Drew sighed, downed a swig of water from his canteen and munched a protein bar. Darryl grinned at him. “Can’t rush it,” Darryl said.
“No,” Drew said.
Two hours later, Drew was thinking about calling a stop for lunch. You can’t rush the dogs, they all knew that, but you can’t rush their handlers, either. Dogs and humans both have to eat.
Suddenly, Bo raised his nose into the air. His head turned. He stared at the woods, lowered his head to the ground, then raised it again. He whined and looked back at Darryl. Darryl nodded. “Go on, boy.”
Almost daintily, Bo stepped across a fallen log, then scrambled down a short incline. He ranged back and forth across a small, grass covered mound, then walked around a tall spruce tree, then an oak. He stopped, his tail wagging, and sat by the side of a giant mountain laurel.
Drew and Darryl looked at each other, then walked past the dog. They faced a clearing in the woods, maybe twenty feet by twenty. Near the edge of the clearing was a pile of disturbed dirt where some animal had been digging.
Bo barked, once. Darryl stared at the ground. “Bear,” he said.
“Let’s get some equipment in here,” Drew said. “See what we’ve got.”
Chapter 8
Frank Russo lounged back in his chair and looked at Bill Harris with blank, hooded eyes. Russo, or so Harris had been told, was a solid cop. Like a lot of cops, he deliberately cultivated an air of not quite knowing what he was doing, which tended to disarm neophyte criminals. The more experienced crooks, and his fellow cops, were rarely fooled by this act.
“Allison Lurie,” Frank Russo said. He leaned his considerable bulk back against his chair. The chair creaked. “A sad story. I’m sorry to hear about the daughter but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
A file lay open on Frank Russo’s desk. Moodily, he fingered through it. “Allison’s husband was a steel worker. He died from cancer when he was thirty-two. Allison never got over it. She wasn’t a bad sort but she wasn’t too bright and she never had much in the way of a backbone. They married as soon as she finished High School and she didn’t have a lot of skills, aside from the obvious. She was a good looking woman who had a bunch of good looking girlfriends who spent all their time hanging out in bars and shoving stuff up their noses. When her husband died…” Frank Russo shrugged. “She never got over it,” he repeated.
“Tell me about Faye,” Bill Harris said.
“Beautiful. Head strong. Entitled. Faye felt that the world owed her something. She did what she wanted, took what she wanted and didn’t care who she hurt along the way. She was a lot like her mother, except that Allison drifted into it and Faye did it with her eyes wide open. Drugs, alcohol, turning tricks…” Russo shook his head. “She was one of Pittsburgh’s finest little teenage whores.”
“So, what happened to her?”
“She found a new guy who promised to love her forever, support her in the way that she had never become accustomed to and take her away from all this.” Russo spread his hands, let them fall back down on the desk. “She vanished.”
“What can you tell me about the guy?”
“He was older; no surprise there. He took her to expensive shops, bought her clothes, got her to clean up her act. A real-life Pretty Woman scenario.”
“Was he also pimping her?”
“Not that we could tell, but who knows? Once she found this guy, or once he found her, she stopped hanging out with her old crowd. They hardly saw her at all, after that.”
“So, who was he?”
Russo shook his head. “We have no idea.”
“Did they go anywhere public? Anywhere they could be seen?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. Faye always looked mature for her age, and once she was dressed up, she could pass. The guy got her a fake ID and seemed to enjoy taking her to some of the most expensive restaurants and clubs in the city. Showing her off. We got receipts from seven of them, all paid with a credit card in the name of Sean McGuire. The card was real but the name is phony. The charges were paid by an account at the Bank of New York, that closed a couple of months later.”
Russo stopped for a moment, sipped a cup of coffee while both men mulled this over.
“Hotels?” Bill Harris asked.
“None that we could find.”
“And then what happened?”
Russo carefully put his coffee down on the table. “Then they vanished.”
