement, reworking the garden, buying their first furniture as a couple. The Christmas trees that they had decorated. That joy seemed so distant now.

  He thought of Josh. Of how proud he made him. With their marriage disintegrating, his most important goal in life was to see Josh launched into adulthood as a well-adjusted, healthy young man.

  The last drops of scotch went down as he watched another Star Ferry cross the harbor, the sight deepening his sense of isolation. If only he could put his arms around Josh and hold him close and know that wasn’t Andy’s head …

  He dumped the bottle in the trash with the other and climbed into bed knowing sleep wouldn’t come without an Ambien. Even then, maybe not. Didn’t matter because tomorrow he’d catnap on the long flight home.

  Soon as he landed in Seattle, he’d find Andy.

  9

  DFH INC., SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  PERCHED ON A KITCHEN stool in his penthouse great room, Ditto savored his second cup of Starbucks Kenya roast when the phone chimed with the distinctive ring for his private line rather than the DFH after-hours line.

  He set down the Seattle Times sports section and glanced at the glowing digits of the clock in the microwave. Damn early for a personal call. Then he remembered turning off the cell phone—the phone most of his friends called him on—and plugging it into the charger. The battery really needed to be replaced, but it pained him to think of it being dumped into a landfill. Good thing about RadioShack, they recycled batteries. Or so they said.

  The phone rang again. Mostly likely either Gerhard again or the on-call person. Sometimes they called for advice.

  This was a perfect example of how this job was killing him, what with the constant grind of always having to backstop employees. It had even become an issue with his girlfriend. He couldn’t get Cathy to understand there was no way to predict when Joe Blow might shuffle off to the great unknown and he’d be called to pick up the body. She thought he should delegate more responsibility to Gerhard so they could get away for a few days.

  Gerhard was competent but didn’t have the flair for customer service Ditto had. Then again, the two state universities, UW and WSU med schools, were DFH’s only regional competition for body donation, so that wasn’t really a big issue. Made him laugh because neither institution accepted bodies outside their local area unless the family agreed to pay the transportation costs. Was that idiotic or what! If all he had to worry about was the discount cremation part of the business, it’d be okay for Gerhard to manage for a few days on his own. But the body parts business required constant diligence. For obvious reasons, he’d never explained any of these details to Cathy, so he couldn’t expect her to understand.

  The front door opens and a woman—a real looker—stands in the doorway. “Oh, you’re here already.”

  For a moment he’s struck dumb by her beauty. Then recovers with, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, but I’m just a friend. The family’s in the living room. This way.”

  Gerhard follows her, pushing the collapsible stretcher covered with a purple blanket into the next room. The couch has been made into a bed, medications and tissues on the nearby coffee table. A woman is on the couch with the unmistakable pale of death. Three other people are in the room.

  Minutes later, after the body has been loaded into the hearse, Ditto stands at the door with the woman. He hands her his card. “Here. If there’s any time in the future I may be of service, just call.”

  She exchanges the card with a slip of paper. “Thank you, Mr. Ditto.”

  On the way back to the hearse, he unfolds the note. The name Cathy and a phone number are printed in neat block letters.

  He laughed at the memory of meeting Cathy while at work in the funeral home—which preempted any need for the awkward, eventual question, “What do you do for a living?” With other women, when that topic inevitably came up, his answer was an immediate turn off. Not so with Cathy.

  They sit in a booth in an Indian restaurant on their first date, eating tandoori chicken, naan, salad, and a bottle of wine. Cathy asks, “How’d you get stared in the mortuary business?”

  “Simple: when I was a kid, I worked for my dad. So when I joined the Army they made me a mortician. I got out and wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do, so went to work for one.” With a shrug, “Here I am.”

  She seems to hang on every word. “No, I mean, how did you get the idea for the budget business. That’s really very canny.”

  He smiles at the memory. “I went to Wal-Mart one day. As I got out of the car—it was raining hard as hell—I looked up, saw the sign, thought of their slogan, Live Better, Save Money. The rest just followed.”

  “And the body parts business?” she asks.

  “I figured it shouldn’t have to cost a family an arm and a leg to pay for a cremation.”

  They both laugh, but she has no way of knowing that’s his and Gerhard’s private joke.

  She seems to enjoy hearing about his business … so Ditto piles it on, “Med schools use bodies mostly to teach normal anatomy, so they’re very picky about what they accept.”

  She flashes him a get-serious look.

