“It sounded urgent. But we didn’t find anyone here.”
I tried to picture the schematic of the facility in my mind. “There is another preparation area,” I recalled aloud. “But this is the one where someone—probably Ackerman—brought Ms. Washburn.”
“You’re sure?” Lapides asked. I nodded.
Epstein looked horrified. “Then we’re too late?”
I put my hand on Epstein’s shoulder, a gesture that does not come naturally to me, but one which I know is intended as a signal of comfort. “No, Mr. Epstein. We are not too late. At least, I don’t believe we are. Nothing of a surgical nature happened here. But we must widen the search for Ms. Washburn throughout the facility. She escaped her intended killer but is probably still being pursued, if for no other reason than that she knows who tried to decapitate her. Has anyone located Charlotte Selby or Commander Johnson?”
“Commander Johnson is being held under guard on the second floor,” the uniformed officer, whose nametag read Lonborg, told me.
“For goodness’ sake why?” I asked. “The commander was not involved in the conspiracy.”
“We don’t know who was and who wasn’t,” Lapides insisted. “What’s going on? How do you know Washburn was even here, let alone that she escaped from someone trying to cut off her head?”
“We are wasting time,” I said. “I’ll tell you as we go. Let’s make sure the other preparation area is not being used.”
I led Epstein and Lapides through the door, leaving the uniformed officer and the institute employee, who had been sleeping at his console the whole time we were in the room. “It’s relatively simple, after all the confusion,” I said. “Charlotte Selby and Marshall Ackerman were trying to blackmail Laverne Masters into giving them millions of dollars for her daughter’s remains, but they never had anything to trade for the money. They thought they could get by with threats and disappear before anyone realized what had happened. But Laverne forced the issue by refusing to pay until she saw evidence that Rita’s cranium was in fact in the possession of the thieves, and time was short. They decided to substitute a similar-looking specimen, and Ms. Washburn is of the same general physical appearance as Ms. Masters-Powell, based on the photograph you provided, Mr. Epstein. So removing her head and freezing it in time to bring to the exchange was essential.”
“How can you possibly tell all that?” Lapides asked as we squeezed into the small elevator. Epstein pushed the button marked 2, and the doors closed very slowly.
“I saw Ackerman and Charlotte in Ackerman’s car right before he came to Questions Answered to hire me,” I told him. “They were kissing. Ackerman and Charlotte were having an affair and wanted money to get away from Eleanor Ackerman and, probably, the institute.”
“You get all that from them kissing in a car?” Lapides asked.
“That, plus the fact that Ackerman was getting his ‘instructions,’ as you did, detective, from someone inside the institute facility. And while Commander Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, Laverne and Arthur Masters, and all of us were present at one time or another when a communication from the thieves was supposedly received, Charlotte Selby was never in the room.”
“She was, though,” Lapides pointed out. “After I confiscated the cell phones, Charlotte came into the conference room to complain about it. She was there when the thieves sent their message agreeing to the exchange.”
“That is something that I believe will be explained when Mr. Epstein’s data on the wireless communications in the building is revealed in a few hours,” I said. “But I know how it was done. Charlotte had the unregistered phone, the prepaid one, with her in addition to her usual cellular phone. Just before she walked into the conference room to complain about not having her cellular phone, she composed a text message to Ackerman. I saw her put her hand in her jeans pocket, and immediately after, Ackerman’s cellular phone chirped.”
The elevator doors finally opened. Epstein pointed to the left and said, “That’s where the other preparation area is located. There are two officers inside already.”
I started in that direction, and the other two men followed. “I’ll look,” I said, “but I’m willing to bet that the room is untouched. They were planning on using the one we’ve already seen.”
Epstein looked puzzled. “Because there was a tray of instruments set up next to the operating table?” he asked.
“Very good, yes,” I told him. “Clearly, Ackerman or one of his staff doctors—but I think it was Ackerman himself, to avoid having to tell anyone else of his plans—was interrupted by Ms. Washburn’s escape before he could do what he’d planned.”
We reached the door and walked inside, Lapides first, then myself, then Epstein. There were two officers inside, seemingly without a single task to perform. One sat behind a console, and the other stood, arms folded, leaning against the far wall.
Their nametags read Jenkins and Pang.
The room itself was identical to the last, the only missing elements being the evidence of Ms. Washburn’s courageous escape. There were two operating areas: two tables set up parallel to each other under very strong lighting that could be adjusted to allow the surgeon views of specific body areas. There were also two wheeled carts that held many of the instruments that would be used in such a situation, as well as various computer monitoring equipment.
“I don’t understand why you’re so sure that Washburn managed to escape, or that she was even here,” Lapides said.
“She was not here,” I corrected him. “She was brought to the other preparation room and put on one of the operating tables. The stainless-steel surface of the table was unblemished except for three hairs at one end, the same length and color as Ms. Washburn’s and, incidentally, very similar to that of Ms. Masters-Powell.”
“So she was there,” Lapides continued. “But an escape?”
