After taking a seat at one of the tables, she stole a quick glance at Blackwell’s scowling face and saw a copy of the Medford Daily Chronicle on the table. Her jaw dropped at the title. Seeing it in print was like a splash of cold water.
“Dr. Frankenstein?”
It was sobering, to say the least. No wonder Blackwell was unhappy. She read the first paragraph, admiring Whit’s writing, yet hating everything it exposed in their investigation. Especially because the tip that Cordero could be the killer’s next target hadn’t panned out. She glanced around and realized everyone in the room was trying to avoid eye contact. Her name would be dirt for a long while.
Blackwell turned and waved a hand at the board. “All of this could be for nothin’. Our unsub is probably on the run. What do ya make of it, Panetta? You’ve got some FBI profiling in your background. What do you think of our guy?”
Panetta had gone to the coffee machine at the back of the room and poured a cup. “I don’t think he’ll run if he has live victims out there.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Right now we have no real leads to take us directly to our suspect; if we did, we would have arrested him. He knows that. Why expose himself by panicking? No. This guy is too methodical. He’s a man of science and high intellect. He’s going to assume he can outsmart us, which makes me think he will take the time to kill anyone who can expose him.”
Blackwell nodded, chewing on the end of a cigar. “Makes sense. Riggs, did you learn anything from Figoni, the body-parts guy?”
Riggs shook her head. “No, sadly. We talked to him in the hospital morgue. He swears he’s basically just a delivery driver for body parts and doesn’t know anything about the science behind Human Resources. But I think he’s lying. He has nearly enough credits to be a doctor. He’s smarter than he lets on. I don’t know. He’s the only employee from Human Resources who works in Medford, but who knows,” She shrugged. “Our killer may have gotten his stem cells from another company or even a university. We can start looking into other sources.”
Shaking his head, Blackwell spread his hands. “Wake up, folks. If any of you have anything to contribute, speak up now!”
A muffled cough from the back of the room broke the awkward silence. A stalemate between agencies, each vying for supremacy. Silence. Too much testosterone in the room, as far as Riggs was concerned.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the text from Whit.
Meet me for a run?
Sure. I could use a good workout. See you in 30
She set her phone down and twisted in her chair to have a look at the back of the room. The MADIU team had naturally gathered around the conference room tables, while the FBI boys, a new group from headquarters in Quantico, graced the back row. The two factions had taken a hard stand, with neither team willing to divulge crucial information to the other.
“This impasse is not going to move this case forward.” Blackwell clamped his teeth around his cigar. “We need to throw all our hats into the ring to catch this sucker. Not one more life should perish on our watch.” He paused to massage his moustache. “This unsub thinks he’s outsmartin’ us. Goin’ about his murderous business as if he ain’t got a care in the world. Right under our noses! Nothin’ fires me up more than a cocky son of a bitch. We are all, every one of us, accountable to the victims’ loved ones. We need to use every resource in our power to find and arrest this monster. If we don’t collaborate our efforts and another victim winds up dead, we are all gonna stink like shit on a shingle. Now speak up! My team first. You”—he pointed—“Tucker! What do ya have?”
He’d been leaning back, his hands linked behind his head, but he straightened up immediately. “I met with Dr. Heinemann yesterday afternoon. Real charming guy. Real chatty. He was acting all cut up about Niki Francis. When I asked about Delano, he admitted to being his psychiatrist. What’s he gonna say? We already know that. Then he rambled on about doctor-client privilege. That’s it.”
“My guys, anything else?”
“Yes,” Panetta said. “Lillian Gray faxed a copy of Human Resources board members early this morning. Guess who’s on it?”
“Our pretty boy, Dr. Heinemann?”
“He invested some start-up money and holds shares in the company.”
“I like it! Connecting the dots.”
“What we don’t have,” Panetta added, “is any direct connection between Figoni and Dr. Heinemann.”
