“I don’t know.” Ethan rocked back on his heels. “I don’t think Vangie Wright’s in some ward.”
Ferguson’s gaze sharpened. “Why do you say that?”
“I took Arnold’s mug shot to that drug dealing buddy of Lisa MacAdam’s—” He could see the girl’s face perfectly in his head but her name just wouldn’t come to him. That’s what a week of no sleep did to you. He flipped open his notepad and searched for the name. “Shonda Bryant. That’s her street name. Found her on Agricola Street selling dope. She hadn’t seen Arnold around.” His eyes met Ferguson’s. “Confirms our suspicions about him. She said she saw Vangie Wright being picked up by a john in a silver sedan—but that was before Arnold was released. It was the last time Vangie Wright was seen.”
“She never put that in the missing persons report.”
“She’s an addict, too, Deb. She probably didn’t remember.”
“So she’s not a reliable witness.”
“No…but I think she’s telling the truth.”
“Why?”
Ethan shrugged. “She has no reason not to.”
Ferguson pressed her lips together. Finally, she said, “Fine. We’ve got so little to go with right now, we can’t ignore this.” She straightened and stepped back from the table. Looking around the room, she announced: “All right, everyone, we’ve got a new lead.”
Lamond and Walker came over. “Is it Arnold?”
Ferguson shook her head. “No, Arnold isn’t a contender. He’s gone AWOL so we’ve got a warrant out for him, but that’s not the lead.” She shot a look at Ethan. “Tell them.”
“We think that Krissie Burns wasn’t the killer’s first victim.”
Walker exchanged glances with Lamond. Ethan read the look. More bad news.
“There was another prostitute who went missing two years ago. She was picked up by a guy in a silver sedan and never seen again.” The detectives began making notes. “She could be the first victim—or there could have been more before her.” Ethan shrugged. “But she fits the typology: prostitute, same geographic area, same network of friends. We need to find her body.”
Ferguson picked up her clipboard. “Lamond, get the lab on the phone and see if we can match the fiber to a silver sedan model, at least two years old. Walker, liaise with Vicky and get all her reports on this woman. Redding, I want you to go over the surveillance footage from the funeral and see if we can get a match on the car.”
The detectives began writing down their tasks. “Ethan.” Ferguson tapped the M.E.’s report with her fingernail. “We need to find the kill site. That’s the key to this.”
Adrenaline surged through him. This was the action he’d been craving. “The M.E. thinks that the killer has some specialized skill with dismemberment.” He glanced around, a smile tugging his lips. “Anyone got plans to go under the knife?”
“Walker needs a boob job.” Lamond smirked, reaching over and squeezing Walker’s pec. Ethan bit back a snort. Walker was a body builder and he was always bragging that his pecs looked like the Rock’s.
“Hey, don’t knock ’em. The ladies love the look.” Walker flexed his chest and threw Lamond a dirty look. “At least I don’t need brain surgery.”
“You’ll both be getting lobotomies if you don’t stop,” Ferguson said briskly. They were feeble jokes, but everyone smiled. It helped ease the strain of the past few weeks. “Ethan, you’re on the right track. I want you to go to the hospitals and check out the surgeons. See if there’s been anything going on. Lamond, when you finish talking to the lab, you go with him to assist.”
Ethan slipped his notebook back in his pocket. He tried to keep the elation from his face. He was back in action.
He couldn’t wait to find out what those surgeons were up to. Scrub gowns could hide a multitude of sins.
Chapter 38
Wednesday, May 16, 8:00 a.m.
Strangely, she had a great morning run.
After spending most of the night awake, Kate thought she’d lose steam halfway through the park, but her body hummed with energy. Next time she saw Finn, she’d have to thank him for scaring her out of her mind. It’d given her a real adrenaline rush. When she got home, Alaska flopped on his bed and refused to move until she poured his food.
She knew she’d pay the price later but right now she was filled with a sense of purpose. She put on her favorite suit. The new cream-colored one. She remembered she had it on the day Randall had assigned her the MacAdam case. She remembered the way he’d looked at her, the speculative gleam in his eyes. How the next time she met with him the speculative gleam had changed to a look that both terrified and excited her. And then John Lyons had assigned her the TransTissue file. She’d been so eager to show him what she could do.
But John Lyons had tried to use her. He had thought that if he put her on the TransTissue file—a newly admitted lawyer, an associate on probation with a lot to prove and a lot to lose—she’d be more concerned about pleasing him than digging too deeply in her client’s ambiguous dealings.
It wasn’t TransTissue that concerned her right now. It was John Lyons. He was hiding something.
She was going to find it, if it was the last thing she did. And she knew it would probably be the last thing she did at LMB.
Alaska lay on his bed, already dozing after his vigorous run and filling breakfast. She patted him goodbye. He thumped his tail softly.
She locked the door carefully and drove to her office. It was foggy, but there was a brightness behind the gray. The sun would break through later.
