Back Track

by Jason Dean

  ‘You got anything to back that up?’ Vallejo said, stepping over to the refrigerator. ‘Or is this just another one of your hang-ups against anyone with a badge?’

  ‘All I’ve got right now are questions,’ he said. ‘For instance, I was arrested for the Hewitt killing, so why were those two Saracen cops waiting for me at the hospital in Garrick? How did they know I was the same guy who showed up last night pretending to be a doctor?’

  Vallejo filled two glasses with Evian and handed one to Bishop. ‘You tell me.’

  Bishop drank some of the water and tapped a knuckle against the screen. ‘I think one of these three, probably the big one, gave my description to his contact at the Saracen PD and let them handle it. Probably mentioned my visit to the hospital last night and that it might be an idea to post a couple of uniforms in case I decided to return. And like an idiot, that’s exactly what I did.’

  ‘But why involve the police at all? They could have just waited for you to show up, then buried you out in the desert.’

  Bishop shrugged. ‘Maybe the man at the top decided it was better to stick with the original plan. I mean, he’d already invested all this time and effort on setting me up as a fall guy for Hewitt’s murder. Easier all round if he let the police catch me so they can wrap up the case quickly, then everybody’s able to carry on with their business as normal.’

  ‘But the evidence against you was all circumstantial. Any half-decent lawyer would have cast enough reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury to get you off.’

  ‘I’ve a strong feeling I would have been found dead in my cell long before that. A suicide would prove my guilt better than any trial. A lot neater, too.’

  Vallejo thought about that. Then she said, ‘So that alibi I gave you must have really thrown them for a loop.’

  ‘And then some. They probably didn’t even know you existed before this morning. You can bet they do now, though.’

  Vallejo finished her drink and said, ‘Okay, Bishop, you’ve convinced me. We hold on to the hard drive. So what next?’

  Bishop looked around the room until he spotted the small air ventilation grille near the ceiling. ‘I’ll hide the hard drive,’ he said. ‘You see if you can find out where this Rutherford lives.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  According to the online White Pages, a Jon Rutherford lived at the Rio Alamos Apartments on West McKinley Avenue, out on the western outskirts of town. Apartment number 132. Vallejo got them there in less than twenty minutes.

  To Bishop the whole place looked cheap and depressing. The complex took up most of a block, with a large part of the acreage set aside for parking. The two-storey apartment buildings dotted around were simple rectangular blocks devoid of any character, with no trees or greenery in sight. There was barely any shade anywhere.

  Vallejo drove through the entrance and turned left at the fork in the access road. She followed the road all the way round until they found the building that housed apartments 121–160. The car park for this section was mostly empty. And on a Saturday, too. Bishop guessed this was the kind of place that always had vacancies. Vallejo parked a few spaces along from a ten-year-old blue Toyota Camry. Bishop could remember seeing something similar outside Bannings’ yesterday and wondered if it was Rutherford’s.

  They got out and walked over to the stairs at the side of the building. There was nobody else around that he could see. Apart from the occasional vehicle passing by on McKinley, the place was quiet.

  As they climbed the steps, she said, ‘Has it occurred to you that this guy might not be too anxious to talk to you?’

  Bishop said, ‘Believe me, he’ll be desperate to tell me everything in no time at all.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I do believe you.’

  At the top, they walked along the walkway until they reached No. 132. Bishop stood to one side of the door. Vallejo took the other. Again, old habits died hard. For both of them. Bishop rapped on the door a couple of times and waited.

  There were no sounds from within. None at all. He knocked again, looking at Vallejo. Bishop began to suspect that maybe that wasn’t Rutherford’s car downstairs. Or maybe he’d gone out to get drunk now that he’d found himself unemployed.

  ‘Hey, you smell something?’ Vallejo asked, sniffing the air.

  Now that she mentioned it, he did. ‘That’s gas,’ he said.

  He bent down to the keyhole and breathed in. The smell was definitely coming from within. They needed to get inside, fast. He took his keys from his pocket and found one that looked right. He inserted it and did his bump trick again. He turned the handle and pushed, but a steel security chain prevented it from opening more than a couple of inches. And the smell was a lot stronger now.

  ‘Take a deep breath, Vallejo,’ he said. ‘And try not to leave any prints.’

  Bishop took three steps back and then launched himself at the door. His right shoulder smashed into the chained section and it crashed open. Covering his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow, Bishop plunged ahead down the hallway until he found the kitchen on the left.

  It was a mess. The kind of mess you’d expect of a young guy living on his own. Dirty plates and cutlery everywhere, except in the sink. There was also a refrigerator, a washing machine, a breakfast table, two chairs – and a gas stove.