  “I’m serious. Check out the UW’s website. It’s all there. We won’t take your body if you have diseases like hepatitis, HIV, or obesity. Damn ridiculous, if you ask me. Obesity? Hell, bring it on! A fatty has more skin than a skinny macrobiotic. And there was nothing wrong with a fatty’s ligaments, bones, or hair either. Why waste any of it? What we do is recycling at its best.

  By the time he and Cathy finished the wine he was explaining how conscientious recycling was a mind-set he valued so much he’d made it the cornerstone of DFH’s corporate culture. Throughout the building he’d placed color-coded bins for paper, plastic, glass, metal. He believed every attempt to recycle, no matter how seemingly insignificant, helped Mother Earth survive the heavy footprints of our wasteful society. She nodded agreement, then blew his brains out with a smile. Damn! A looker and a believer.

  He s
till couldn’t believe his luck.

  He answered the phone, not bothering to check caller ID. “Ditto here.”

  “It’s Leo. Okay to discuss business?”

  “Yeah. I’m alone. Shoot.”

  “The news I got isn’t what you’re gonna want to hear. Apparently McRae does know him.” Gerhard’s voice sounded strained.

  Fuck. High as the odds were against this happening, apparently it had. Ditto started pacing.

  Last night Ditto had spent hours tossing and turning, staring at the shadowy ceiling, considering the consequences of this possibility. If it had happened at any other time, he’d shrug it off, and say “So what?” What was McRae going to do about it? Long as that specimen got back here and into the oven, McRae wouldn’t have diddly-squat to back up his claim. It’d be his word against the DFH Inc. records. But there was that fucking detective too. That changed the equation. Because in spite of what the records showed, it really had been Baer in the back of the vehicle. Who knew what might be found if the cops went over the Suburban looking for evidence.

  “This McRae, what’s your take on him?”

  “You asking if he’s going to be a problem? Fuck, yes. He threatened as much.”

  “He can threaten all he wants. We just need to make sure no one believes him. Get the specimens back here tomorrow.”

  “Got it. Thought you’d want to know is all.”

  “I do. Thanks for the head’s up. But what you need to know is a detective dropped by asking about the Suburban. Apparently someone noticed the other night when you made a pickup.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit is right. But nothing’s going to come of it if we take care of things correctly.”

  “You can count on me.”

  “I do. And thanks. Have a safe trip.” Ditto clicked off and replaced the phone in its charger. He returned to the counter to finish his coffee. But now it seemed too strong and bitter, and the mug felt heavy in his hand. Should’ve gotten rid of the damn mug at the same time he got the divorce from Linda Lee. That unfaithful bitch. Jesus, what a clusterfuck this thing was turning into. First the detective, then the doctor …

  He took a deep breath and started to go through it again.

  So a Seattle doctor in Hong Kong claimed to know the person whose head was used for the dissection. Big deal. That could be handled by simply claiming a case of mistaken identity. After all, DFH had clean papers on the donor. Who the hell was going to prove it differently? No one.

  But then there was the Suburban. Even if someone had seen it near a motel the hooker used, so what? He was no lawyer, but common sense said if that was all the detective knew, he was okay. Still …

  Ditto took another sip of coffee, decided it hadn’t improved with age, and went back to the newspaper.

  As long as nothing unexpected happened, he’d be all right.

  10

  HEALTH SCIENCES, UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON

  WENDY DOUBLE-CHECKED THE number to the right of the doorjamb against the one she’d scribbled on a Post-it. A door identical to every other door along both sides of a long echoing hall painted institutional beige. No nameplate, just the alphanumeric TT425 engraved in an eye-level plastic plaque. She knocked.

  “You may enter.”

  You may enter? She opened the heavy door. “Professor Boynton?”

  “That’s right.” He flashed a charming smile of perfect teeth.

  He was the polar opposite from what she’d imagined after hearing his voice on the phone. Or maybe she’d been influenced by the title Professor, Department of Biological Structure. She’d envisioned a bald seventy-year-old with Dumbo ears, hunched over an old desk filled with high stacks of papers. Yoda in a white lab coat. Instead, this dude was tall, buff, tan, early forties and wore a Tommy Bahama shirt. Certainly not even close to any professors she’d seen at junior college.

  They shook hands, and he pointed to the guest chair and said, “Please.”

  The room felt more like a walk-in closet than a professor’s office. Barely enough space for the vintage oak desk, matching guest chair, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A solitary window allowed a restricted view of Northeast Pacific Street. That is, if you could see through the thick layer of grime coating the glass. A seventeen-inch laptop on the desk. The faint smell of incense caught her attention.