She pulled into the parkade and walked briskly to the elevator. A thought suddenly hit her. Maybe Bob Duggan hadn’t asked her to be taken off the file. Maybe John Lyons had lied. Maybe he was trying to undermine her confidence so she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
Jesus. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. No more maybes. Whatever John was up to, she wouldn’t let him get away with it.
She’d spent the past fifteen years trying to regain her life. No one was going to screw with it.
It was time to hit the computer and see what kind of slimy trail her mentor had left behind.
* * *
Dr. Marilla Olsen shook Ethan’s hand with a grip that was warm yet unrelenting. “Detective Drake, Detective Lamond,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She led them through her office door, which looked the same as all the other doors dotting the southwest corridor of the GH2.
Ethan and Lamond sat on the green office chairs facing her desk. Ethan glanced around. Numerous framed diplomas and awards hung on the pale green wall behind her chair. A large photo was placed on one end of the credenza. It showed two smiling little girls, one with glasses and the other whose puff of black hair was pulled to the top of her head with a red elastic. The older girl had her mother’s eyes, round and wide set.
Wouldn’t he love to have two little girls to tickle. He’d thought he’d be a father in the next couple of years, sharing the joys and sleepless nights of a little Drake with Kate.
He tore his gaze away from the photo. Dr. Olsen moved behind her desk, folding her hands in front of her. She wore no wedding band. No jewelry at all, which he supposed was due to the nature of her work. She’d need her hands free and clear to handle the drills and saws required for orthopaedic surgery.
“What can I do for you, detectives?” Dr. Olsen asked. Her voice was cool, as were her eyes. The police were never welcomed with open arms at the GH2. Dr. Olsen, Division Head of Surgery, had agreed very reluctantly to meet with them. He was sure she’d been thoroughly debriefed by the hospital administration’s risk management team about what not to say. She now surveyed them with an expression that Ethan knew did not bode well for their investigation.
“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice, Dr. Olsen,” Ethan began. It was crucial to set the right tone with her. Intimidation or demands would just get her back up. Today would be about finesse; about two profe
ssions overlapping due to circumstances beyond their control; about each professional trying to do their job as best they could. “We are here regarding an investigation into the recent murders of several young girls.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you mean the judge’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
She processed that silently. She was not a woman who was easily discomfited, he could tell.
“Why does your investigation involve the hospital?” she asked finally.
“Based on certain findings that all the victims share, we have reason to believe the killer has a surgical background.”
“I see.”
He wasn’t going to wait and see if she would add anything to that noncommittal response. He knew she wouldn’t. He got straight to the point. “We would like to know if any of the surgeons operating out of the GH2 have been recently disciplined or have been behaving in a concerning manner.”
There was a slight tightening of her hands.
Bingo.
“As you know, Detective Drake, disciplinary matters are held in strictest confidence. I am not at liberty to answer your question.”
Lamond shifted in his seat. They’d expected this response, but Ethan had hoped that the brutality of the cases might loosen Dr. Olsen up a bit.
“Dr. Olsen, we have three dead girls. All of them were dismembered.” She held his gaze but he thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. He leaned forward. “We need to catch this guy before he kills another girl.”
“I understand.” Her fingers tensed. “But you need to understand that I cannot disclose confidential information.” She stood and walked around her desk. “I’m sorry.”
“You must understand the gravity of the situation. This guy is on the prowl. And he knows what he is doing.”
Her expression remained stony. “I am sorry, Detective.” She walked to the door. “I wish I could be of help.”
He made one last-ditch attempt. “You are in the business of saving lives, Dr. Olsen. That’s what I try to do, too. We’re on the same team.”
She shook her head. “No, Detective, we are not. I have a duty to protect my staff.” She held open the door. “Good day.”
He glanced back at the photo of Dr. Olsen’s daughters. He waited until her gaze followed his. “And I have a duty to protect the public.” She couldn’t miss his meaning. He turned toward the door. “If you decide you can help us, here’s my card.”
She nodded brusquely. “Good luck, Detective.” She took his card and closed the door on their heels.
“Damn,” he muttered. He’d hoped he could crack her.
Lamond said softly, “She knows something.”
“Yeah. But how are we going to find out?”
They walked in silence down the long corridors, stopping to grab a coffee at the ubiquitous Tim Hortons counter in the lobby. His double-double didn’t inspire any great ideas. They rode down the elevator.
Ethan drained his cup and tossed it in the garbage. “I think we’ll have to start from the ground up and hope we hit on something.”
“I thought this was the ground up.” Lamond glanced around the underground parking.
Ethan rewarded his joke with a brief smile. He appreciated his partner’s efforts to not let their latest disappointment defeat them. “A surgeon couldn’t do a dismemberment in an O.R. suite, could he? Too many people around.”
Lamond stared at him. “Yeah. You’re right. So where do you think he’d do it? In his garage?”
“Maybe…” He waited until they were in his car. “Or maybe he’d just go down to where the bodies were waiting for him.” He threw Lamond a sideways glance.
When Lamond gave a rueful moan, he slapped Lamond on the back. “This time, though, don’t throw up.”
