Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  But it was the series of glowing glass vessels dotting the top of the lab benches that drew Nicky’s attention. Each was the size of a fish tank with a tightly sealed lid. Clear plastic tubing snaked inside, bubbling gases through liquid. Outside the tanks, the tubing ran along the underside of the shelves and connected to metal canisters chained to the wall.

  Posted yellow and black triangular signs with stylized exploding containers hung at the end of the benches, and large red, black, and white stickers plastered on the smooth cylinders read:

  DANGER: COMPRESSED HYDROGEN. FLAMMABLE GAS. NO SMOKING. NO OPEN FLAMES.

  WARNING: COMPRESSED OXYGEN. NO SMOKING OR OPEN FLAMES.

  Condensation on the sides of the bench-top chambers obscured the view of what they contained. Nicky stepped forward, wiped her hand against the chilly glass.

  And reeled back with a sharp indrawn breath.

  Fist-sized and purple-pink, a heart pulsated inside, suspended with clamps and wires in the clear, cold liquid.

  Eyes wide, her gaze darted around the room.

  A tank labeled LIVER/BOVINE stood next to one that read KIDNEY/OVINE. Another, LUNGS/HUMAN—SMOKER.

  Her attention flew back to the container in front of her. “Heart, human. Traffic fatality,” she whispered and rubbed her hands over her arms.

  “Nicky—”

  Flinching, she spun around with an intake of breath.

  “This is Dr. Emilio Meloni, transplant surgeon extraordinaire. Lio, this is Sergeant Nicky Matthews. She works at the Indian reservation I told you about.”

  Julie’s body obscured the man as she gave him a light kiss. She held his hand when she shuffled to stand beside him, her smile wide. His other hand jingled coins or keys in the pocket of dark gray trousers.

  Lio Meloni was whipcord-lean, a few inches shorter than Julie. He was probably in his late thirties or early forties, but it was hard to tell because he had one of those smooth boyish faces that defied aging. Both deep and fine lines crisscrossed the skin around dark brown eyes, and there were faint, crepey circles beneath, as if he were perpetually sleep deprived. Brown whiskers stubbled his face, but the top of his head was shiny in the fluorescent under-shelf lights. Premature baldness, and he had the overt confidence to carry it off.

  A slim leather belt wrapped his waist and the sleeves of his light blue dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. He stepped too close and grasped her hand firmly with faintly sticky fingers. Nicky pulled back a little at his exuberance.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” he said in greeting, his smile a little lopsided. “Welcome to my lair. I mean, not really, of course. Just feels like one. No windows.” He bounced on his toes.

  Nicky relaxed a little. He was charming.

  “I thought only mad scientists or evil geniuses had lairs,” she countered. “Which one are you?”

  Lio grinned and his eyes crinkled until they almost disappeared. “Definitely a mad scientist. The bubbling organs and creepy lighting add to that Dr. Frankenstein ambience I’m going for.”

  She laughed. He seemed all right. And she was glad, for Julie’s sake.

  “Don’t worry, Nicky. He received written permission from the next of kin for all of the human tissue in here,” Julie said. She bestowed a beaming smile on Lio.

  He bobbed his head. “Damn straight. I am well versed in New Mexico state laws, especially the ones that pertain to Native Americans. What happened here?” Without warning, he scooped up Nicky’s bandaged hand. “And your face.” His lip curled a tiny bit.

  Nicky tugged her hand away. Was one of his idiosyncrasies the casual invasion of personal space? “Clumsiness and hot coffee.”

  A single eyebrow flicked up. “You okay?” At her nod, he leaned back to pull a disinfectant wipe and clean his hands.

  Nicky, a little insulted, raised her eyebrows at Julie, who shrugged and mouthed, Quirks.

  Lio, apparently oblivious, asked, “Shall we get started?” He ushered her to a counter arrayed with three flat computer screens. The bubbling tank filled with the sheep’s kidney rested a couple of feet away. Nicky swallowed and took the middle chair, Julie the one on her right. A faint astringent odor teased her nose as Lio sat beside her.