“I would assume that Ms. Washburn was brought in unconscious, probably after having been transported in the rear seat or trunk of Ackerman’s car,” I explained. “But while Ackerman and whomever he had coerced into helping him—if anyone—prepared for the gruesome task ahead, Ms. Washburn must have regained her consciousness.”
I pointed to the operating table. “Since every other patient ever brought into this room had no capacity to move, and since the surgery being done here was never going to be painful or cause a reaction, there has been no need for restraints on the operating tables before. They were not attached, see? But the one in the other room had improvised restraints, made of cloth from hospital linens or something of the sort, at each point where an arm or ankle might have been situated. They didn’t expect Ms. Washburn to wake up, but there was no sense in taking chances.”
“The hairs prove she was there,” Epstein said. “The restraints prove they intended to … do her harm. What proves her escape?”
“You didn’t see the restraint on the right side of the table, at the patient’s left arm?” I asked. Epstein shook his head; Lapides simply looked baffled. “The linen shackles were there to keep Ms. Washburn in place if necessary, but they weren’t as firm or restrictive as normal Velcro or steel ones would be. So if she were able to conceal her consciousness from her captors, it would not be terribly difficult for Ms. Washburn to reach over to the wheeled cart next to the table and find one of the very sharp scalpels left there. One was clearly missing from the tray, and the restraint in question was sliced through. She must have untied the others herself.”
Lapides and Epstein looked impressed; the two officers did not take much notice. Their job was to secure the room, and we were not perceived as a threat.
“There is nothing to see here,” I said. “We need to find Ms. Washburn immediately. Gentlemen, separate. Detective, are your officers’ communication links operating?”
He shook his head. “No. We’ve been checking in at regular intervals to the command center in the upstairs conference r
oom,” he told me. “Captain Harris should be there by now. Arthur Masters and his mother are there, and they’re asking why we’re not heading for the exchange. If we don’t find something soon, we’ll have to leave in about fifteen minutes.”
“Then there’s no time to spare,” I said. “I’ll go to the right. Epstein, you go to the left. I will meet you back here. Detective, perhaps one level up would be a good choice for you. But first, I think you should head back to the command center and try to get the captain to authorize the deactivation of the institute’s security system so we can better communicate inside the building. Lives are at stake.”
Lapides nodded. Epstein and I stepped out of the elevator, and the doors closed again. I nodded in his direction, and he acknowledged the gesture. In a motion picture, we would have both had firearms, but neither of us had anything in our hands at all. I am a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do; I had no knowledge of Epstein’s defensive skills. I sincerely hoped that neither of us would have to test ourselves in that area.
My plan, improvised as it was, involved checking the doors in the corridor, each of which had a window that would allow for at least a partial view of the interior if the door was locked. It wasn’t a very complex plan, but it would accomplish the necessary function successfully.
Time was clearly a pressing issue, but I could not rush through the task. Each door had to be opened slowly on the assumption that a hostile person might be inside the room, either hidden from view or behind the door, ready to take action. So my examination of the first three rooms, all of whose doors were unlocked, took seven minutes and eight seconds.
The next door was marked Storage, which meant it opened into a closet. The door was locked, which was only slightly odd; many facilities will lock their storage closets to prevent theft, and medical facilities almost always do, especially when the storage units house drugs or medical equipment that can be valuable. So I was prepared to walk by the closet and move on.
But then I saw there was a strip of light on the carpet in the corridor where I stood, coming from inside the room marked Storage.
There were numerous scenarios to explain this circumstance. The most likely one was that the last GSCI employee to use the closet had merely left the light on when he or she left and locked the door upon exiting. Another, more ominous, explanation was that one of the thieves or the murderer was behind the door, hiding from the police search of the facility. But such a person would be extremely foolish to leave the light burning and give him or herself away.
The third possibility was the one I hoped for, perhaps relying more on emotion than strong data. Quietly, but not so quietly that I would not be audible inside the closet, I said, “Ms. Washburn?”
For a very long moment, there was no response. It seemed like a very long moment, anyway. I did not count the seconds.
Then the doorknob turned, the door flew open into the hallway, and Ms. Washburn tumbled out, her arms spread. She embraced me, which made me especially aware of my arms and wonder what I should be doing with them. They hung at my sides as Ms. Washburn held on.
“Samuel,” she said. “I’m so glad it’s you.”
twenty-nine
We had very little time, but Ms. Washburn needed a moment to realize she was now safe. I put my hands on her upper arms and increased the pressure a bit, to let her know I was there and reassure her, and we stood that way for eleven seconds.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
“Physically,” she said. “I’m not so sure otherwise.”
“You’ve been very brave,” I told her. “Much braver than I would have been under the circumstances. How did you manage to get all four restraints cut before Ackerman saw you were free?”
I felt her arms tighten a bit at the memory, then Ms. Washburn ended the embrace and took a step back. She wiped a tear from her left eye. “I cut the left hand one first,” she explained. “That was the closest. He still didn’t know I had the scalpel at that point. So I could move the blade toward the right hand while he was preparing his computer program. Why he wanted a record of”—she shuddered— “what he was going to do is beyond me.”