“We’ll find it.” Blackwell pulled the cigar from his teeth, smoothed his moustache, and jerked his chin at the back of the room. “What about it, boys? We’re hot on his tail. You got anything on Heinemann that we don’t have?”
For whatever reason, maybe deciding Blackwell was a decent detective, Special Agent Robert Rasmussen finally spoke up. “We ran him through the database this morning and found some interesting information. He was charged with negligence in treating four patients with injections of growth hormones and some other ingredients he’d picked up from a Ukraine clinic. That was in 2012. He failed to issue warnings of possible side effects, so his license was revoked, and later reinstated after several mandatory classes on medical malpractice.”
Riggs’s heart skipped a beat. “What were the injections for?”
“Diseases of aging.”
“Ya don’t say?” Blackwell stood, hands on hips. Riggs realized he was fuming because they were just now sharing vital information. “Plan on making an arrest without us?”
Rasmussen had the decency to look uncomfortable as he explained, “We’re not finished with the investigation. We had a team evaluating records from other countries: Bolivia, Costa Rica, and others. We wanted to nail down any loose ends before we shared. Those countries don’t have our database, so it takes some time.”
Not buying it, Blackwell chewed the tip of his cigar, his dark eyes intent.
Rasmussen continued quickly, perhaps to make amends, “There’s more. Dr. Heinemann ran a clinic down in Mexico for underprivileged children back in 2004. He left the country in a hurry when local police started sniffing around because several children had been reported missing.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Blackwell turned to the whiteboard and circled Heinemann’s name. “Hog-tie the bastard and bring him in, but do it as a team. We got enough to arrest him as a suspect now, but I’m not ready for that yet. Each of our vics were patients of his. He’s directly tied to Human Resources as an investor, and he has a history of illegal experimentation with ‘diseases of aging.’”
He eyeballed the room, his gaze evaluating each team member. “Panetta, you bring in Heinemann. Burns, you get a search warrant for Eden Retreat. I want every man available searching that property.” He moved to a blueprint on the wall behind him. “Eden Retreat has sixty-something acres. Twelve bungalows all in this area, a large building with unknown usage sits here, the main building here, the restaurant, and several outbuildings we assume are maintenance. I want no mistakes on this one. Take cadaver dogs. You better call your families, ’cause you won’t be home for dinner.” He glanced at the clock. “We got us a press conference in three hours. Riggs, make sure Dr. Kessler, that pathologist, is at the conference to explain those teratomas.”
“Excuse me.” The unit secretary, Louise, paused in the doorway. “I think you better turn on the television. Fox News has a special report.”
Blackwell turned on the flat-screen mounted on the far wall. A banner ran across the bottom of the screen that read Breaking News, while Geraldo Rivera, a reporter with Fox News, held a microphone to an older Hispanic woman’s face. “You can verify the staggering report in the Medford Daily Chronicle this morning?”
Riggs said, “That’s Isabel Rodriguez’s mother.”
The woman was saying. “My daughter did not drown. The autopsy report said there was very little water in her lungs. And she was a good girl. No drugs. She … she … was a good swimmer.”
Geraldo asked, “What about the tumor? The teratoma tumor?”
“Yes. Just
like that. It’s just like the other two murders. She had the same tumor.” The woman’s face crumpled with her plea. “Please, please, if you know anything that can help us find my Isabel’s killer, call the police.”
Blackwell barked at Riggs, “How the hell did that happen?”
Riggs shook her head. The day was going from bad to worse. She wondered who else could have gotten their hands on those autopsy reports. Surely Dr. Weldon hadn’t handed them over, but she had a suspicion he was the leak. He was a softy at heart, and when heartbroken people came calling on the coroner, he couldn’t stop himself. She sighed; at least this new leak would take the pressure off of her. Whit’s story had been released before Geraldo’s, but hers leaned very closely on speculation because she lacked official documents and names of official sources.