  The oven door was open. A male figure lay on his stomach with his head all the way inside. The dial for the gas was the maximum setting. Bishop turned it to the off position. He checked and it was Rutherford all right. The skin was already cold. He’d been dead for at least a couple of hours. Possibly longer. Turning round, Bishop saw Vallejo at the doorway, her hand over her nose and mouth. He pointed to the window. She nodded, then grabbed a cloth from the sink and unlatched it, opening it as wide as it could go.

  Bishop quickly patted the body down. In one of the pants pockets there was something that felt like a wallet. In another, a set of keys. He pulled these out and saw one with a Toyota symbol on it.

  He stood up, grabbed a dirty rag from the kitchen counter and said, ‘You’d better open all the other windows before somebody passes by with a cigarette. And see if you can spot Rutherford’s cell phone around here somewhere. I’ll go and check his car.’

  ‘Right.’

  Vallejo left the kitchen and Bishop retraced his steps to the front door. He peered out and saw nobody in the immediate vicinity. Once down the steps he walked over to the Toyota and unlocked it. Using the rag to pull the door open, Bishop got in and gave the interior a once-over. There was plenty of junk on the carpet and in the glove compartment, but no cell phone anywhere. He got out, locked the car again and went back upstairs.

  Vallejo met him in the living room and said, ‘Nothing. You?’

  Bishop shook his head and said, ‘I didn’t think they’d be that dumb, but it was worth checking.’

  He turned, walked back to the kitchen and looked down at the sad figure of Rutherford. The bodies were really starting to pile up now. And he didn’t think it would stop any time soon, either. The only way it might would be if Bishop gave up and went home. And that wasn’t about to happen in this lifetime. More likely, they’d just try to kill him again. He hoped so. Bishop was tired of groping around in the dark. He needed some facts to go on. And the best way to get them would be from the horse’s mouth. He felt confident that if he got his hands on one of them, he’d soon be able to make him talk.

  Standing beside him, Vallejo said, ‘Sure looks like suicide, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But we know better, don’t we?’

  ‘So Rutherford’s just another loose end they needed to tie up?’

  ‘That’s right. Hewitt had a link to Selina and he’s gone. Rutherford had a link to the bad guys and now he’s gone. They tried to kill me. These are serious people, Vallejo. Whatever we’ve stumbled onto is big enough that they can afford to waste anyone with even the slightest connection to them or their victims.’

  ‘But it kind of means we’ve also come to a dead e
nd, doesn’t it? Unless you’ve got some other lead you’ve been keeping secret?’

  Bishop had been thinking about that on the drive over here. About what to do if Rutherford wasn’t around. And he’d found his thoughts returning to those admissions entries on the hospital database. At the end of most entries had been a pair of initials and a three-digit number. He hadn’t thought much about them at the time, but now he had a pretty good idea what they signified.

  ‘I might have one,’ he said. ‘Come on. Every second we stay in this place is a second too long. We can make an anonymous call to the cops once we’re away from here.’

  Bishop relocked the front door and they made their way down to the car without meeting anybody. Once Vallejo got them back on the road, Bishop told her what he’d seen on the computer back at the hospital. ‘I think those initials represent the physician assigned to each patient. The number could be the physician’s pager number or pass number. The one on Mary Eastman’s entry was A.T. 423. And that’s somebody I’d really like to talk to.’

  ‘So how do you figure on finding out his, or her, name? I’d say that hospital’s pretty much out of bounds for you now, so you can forget about accessing that database again.’

  Bishop shrugged. ‘There must be a registry somewhere that lists physicians that practise in the state. And since Mary Eastman’s face was covered in bandages, we could narrow it down further by focusing only on plastic surgeons. There can’t be that many with the initials A.T.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure, Bishop. They are two of the more common letters in the alphabet.’

  ‘You got any better suggestions?’

  She turned to him. ‘You know, I just might.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  The Saracen Post newspaper offices were located in another large, one-storey building on West Central Avenue, overlooking the park. Two blocks down from the library. A pretty sensible location, Bishop felt. Or it would have been before the internet came along and levelled the playing field for researchers everywhere.

  Vallejo parked in one of the angled spaces directly outside and turned off the engine.

  Bishop looked out the window and said, ‘So what are we doing here?’

  ‘My first evening here,’ she said, ‘I went to a bar in town and got talking with a woman and a couple of her friends. Once her friends left, we stayed on. She said her name was Kaitlyn McGowan and that she worked at the local paper. We kept drinking and I ended up telling her more than I should have. I probably sounded deranged, talking about this phantom ambulance going round stealing women in the middle of the night, but she was real sympathetic. She also said I could call her again any time I felt like just talking to someone.’

  ‘People say a lot of things when they’ve had a few beers, Vallejo. They don’t necessarily mean them.’

  ‘I know that, but she still might be able to help. Besides, what have we got to lose?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said and opened the door.