“He is a creature of habit, and that is the protocol,” I explained. “It’s a mindset I understand well.”
“I untied the right wrist, which was faster than cutting it, but my luck ran out once my hands were free,” she continued. “Ackerman turned his attention to me. I could just lie there pretending I was still unconscious and under restraint. When he reached for my hand to put in an IV, which I figure would have had something to put me all the way out, I sat up and put the scalpel to his throat. I made him release the two restraints on my ankles.”
It was a staggering image; Ms. Washburn must have been terrified, and Ackerman frustrated beyond his capacity. “How did you get away from him?” I asked. “Surely he was right behind you when you left the room.”
Ms. Washburn nodded; she seemed to have difficulty finding the words to speak. “I hit the door and ran,” she said. “I could heard his footsteps behind me, and I knew he could probably run faster than I can. But for some reason, when he opened the door to the operating room, he must have turned right, thinking I was heading for the elevator. I turned left, just because it was a straight line out of the room, and I wanted to be away from there as soon as I … as soon as I …”
I did not look to see if she was weeping. “Come,” I said, gesturing toward the elevator. “We have to meet Mr. Epstein and get out of here with you.” I began walking in the direction I had come, and after a few strides, had a very alarming moment when I realized Ms. Washburn was not by my side. I turned back to see where she was.
She seemed rooted to the spot. She was looking at me but did not move. I could only assume the terror she had experienced was returning now that she no longer had to rely on her own courage to survive.
I looked at her a moment. Going back would only reinforce her resolve to stay where she was. I needed, I realized, to get her moving toward me. So I reached into my pocket and pulled out her cellular phone.
“I didn’t lose it,” I said. “I brought it to give back to you.”
Ms. Washburn smiled then and ran to where I was standing. She took the phone from my hand, exhaled strongly, and nodded at me. “Thank you,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t lose it.” We walked to the elevator in stride.
Epstein was turning the corner just as we reached the elevator. “She wasn’t …” he began, then saw Ms. Washburn at my side. “Ms. Washburn, I presume,” he said.
“Don’t you start that stuff,” she scolded him. “I’ll let Samuel get away with it, but you call me Janet.” This appeared to be some gesture of an amicable nature, because Epstein smiled when she said it and held out his hand, which Ms. Washburn took.
“Nice to meet you, Janet,” he said.
I insisted we head directly to the command center on the uppermost level, and when we arrived there, we found Captain Harris, the Masterses, and Commander Johnson there. Arthur Masters seemed especially surprised to see Ms. Washburn with us, and positively grinned upon our entrance. He stood, but we walked past him and Ms. Washburn did not make eye contact with Arthur.
The captain immediately asked Epstein to go back to the security center and disconnect the circuitry jamming communications systems inside the facility. Epstein dropped his eyebrows in a determined expression and left the conference room.
“Are we sure Ackerman and Charlotte Selby are still on the premises?” I asked.
“We are sure about Ackerman, because there was visual confirmation of him in the building when our team arrived,” the captain answered. “Once we surrounded the building, he couldn’t have left without our seeing him. But Selby hasn’t been spotted since we arrived, and we can’t confirm her whereabouts at all.”
I suggested that Ms. Washburn be given a police escort to her home, but she ref
used it, saying she was safer in the presence of the captain and the officers here than she would be outside the building. “After all, I was taken from in front of my own house earlier this morning,” she said, “and I woke up on an operating table about to get my head cut off. I’d prefer not to risk that happening again. I’ll wait until everyone is in custody, thanks.” I felt it inappropriate to explain that since her head was no longer of any value to Ackerman, she was probably in no further danger, so I kept that observation to myself.
“Dr. Ackerman was acting alone?” Commander Johnson asked. He looked absolutely drained; he was sitting for the first time since I’d met him, and when not speaking, his eyes were fixed but not focused. He seemed confused or distraught; it was not possible for me to discern which.
“He was the only one I saw,” Ms. Washburn answered, and the commander’s head dropped down again. “I was walking from my car to my house, and Ackerman showed up on the sidewalk. He called my name, and I figured there must be some emergency, and he’d gotten my address off one of my business cards. I walked toward him. Then I felt a stab in my hip, and the next thing I knew, I was …” She left the sentence unfinished.
“Ackerman was the only one Ms. Washburn saw, but he was not acting alone,” I told the group. “He’d been receiving texts and phone calls from the supposed thieves, and we saw the messages. In addition, Ackerman came with us to the first planned exchange at Rutgers Village. Then he went directly to his home when we called with the news of the attack on his wife. But at that time, the video cameras you left behind, Captain Harris, taped someone picking up the cases Ackerman had left there. It could not have been Ackerman, since he was being driven to his home by one of your officers. So it’s only logical to conclude that at least one other person was working with him.”
Captain Harris nodded, then touched her shoulder-mounted communication link. She listened for a moment and turned toward me. “Mr. Epstein has managed to get us communications among the officers and inside the building,” she reported. “He says that cell phone calls into and out of the institute will be possible in just a few minutes.”
1 The Question of the Missing Head Page 23