  Julie rested her hand on the mouse. “So, like I told you when you called, David Saunders was able to—I thought—delete an autopsy report, which, because of legal issues, is strictly prohibited. The first thing I did was to pull the replacement file up and go over his notes, CT scans, and photos.” She launched a computer file on the middle screen. It filled with a color photo of a mangled torso.

  “This is the file designator.” She pointed to a series of letters and numbers at the top of the picture that detailed the specifics of OMI’s intake system.

  Nicky’s gaze remained glued to the remnants of Sandra Deering. Never having encountered the young woman on the pueblo, she only knew her because of her tragic death, what other people told her, and the sorrow and pain her family experienced. The picture was both sad and sobering. She swallowed unexpected emotion.

  “… technician checks the body into the system and assigns the file number, does the CT scan, and assembles the initial report,” Julie finished.

  Nicky had escorted the OMI van with Sandra’s body back to Albuquerque the morning of the suicide. “I received a receipt for the body, but I don’t remember a number like that on my paperwork.” She tapped the screen. “Or in the email OMI sends out.”

  “No. What you get is a placeholder that keeps us honest. That way, you can call us to account if we lose the body,” Julie explained. “When I studied the file David submitted, I couldn’t find anything wrong. The body was damaged, but the police and search teams did a very thorough job in collecting it at the scene. It was pretty much all accounted for and I know that’s not always the case with train-pedestrians. I accessed David’s computer to see if I could dig up the original file, but couldn’t find anything.” She flashed Nicky a conspiratorial glance. “At first.”

  A few keystrokes, and a blue screen with scattered folders popped up in front of her.

  “David partitioned off part of his hard drive. All I needed was his password,” Julie said.

  “How did you figure that out?” Nicky asked, impressed.

  “Not so hard.” Julie grinned. “He had it taped to the inside of his office desk drawer. Once I had access, I found the original autopsy file, along with some other very interesting things.”

  “Amazing. Passwords taped in his drawer,” Lio muttered, arms crossed, knee bouncing. “Pull up the relevant CT images, babe. Show her what you found.”

  Julie clicked the mouse. Three images came up, one on each of the screens. All were vertical CT slices of Sandra Deering’s torso. The first two were similar, but the third … Nicky leaned forward to study it.

  “This first image was done by the technician.” Julie pointed to a screen. “It’s annotated with the correct file number—the missing file. The second image was one David did himself a few hours later, after he was assigned the autopsy. See? It’s annotated under the same original file number. I think he must have seen a problem and thought a mistake had been made.” She paused. “The third image was the one he submitted in his final report.”

  So these scans were the key. Nicky asked the obvious question. “What makes them different?”

  Julie pressed enter on the keyboard. Each of the three scans shuffled through a series of thin sections of the chest cavity—like a movie—then repeated in a loop, over and over again. Nicky watched them carefully, mentally comparing what she saw on all three screens.

  She pointed to the first two revolving images. “Something’s missing in these that’s present here.” Her finger shifted to the third series of pictures as they flashed around. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded constricted.

  Needlelike prickles washed over her skin and she suddenly knew what was missing. Knew with certainty why Juanita Benami told her Sandra’s spirit was lost because the gate wouldn’t close. Kne
w why Squire insisted Sandra hadn’t killed herself. Why she’d had visions of the ancient face of Ánâ-ya Cáci and the white rabbit, and why Howard Kie sent the odd images in his emails.

  And why two undercover FBI agents were on the Fire-Sky Pueblo, hunting for a killer.

  She disentangled the chain from around her bandaged neck and held the Spirit’s Heart spray of silver and stone in her fist. This explained the missing piece of the pendant. The missing piece of the puzzle that was Sandra Deering.

  “It’s her heart, isn’t it? It was gone when she was brought to OMI. Either it wasn’t retrieved at the scene, or…” Nicky’s throat tightened.

  Julie finished her thoughts. “Or she didn’t have it when she was hit by the train because someone had already taken it from her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nicky stared at the computer screens. “You don’t think David Saunders took the heart? He has a history.” She felt numb.