  He took his chair and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “Now what exactly may I do for you?”

  During the call, she’d mentioned needing some general information about the medical school’s Willed Body Program but hadn’t delved into particulars. She certainly hadn’t wanted to get into any sensitive questions without a face-to-face conversation. “First, thank you for taking the time to see me, Professor.”

  “Call me Bill. Professor sounds too formal.” He flashed another smile.

  “Okay, Bill. You’re in charge of the Willed Body Program here at the university?” When she’d Googled willed body program, it popped up with the UW Department of Biological Structure. Boynton’s name was on the site.

  “Yes.”

  “The information on your website answered a lot of questions, but I still have several more I need answers to.”

  “Ask away.”

  “It states bodies are used for medical research. What exactly does that mean?”

  He pushed the laptop aside, knitted his fingers together, and leaned on the desk, eyeing her in a way that made her want to pinch her blouse collar closed. “Means a lot of things, but probably the most common use is education. Teaching students.” He seemed to savor those words. “I guess in the strictest sense student teaching is not truly research, but in the more global sense it is. I like to believe that training new professionals is the only way to assure a supply of future researchers. Don’t you agree?”

  Wendy believed the question was rhetorical, so she didn’t answer.

  Without giving her time to answer, Boynton continued. “There are always questions about the biological structure of the human body that aren’t fully answered. So, I guess you’d say much of the material is used for rather straightforward pedantic research.”

  She had no idea what that meant but nodded. “I see.”

  He seemed to be done and waiting for a new question, so she jumped to the real reason for the visit. “Are you familiar with a local facility called DFH Inc.?”

  His expression changed to disgust. “Ditto’s endeavor?”

  My, my, what an intriguing reaction. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Boynton studied her a moment. “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with the business. Can you explain it to me?”

  He pinched his lower lip. “So, really, you came to ask about Ditto’s business and not about our Willed Body Program; am I correct?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “And I assume you’ve spoken with Bobby Bobby?”

  “Who?”

  Boynton snickered. “That’s what we call him behind his back. Bobby Bobby. You know, Bobby Ditto?”

  “Oh. Got it.” Wendy cleared her throat to refocus him. “Yes, I talked with him. But there are still a few things I don’t understand, things I was hoping someone outside of DFH could explain.”

  “This part of an investigation?” He sounded curiously hopeful.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  Boynton flashed a knowing grin. “Because I’ve always suspected something amiss over there.”

  Interesting. She reached into her purse and triggered a recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is that a no?”

  “It is if you want me to be truthful.”

  Wendy held up a small notebook. “Then do you mind if I take notes?”

  He pointed at the notebook. “Would that be discoverable?”

  “Yeah, probably. Depending on what happens.”

  “Then I mind that also.”

  “Any particular reason?”


  “Because I get the impression you’re investigating Ditto. Knowing him, it means sooner or later he’ll end up in court. And that means anything I put on the record today will end up there too. That happens, he’ll know exactly where it came from even if I’m not named as the source. That dude’s one vindictive hombre. What I’m saying is, if he were to win in court, he’d come after me with a vengeance. That’s not exactly a career builder now, is it?”

  Another rhetorical question. “Well, if what you say is true, that he ends up in court, what makes you think he’ll get off?”

  Boynton laughed. “Because he’s far from stupid. In fact, he’s one of the cleverest hombres I know. Never went higher than high school, but he has a business sense that’s uncanny. He’s also an expert at reading people. He plans well and executes effectively. Whatever you have going on, be careful. That’s all I can say.”

  Wendy dropped the notebook into her purse, sat back, crossed her legs. “You were saying, about his business?”

  He glanced at the ceiling, rubbed the back of his neck. “You have any idea what the market is for bodies?”

  “You mean, like for kidney transplants?”

  “That too, but no, not living organs like kidneys and hearts. I was referring to intact cadavers and cadaver parts. Organ donations are regulated by DSHS, but the cadaver business isn’t.”

  “Interesting.” Earlier Wendy had looked up a couple of cases—one at UCLA Medical Center, another in Virginia—where body parts had been sold illegally by employees in the morgue. But the news service articles didn’t provide the information she needed. She planned to dig up more when she had time.

  “In this state at least body donation is wide open, and it’s a huge market.” Leaning back in his chair, Boynton tapped his pursed lips with steepled fingertips. “Here’s how it works. Say you’re one of the big medical instrument companies, and you develop a whiz-bang new artificial knee. How do you train surgeons on how to implant the appliance correctly?”