The camera panned, offering a close-up of Geraldo. “You see this.” He held up a white piece of paper. “This, my friends, is a copy of the autopsy report for Isabel Rodriguez. It does indeed report a teratoma tumor. We have no doubt that this poor woman’s daughter is a third victim of the serial killer known as Dr. Frankenstein.”
Blackwell turned purple and pointed an accusing finger at Riggs. “Find that damn leak!”
She simply nodded, afraid to say anything. This was not the first time Dr. Weldon had “comforted” the bereaved. It was the most sensationalized, though, and she didn’t see how she could protect him from the fallout.
Geraldo continued, “That’s right, folks. We have an official document verifying that Dr. Frankenstein is no myth. He exists, and may kill yet again. I urge anyone with any information to contact the local police department.”
Blackwell cursed and spat in a nearby trash can. “That man nauseates me.”
CHAPTER
27
“I CAN’T TELL YOU how sorry I am,” Whit apologized between breaths. They were running on the last quarter mile of the popular Roxy Ann Peak Trail to Prescott Park. The trail was a 4.9-mile loop that offered great valley views with a thousand-foot elevation above Medford. Both Whit and Riggs had dressed down to running shorts and tank tops. Even at nine thirty in the morning, the temperature had scaled past the ninety-degree mark. The best part about the trail for Whit was no pine trees, so it had become a regular route for them. The dirt path was sparsely populated with madrone trees, an abundance of wildflowers, and scrub—no forests to trigger her phobia. It was also just a three- or four-minute drive uphill from her townhome.
Riggs gave her a friendly punch. “Apology accepted. We knew when we started our quid pro quo that things could go wrong. I’m not holding you responsible. You gave me a great lead, and I think it may yet pan out. Besides, blowhard Geraldo took the edge off of me, at least for the time being.”
“What a shit show. You can’t turn around in this town right now without running into story-hungry media. I had to take side streets to get here because my car has been tagged, and I’m now as much of a target as anyone.”
“Your notoriety is right up there with the best of them.”
Whit wondered if there might come a time when they would face a dividing line because of their jobs. She decided that in the end, none of it would be worth it. “Well, I just want you to know that none of this … this masterpiece theater, is worth losing your friendship.”
Riggs shook her head. “That’s not going to happen. We both enjoy the challenge of our professions, and there’s nothing wrong with a little healthy competition. We’ll see which one of us finds Dr. Frankenstein first.”
Whit laughed. “Not fair … You have the advantage!”
“How so?”
“You have a police badge that opens doors I can only dream of.”
“Don’t forget that sometimes a cop is the last person people will speak with. You have an official journalist badge. That parts waters too.”
“Not the same.”
“Almost.”
“No. Own it. You have an advantage.”
“No way. You get leads from people because they don’t want to talk on the record. It’s much harder for me to make those kinds of promises.”
“That’s debatable. You have authority, while I just have what … publicity? It’s not the same at all.”
Riggs teased, “So weak! No excuses. That was my dad’s motto for me and my three brothers. He retired thirty-two years in the Fresno Police Department. That was no cakewalk. Fresno was fifth in the nation per capita for murder back when he started. So his mantra … no excuses. Period.”
“I totally get it. My dad, Air Force sergeant, took no prisoners. By the book, baby!”
With a breathy laugh, Riggs said, “Seems like we had some interesting similarities growing up.”
“Yeah. You know, it’s funny. He’s become almost a softy in his old age. He’s a total pushover with my girls. They can do no wrong in his eyes. My mother just shakes her head in amazement.”
“Well, grandparents are allowed to spoil their grandkids. But yes. My brother’s kids, all boys so far, love to go fishing and hunting with my dad. He’s put on a bit of a beer belly, but he’s still active.”
Whit glanced ahead and saw they were close enough to the trailhead for a sprint. “Let’s knock this out of the park.”
Not to be outdone, Riggs charged ahead, and they reached a bench overlooking the city in a breathless sweat.