  “No. Her heart was removed before she was placed on the train tracks. Probably within a few hours, so time of death wouldn’t be suspicious,” Julie said. “But without the body, it’s going to be hard to prove.” She stopped the revolving scans and clicked through more keystrokes. A single color photo now dominated the panel in front of Nicky.

  “Whoever did this thought the train would hide his—or her—dirty work. It did for the most part because the technician didn’t suspect anything was wrong. But once the body was cleaned up and processed for evidence—which is David’s job as pathologist—he found this.” Julie picked up a stylus, touched the screen, and drew the tip down a long seam in the middle of the damaged chest. “A median sternotomy. It’s how they took her heart. He should have stopped and called the police when he found it. But he didn’t. Instead, he cut further. Basically, he destroyed evidence.”

  She opened another autopsy photo marked with black triangles. “David placed arrows at the arterial and venous dissection lines, and included measurements.” Julie paused. “This is why I called Lio, Nicky. Since our autopsy technique differs from what I saw here, I suspected—”

  “Let me take over now, babe.” Lio scooted his chair forward. “This was no butcher. Whoever did this is trained. Meticulous. The dissection of the great vessels was such that this heart could have been used in a transplant. See here.” He pointed to two small, rounded openings. “The superior pulmonary artery and aorta were cut to the correct length for retrieval.” He grinned at Nicky. “Couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

  Nicky stared at him, hand pressed against her lips.

  Lio sobered. “Sorry. That was callous. Anyway, I think this woman either died or someone murdered her and removed her heart. Afterward, it was the work of a butcher to then throw her body on the tracks. Horrible.” He shuddered.

  “Don’t the trains have cameras? Couldn’t you tell she was already dead before … you know.” Julie grimaced.

  “The video showed Sandra lying between the rails. She wasn’t moving, so we assumed she’d passed out. Her toxicology report found enough drugs in her system.” Nicky tore her gaze from the picture and focused on Julie. “Why do you think Saunders kept this quiet?”

  “Pretty obvious. A heart was missing from a young Native American woman and David was her pathologist. If this came out, the press and OMI admin would have skewered him. He’s still pretty bitter about the last time, and that was, what? Over fifteen years ago.”

  “Yes.” That answer matched her supposition, too. “Makes sense.”

  “But it looks like he did tell someone.” Julie clicked on an icon and an email page popped up. “And he sent whoever it was the original autopsy report and files.”

  The recipient email address gave her no information, just a series of numbers and letters.

  “Can I get a copy of this?” Nicky could guess the final recipient. Or, at least, which bureau.

  “I brought a spare flash drive. I’ll copy whatever you need,” Julie said.

  “He put a different heart in her chest for the third CT scan. Do you think he left it there?” Nicky asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That should be easy enough to check,” Lio said. “Dig her up.”

  “Traditional Fire-Sky burial practices don’t include preservatives,” Nicky said. “Bodies are buried in a blanket, not in a casket. By the time I got legal permission, there would be nothing left to check.”

  Even if the substitute heart was still buried with Sandra, it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t hers. Nicky would have to find the actual heart, or Sandra’s spirit would wander lost.

  This was why she’d been visited. This was the ancient one’s task for her.

  Julie’s quiet voice interrupted her thoughts. “Hey, Nicky? There’s more. David has a DNA database on the partitioned side of his hard drive with hundreds of entries, probably from autopsies he’s done. I opened a couple and recognized the CODIS series of genetic identifiers because we use them as part of our analysis. I’ll cross-check them with OMI’s files, but it could take a couple of days. It’s just … well … some of the other genes he’s got in his database aren’t normally used in forensic identification of remains.” Her brow furrowed. “And I don’t know what to make of it.”

  * * *

  Nicky banged on the trailer door, oxidized white paint so old it powdered the side of her fist.

  “Howard? Howard, come out. Now! I need to talk to you!”