* * *
Dead ends. One after another.
She had a knack for finding them.
This time, John Lyons had led her on a merry chase. And so far, he was way ahead of her.
She stared at the Registry of Joint Stock Companies Web page and jabbed the Enter key on her computer dispiritedly. She had hoped that John Lyons might have inadvertently left a paper trail that would show his business interests. And possibly illuminate his connection to TransTissue. If ever a case reeked of conflict of interest, it was this one.
But as soon as the site loaded, she saw the first wrong assumption she’d made. She couldn’t search by individual name. It had to be by business name. And she doubted that John Lyons would be listed in any official capacity with TransTissue.
The results scrolled on to her computer screen. She was right. TransTissue’s registration was free and clear. No mention of John Lyons.
So TransTissue was a dead end. And since she couldn’t search by an individual’s name, John Lyons was a dead end. She nibbled on her lower lip. The U.S. cases had found the tissue suppliers—not the processors—guilty of negligence.
She straightened. She was starting at the wrong end. She needed to track down BioMediSol, see if she could get her hands on the original reports BioMediSol sent with the tissue used to make the product in Brad Gallivant’s knee.
She typed BioMediSol in the Registry of Joint Stock Companies search engine. The results loaded on to the screen. She stared at them, puzzled. She’d expected BioMediSol to have an industrial address, a large corporate structure and company headquarters based in Toronto or the U.S.
Instead, BioMediSol was owned and operated by a man named Craig Peters. His civic address was an apartment on Church Street, Halifax. The business mailing address was a P.O. box.
She printed out the record. Church Street was in a densely populated south end neighborhood filled with old Victorian homes like hers. In fact, it wasn’t too far away from where she lived.
Was this Craig Peters actually harvesting body parts in his apartment? She pictured blood dripping through the ceiling of the tenant beneath him.
Don’t be ghoulish. It could all be perfectly legit.
There was only one way to find out.
She grabbed her purse.
Chapter 39
“Detective Drake?”
The smooth tones of Dr. Olsen’s voice filled Ethan’s ear. His heart skipped, then resumed in double time. “Yes.”
“I only have a minute. Don’t ask me to repeat this.”
Fortunately, she’d gotten him at his desk. Ethan flipped open his notepad.
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I can’t stop thinking about those girls…”
He waited.
She said softly, “We have one surgeon out on medical leave.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Mike Mazerski. M-a-z-e-r-s-k-i. He’s a neurosurgeon.”
Ethan paused. The way the limbs had been removed from the victims, he’d been expecting an orthopaedic surgeon. “Why is he on medical leave?”
“He’d been behaving erratically in the O.R. We put him on leave for psychiatric assessment on Friday.”
Ethan’s pulse accelerated. “We need to interview him and the O.R. team.”
“I’ve done more than I should. I can’t do any more than that, Detective.”
The phone clicked in his ear.
* * *
The apartment buildings on Church Street were vintage south end Victorian. Sprawling and wood shingled, with attractive trims and balconies, some were nicely kept town-homes. Others were well past middle age and leaned wearily against one another.
Kate paused on the sidewalk and studied Craig Peters’ building. It was smaller, more like a large house divided into flats. Run-down. In fact, typical student digs. She double-checked the number. She had the right place. But it seemed bizarre that this was the official domicile of the CEO of a tissue brokering company. Something was not adding up.
She walked up the stairs to the front door. Several apartment numbers were nailed to the wall. But not number four, Craig Peters’ listed address.
She backed down the stairs. She double-checked the reg
istry record she’d printed out. It clearly said apartment four.
She scanned the house again. On the far corner of the building by the driveway was a small four nailed to the wall. An arrow under it pointed to the back.
She stuffed the record in her purse and hurried down the driveway. It was narrow, probably an old carriage lane, but wide enough to squeeze a car through. When she reached the back, she saw there was a small paved parking lot. It was empty.
Three second-story balconies hung over the parking lot, jammed with the usual student accessories: empty beer cartons, barbecues and cheap plastic lawn furniture. A tattered Nova Scotia flag hung forlornly over the railing of one.
At the far end of the house she spotted a nondescript door. It sat in the shadow of the flag-draped balcony. She walked toward it. A small number four marked it as the final apartment of the building.
Taking a deep breath, she mentally ran through her story one more time. Posing as a features reporter was flimsy and completely unoriginal, but it was the best she could come up with on the seven-minute drive between Lower Water Street and Church. Her stomach churned. If the bar society found out what she was doing, she’d be screwed.
Remember why you are doing this, she told herself. If TransTissue or its supplier is using tainted tissue, more people’s lives could be ruined.
She raised her fist and knocked on the door.
There was silence.
She knocked again, louder.
No reply.
Curtains were drawn across the small window by the door. It was impossible to tell if anyone was home.
She stepped back and gazed up at the other apartments. They, too, seemed empty. Unnaturally quiet for a building housing students.
It was as if everyone had fled.
A chill raised the flesh on her arms. She turned and walked quickly through the parking lot.
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