An inch ahead, Whit bragged, “See, that boot camp has put me in the best shape of my life.”
Riggs bent over, catching her breath. “No doubt. God, I needed this run! Had to burn off all the travel kinks and stress.”
“I know.” Whit plopped down on the bench, wiping sweat off her face with the bottom of her tank top. A haze hung over the Rogue Valley, its rolling hills, now at the end of summer, a dull dry yellow. Whit loved to come up here in the spring when it was fabulously picturesque, with white pear and red cherry blossoms in all the orchards, and in fall when it was ablaze with colorful leaves. Today the mountain ranges were a pale-blue landscape behind distant storm clouds.
Riggs joined her on the bench. “Looks like we may have more storms today.”
“Freakish storms lately,” Whit said.
“You should have seen me yesterday. I had to do an autopsy in the dark—well, sort of. The power went out and the generator only lights some of the building. And you know Dr. Weldon can be such a drama queen. It was creepy.”
“He is amusing, that’s for sure.” Whit inhaled a deep breath and let it out. “I had some not-so-amusing issues with my girls the last few days.”
“Is everything all right?”
She briefly shared Jordan’s defiance and Emma’s clingy manipulation. “You know, when John was alive, we were partners in raising the girls. Now I feel like I’m split in two, always trying to be everywhere at once. My parents have certainly helped. Thank God for them. But I know my girls are hurting. I also know there’s nothing I can do. I can’t protect them from all of life’s hurts. Their dad died. They’re going to hurt. I just have to accept it.”
“You’ll figure out what’s best for them. You’re a good mom. I confess I envy you. I always wanted children, or at least thought I’d have one or two by now, but I guess that’s not meant to be. With all this talk about embryonic stem cells and embryo banks, it makes me wonder.”
“About what?”
“Well, it’s like there’s these natural checks and balances. Science messes with a developing embryo, and what do we get? Monsters.”
Whit nodded. “It does kind of make you think.”
“We’ve had the pro-life groups dropping off all kinds of information down at the police station. Some of the more extreme ones demand we arrest people in the embryonic stem cell business because they’re murderers. Raising weird questions like, from a homicide perspective, when is it murder? I don’t know what to think, especially when I’m beginning to want to try for a child again.”
“I think in the end it’s an individual’s personal understanding of life. God only knows, Riggs
, and that’s the truth. Are you sure about wanting a child? You know the strain it can put on your body. Is that a good idea after the cancer?”
Riggs shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been much more contemplative since I went through chemo and started evaluating my life. Life and death in general.”
“You’re a Socrates at heart, Riggs. Always looking for answers. Sometimes there just aren’t any. We can philosophize the subject for hours and never really answer the questions. Every person has to follow their own heart.”
“That just about sums it up, doesn’t it?”
“With ambiguous subjects like this, yes. Now, look.” Whit leaned forward. “I need to talk shop. I got a call from Cordero this morning. She’s never going to talk to the police, but she wants to talk to me, off the record.”
Riggs brows shot up. “You’re right about that. At the hospital last night Blackwell explained to her that she could be in danger. She denied any involvement in the stem cell trial and refused to talk without an attorney. Did she admit anything to you?”
“No, but she is involved, and obviously she’s scared or she wouldn’t be talking to me.”
“I agree, which makes me think you need backup.” She sat forward, appealing to Whit. “She’s a powerful force in this community. What her involvement could be in the stem cell trial, I’m not sure, but I don’t think I’d trust her at all. You’re not meeting her alone?”
“Yes, and I plan on keeping it that way. As soon as I have the information, I’m going to call you. You’ll be the star detective on this one. Whatever else has happened will be forgotten.”
“You’re not putting yourself in danger because of what happened with the Cordero lead last night, are you?”
“Hell no!” Whit stood and stretched. “I’m doing what I always do. I’m hunting down my story. I just plan on making sure you benefit from it too.”
A Desperate Place Page 22