A guy who had money. A guy who knew how to impress and seduce a young whore, not that she would have needed much seducing. “There’s no way this was his first,” Harris said.
“Probably not, but you can’t tell it by us.”
“You got any pictures?”
Russo plucked a sheet of paper from the file and held it out. It was a drawing in pencil, clearly a composite sketch. “That was the best we could come up with from the witnesses who saw the guy. Take it,” he said. “He shoved the file across the desk toward Harris. “These are copies. You can have it all, and good luck with it.”
“Thanks,” Bill Harris said.
The essential bureaucratic requirements of a small hospital are exactly the same as those of a large hospital. No matter the size of your institution, if you want to maintain accreditation by the Joint Commission and the State Medical Board, you need a policy and procedures manual outlining plans to deal with every possible contingency, from how to sterilize the instruments to what to do in the event of a zombie invasion. You have to do credentialing, re-credentialing, quality assurance, periodic training and re-training of all personnel in the required hospital protocols and procedures, including fire drills, emergency drills, hazmat drills and trauma drills—and accurate records have to be maintained regarding all of these functions…all of which is invariably considered to be a major pain in the ass by everybody involved. But if you want to stay in business, you have no choice. From the Joint Commission’s point of view, if you’re too small to do the paperwork, you’re too small to take care of patients.
Kurtz had once attended a lecture by a Joint Commission inspector. In a burst of candor that he may have later regretted, the inspector told the audience, “We don’t document the quality of your medical care. We document the quality of your documentation of the quality of your medical care.” So, the books had to look good (even if they were ninety percent fiction).
Big hospitals, particularly those with an academic affiliation, are divided into Departments, all of which have both a Chairman and an administrative staff to carry out the above functions. Small hospitals are rarely so finely divided. Small hospitals have “Services” or sometimes simply “Groups.” There’s almost always a Service Chief, not a Chairman, but since most small places are private, the Service Chief rarely gets any extra money and the position tends to rotate every few years among the members of the Service, none of whom look forward to the extra responsibilities.
When it comes to surgery, the bigger hospitals usually have separate Departments for neurosurgery, ENT, orthopedics, urology, anesthesiology and all the other surgically related specialties. In smaller places, the “Surgical Service” most often comprises all of these, sometimes including the OR nurses as well.
And perching above all the Service Chiefs on the hospital hierarchy is the Chief of Staff, usually elected by the staff physicians, but occasionally appointed by the Hospital Director or Board of Trustees.
Joe Partledge was three years into his five-year term as Chief of the Surgical Service. He was also, conveniently, the current Chief of Staff.
“I need to talk to you,” Kurtz said.
Partledge was scrubbing his hands, about to perform a laser fulguration of cervical warts. He looked up. “Now?”
“No.” Kurtz looked around. They were alone at the scrub sink. “Someplace private.”
Partledge gave Kurtz a brooding look, then nodded. “Can you come to my office, around three o’clock?”
“Sure,” Kurtz said. “I’ll be there.”
&nbs
p; Joe Partledge rented examining rooms and office space in a house a block away from Jerry Mandell’s. Kurtz showed up three minutes early and was immediately ushered in.
Kurtz closed the door and Partledge looked at him. “I imagine this isn’t something medical?” Partledge said. “Your anatomy is outside my area of expertise.”
“No.” Kurtz said, and immediately re-considered this statement. “Maybe it is something medical, but it’s not about me.”
Partledge, from everything Kurtz had heard about him, was an okay guy. The nurses and OR techs liked him. He didn’t curse, throw instruments or act like a surgical prima donna in any way. That helped. No easy way around it, though. Inwardly, Kurtz shrugged. “You notice anything strange about Jerry Mandell, lately?”
Partledge winced. “No,” he said, “but I’ve heard rumors.”
That was good, Kurtz thought. Very good. It’s a lot easier to bring up a sensitive subject if it’s already been brought up by somebody else. “He’s been making mistakes: confusing one patient with another, looking for a hernia on the wrong side of the body. His documentation is sketchy. His staff tells me it’s been going on for awhile.”