  The engine of her unit hummed quietly in the warm night, its headlights eerily lengthening her shadow across the rusted side panels of the mobile home. Thick clouds scuttled across the dark sky, the metallic taste of rain in the air.

  “It’s Sergeant Matthews.” She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly before she spoke again. “Come on, Howard. I need to talk to you. Please.” He had to know something. And if he did, he might be in danger.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Or he might be the killer.

  Because she was officially off-duty—medical leave due to her burns—she hadn’t called for backup. Still, she’d tucked her sidearm into a concealed holster at her waist.

  “Howard!” Again she hammered the dusty, dented aluminum.

  Sandra Deering, Maryellen K’aishuni, and Vernon Cheromiah were linked now. Victims of the same murderer, she was sure of it. They were also linked by Howard Kie’s emails. Rabbits and hearts and knives, images he’d used for both cases.

  Nicky found no answers in the K’aishuni and Cheromiah files. Their cause of death was listed as homicide. The autopsies, handled by the FBI, were probably as fake as Sandra Deering’s.

  What was the FBI hiding? Had they covered up at OMI in Albuquerque, too?

  It was full dark. A single fat drop of rain fell on Nicky’s cheek as she stared at the trailer door. She needed to speak to Frank Martin, tell him she’d figured out who he was and why he was here. If the FBI had Sandra Deering’s original autopsy file, it was time for them to cooperate, or she’d spill everything she had to the press.

  She also had to question Maryellen’s parents, ask them why they’d left the reservation. What had happened in the weeks after Maryellen’s murder that made them turn their backs on their culture and people?

  A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, the smell of rain stronger.

  Backing down the steps, Nicky stared at the trailer, searched for any sign of Howard’s presence. His ranfla was under the listing carport, but no light flickered through the curtains in the front window.

  Fist tight, she thumped the aluminum frame. “Dammit, Howard, open up!” She needed some answers from Howard Kie.

  A second shadow loomed from behind her. Nicky spun on her heels, hand on her weapon. In the harsh glare of the headlights stood a small silhouette, features obscured.

  “Hey. You lookin’ for Howard? He’s not there,” came a friendly voice.

  Nicky stepped out of the light and the figure resolved into a young girl carrying a plastic mini-mart sack, staring at the side of t
he trailer.

  The girl nodded at her looming shadow. “That’s cool. Kinda scary, huh? You’re a cop, right? Howard lives over there now”—she tilted her chin to the side—“in Mr. Saenz’s old house. Moved there when all the other cars started driving by his trailer. Said people are watchin’ him. I saw your truck another time.”

  A screen door banged in the distance.

  “Gotta go. They’re waiting on dinner.” She held out her bag. “Check over there. But be careful. He doesn’t like you stepping on his clean dirt. He sweeps it all nice. Sometimes even vacuums. He’s kinda weird.” She left, feet crunching in the gravel, her body blending into the darkness.

  Howard was being watched? By whom? More questions that needed answers.

  Nicky turned off her truck and grabbed a flashlight. She headed toward the decrepit old house the kid had pointed out, keeping the strong beam of her light pointed at the ground. Ten feet from the door, she halted and looked behind her. The front windows had a perfect visual line to Howard’s trailer. If he was in there, he’d have already seen her. A door had slammed a few minutes ago. He was probably gone now, out the back and into the brush.

  Edging closer, she swept the light across the dirty windows, covered on the inside by bent mini-blinds. She could imagine Howard sitting next to them, peering out. Heat spiked up her neck as she stepped into the cleared area around the front of the house and pounded on the door.

  “Howard? It’s Sergeant Matthews from the Tsiba’ashi D’yini Pueblo police. I need to talk to you.”

  She tried the doorknob. It was locked. A few more drops of rain fell, pinging on the metal roof, and a cool breeze kicked up. It swirled around her and tugged at her hair and clothes—the tickling start of a downdraft from a cloudburst coming closer.

  Nicky took a deep breath to tamp down her seething emotions. With her hand splayed against the rough stucco, she tipped her face up to the dark sky. The clouds were so low they were like the soft gray ceiling of a vast room.