Partledge sighed. “And I presume you’re coming to me because I’m the putative Chief of the Surgical Service?”
“And the Chief of Staff.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Kurtz shrugged.
“So, what do you want to do about it?”
Kurtz grimaced “That’s exactly what I asked Maggie Callender yesterday afternoon. She didn’t have a good answer.”
Partledge continued to look at him.
“At the least,” Kurtz said, “somebody needs to talk to him. It should be somebody he knows and trusts. He needs a full psychiatric and neurologic exam. Maybe, he needs to retire.”
“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else. Even if they know something is going on, nobody is going to like the idea of persecuting poor old Doc Mandell. He’s helped a lot of people in this town.”
“I’m not arguing with you, but what’s the alternative? Are you suggesting that we both just forget about it?”
Partledge sighed. “No,” he said. “I’m not. What I’m saying is that there is an instinct among human beings to protect their own, to resist dictates from outside groups and agencies, to come together and present a united front against outside authority.”
“Understood, but when good old Doc Mandell finally kills somebody and it comes out that everybody knew he was incompetent and they let him get away with it? What happens then?”
Partledge gave Kurtz a half-hearted grin. “Well, that is the problem, now isn’t it?” He sighed. “I’ll talk to Jerry. Now that this has been brought to my attention, I can’t ignore it.” He fixed Kurtz with a hard stare. “Here’s another thing—I understand that your dad has been nominated for an appointment to the West Virginia House of Delegates. Isn’t that so?”
Kurtz blinked. “Yeah. What about it?”
“So has Jerry Mandell.”
“I’ve heard that. So?”
“Some folks might think that you badmouthing Jerry is an attempt to blackball him regarding this very important position that they’re both in the running for.”
Kurtz stared at him. “Are you out of your mind? My father couldn’t care less about that job. He doesn’t want it. Neither, so he tells me, does Jerry Mandell.”
Partledge waved a hand in front of his face. “People are going to think whatever they want to think. Sometimes the facts don’t matter.”
Kurtz sat back in his seat, his head spinning. “Who’s the third one, anyway?”
“The third nominee? Mabel Stone. She runs a restaurant in town.”
“Huh. I never heard of her but I’m pretty sure I can come up with something bad to say. Maybe her food is lousy.”
“The point I’m making is, you had better tread lightly. You used to be one of us but that was a long time ago. Now, you’re an outsider. You don’t want anybody in this town to get the idea that you have it in for one of their own. You’ve told me about it, and I’m going to assume that you have only the best of intentions. I’m going to keep this conversation just between us. I suggest that after this, you keep your mouth shut.”
Good advice, Kurtz thought. Very good advice. “I can do that,” Kurtz said. I hope.
“A serial killer,” Drew Hastings said. “Just what every town needs.”
Bill Harris glumly nodded.
They had discovered fifteen moldering skeletons, five with some bits of decomposing flesh still attached. The forensics lab had already rendered an initial report. Dead bodies buried six feet down in normal soil will decompose to a skeleton in eight to ten years. The soil in Clark County was acidic and the yearly rainfall somewhat above average for the United States, both of which tended to hasten the process. In addition, these bodies had been buried no more than eighteen inches below the surface, where air and insects can get at them. In such a case, complete decomposition takes place in less than two years, and sometimes, if they’re buried during the hotter, wetter seasons, less than one year.
The bodies were all those of young women, girls really, older than ten but younger than sixteen. The ones in the Eastern part of the clearing had been buried the longest. There was a clear gradation of decomposition, with the two graves farthest to the West, presumably the most recently buried, having been dug up by what appeared to be bears, and the bodies removed.
At least seven had enough rotting flesh still attached to the bones that there was some real hope of getting identifiable DNA. If so, that might prove useful, but it might not. The larger question was whether any other DNA might have been preserved, say that of the individual or individuals who had killed them.
There was no obvious trauma to the skeletons. If they had been tortured prior to death, the torture hadn’t involved breaking any bones.
The clearing where the bodies had been discovered was on State Forest land, far from any of the marked trails. Whoever had chosen the spot had picked it carefully. There were no buildings of any sort within the forest, which extended for approximately three miles from the clearing. There were over a thousand buildings, most of them private dwellings, between three and ten miles away.
“The clearing was a dumping ground,” Bill Harris said. “Doesn’t mean that the killer is from around here.”
Drew Hastings glumly nodded.
“Probably is, though. He’s probably killing them somewhere close. The further he transports a dead body, the more risk he takes.”
“Yeah, well,” Drew Hastings said, “the further he dumps them from his own place, the harder it is to identify him and the safer he’s going to be.”
“This is also true.”
The media hadn’t yet gotten hold of the story but it was only a matter of time. The state lab people knew enough to keep their mouths shut but most of them had wives, girlfriends or just friends, and everybody talks, at least a little, to the people they feel comfortable with, or want to impress. The news was going to spread. Also, the boys he had deputized to go along with the dogs were upstanding local citizens but they weren’t cops. Nope. It was too big a story to keep secret. Drew Hastings shook his head. Within a week, it was going to be a circus.
“What can I get you folks to drink?”
Mabel Stone ran a fine establishment. Kurtz and Lenore had already discovered that. Rustic but in an upscale way, the Stone House specialized in supposedly local game, though it is illegal in the United States for a restaurant to serve actual wild game. Ducks, geese, pheasant, venison, etc. can only be served in a dining establishment if it is raised on a farm, hopefully free from disease and parasites, and killed humanely. Still, they were in a community that regarded hunting as a way of life and serving game, even farm raised game, reinforced the self-image.
“What’s a good local beer?” Kurtz said.
The waitress, a thin middle-aged lady with dyed red hair, grinned. “the Brookside is popular. I
t’s from Morgantown Brewing.”
“I’ll try that.”
“Chardonnay,” said Lenore.
“I’ll have a coke,” Gary Kurtz said.
“Red wine for me,” Lisa said. “The house Cabernet.”
So far, Kurtz thought, this working vacation had turned out to be far more eventful than he had expected. The thing with Jerry Mandell, his father being nominated to the State legislature and a skull rolling around a creek. There had been rumors of additional bodies being dug up in the woods but so far, those rumors were unconfirmed, and Kurtz, frankly, would just as soon not know.
The red headed waitress plunked their drinks down on the table and Kurtz took a sip of his beer. Very solid choice, he decided, a Belgian saisson style, almost fruity, with medium hops.
This morning, Jerry Mandell had unexpectedly called in, which worried Mary and Maggie, but Kurtz had been relieved. Frankly, Kurtz would just as soon Jerry Mandell stayed far away from the office until his future status was resolved. If this meant Kurtz had to do more of the work, that was just fine with him.
The patients, he was interested to note, seemed just as happy, particularly the ones who had known Jerry for longer than a couple of years.
Things fall apart, Kurtz thought. The center cannot hold. Yeats, the Second Coming. Supposedly a poem about the dissolution of Western civilization, but it might as well have described the journey through life until old age, as death and final dissolution approached. That was the thing about poems. They meant whatever you read into them.
The waitress came back. They gave their orders, Kurtz choosing the mixed grill: wild boar sausage, quail, slow smoked bison rib and medallion of venison.
The waitress smiled. “That’s a real man’s plate of food, Sugar.”
“Yes,” Kurtz said. “It is.”
Lenore rolled her eyes.
“You see that table over there?” Gary Kurtz said.
“Which one?” Kurtz said.
“The big booth in the corner.” Gary pointed with his chin. Three men and a woman were sipping cocktails and talking.
If a Tree Falls Page 6