  Once they entered the building they found themselves in an empty reception area. Newspaper and magazine racks shared wall space with a number of framed paintings. Probably from local artists. There was a large desk ahead with a computer and phone, but no receptionist. And no sign of one, either. But Bishop noticed a hallway to the right and heard voices coming from that direction.

  They walked down the short passageway and entered what looked to be the newsroom. It was a large open-space area with about fifteen desks scattered around. Half of them were occupied by men and women either talking on the phone or working on computers. Or both. On either side were a number of private office areas, few of which looked occupied.

  A pale young man working at one of the desks close to the hallway turned from his screen and smiled at Bishop and Vallejo. ‘Help you, folks?’

  ‘There was nobody in reception,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Sheila had to rush home for another family emergency.’ He turned to a large, bespectacled woman two desks down. ‘Third one this week, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Fourth,’ she said without turning from her screen.

  The man turned back. ‘My mistake. Fourth. So you got a hot story for us, or what?’

  Vallejo looked round and said, ‘I don’t see Kaitlyn. Is she in today?’

  The man searched the room. ‘Well, she was here a few minutes . . . Hey, there she goes now.’

  Bishop followed his gaze and saw a slim, attractive woman leave one of the offices on the left and walk towards a desk in the corner, next to a window. The privileges of rank, no doubt. She had a batch of folders under one arm and was carrying a cup of something while she talked on her cell phone.

  ‘Okay if we go over and talk to her?’ Vallejo asked. ‘I know her.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ the man said and returned to his screen.

  They made their way through the room until they reached Kaitlyn’s corner desk. She was still talking quietly on the cell phone and lifted a finger – one minute – to indicate they find themselves a seat. Bishop rolled two free chairs over from a nearby desk and they both sat down to wait.

  Bishop studied Kaitlyn McGowan. Dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, she was about Vallejo’s age, maybe a little older, with straight light-brown hair down to her shoulders. He detected little make-up on her face. Maybe a hint of eye shadow around the hazel, almond eyes, but that was all. Her face already contained everything it needed to make it attractive.

  She finished the call and placed the cell phone on the only clear spot on her desk. She smiled at Vallejo and said, ‘Hello again, Clarissa.’

  Vallejo smiled back. ‘Good memory. How are you, Kate?’

  ‘Busy, as always.’ She lifted her mug and took a sip. Bishop could smell the faint aroma of coffee. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘And you.’ Vallejo looked around at the people working. ‘You didn’t tell me the Post was a daily paper.’

  ‘Weekdays only. Saturdays, some of us usually come in and finish up our lifestyle stories and features, ready for the following week.’ She tilted her head at Bishop. ‘So who’s your good-looking friend?’

  Bishop introduced himself and said, ‘You the boss around here?’

  She shook her head. ‘That honour goes to our wealthy founding father and owner, Stan Neeson. I’m just the editor, as well as senior reporter, although that’s not saying much.’ Kate sat back in her chair and looked at him. ‘So you’re James Bishop, huh?’

  ‘Why? Am I famous?’

  ‘I think infamous probably fits you better. I heard your name mentioned in conjunction with the Bannings fire on the police scanner this morning.’

  ‘Oh, that. It was a just case of mistaken identity, that’s all.’

  She turned to Vallejo. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Vallejo said with a straight face.

  Kate turned back to Bishop, a faint upturn at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hmm. So tell me, what brings you to my humble corner?’

  ‘I was hoping you could help us out with something,’ Bishop said.

  Kate frowned and looked at Vallejo. ‘Us? Is this about your missing friend? Samantha, isn’t it?’

  Vallejo opened her mouth to speak and Bishop said quickly, ‘That’s right. I’m an old friend of Clarissa’s and we’re working together on locating Sam.’ He didn’t want to bring Selina’s name into this if he could help it. And the fact that Kate was already aware of Samantha’s existence would simplify things a lot.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Kate said, ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been checking around nearby hospitals, unofficially, and I may have found a lead a few days ago. See, I got a glimpse of some old paperwork with the name S. Mathison on it. It looked like a patient’s assessment sheet and most of it was illegible, although I could clearly make out the word blepharoplasty in there. Which is eyelid surgery, isn’t it? And at the bottom the physician had signed his initials along with a number: AT 423. So maybe that’s an ID number or something.’


  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I think this guy is probably a plastic surgeon, so maybe he belongs to one of the medical associations, if there’s one that specializes in that. This is the first sign we’ve had that Samantha’s still walking around so we really need to talk to him. I wouldn’t know where to start, but you must have plenty of contacts who can point us in the right direction.’

  Kate was watching him closely. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s all we’ve got. Can you help?’

  Kate looked at each of them and then took another sip of coffee. ‘There is an association for that kind of thing. An offshoot of the AMA, called the AFFCRS. The American Federation of Facial Cosmetic and Reconstructive Surgery. But I don’t think that would help much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because cosmetic surgeons aren’t legally required to register. It’s like a lot of these organizations. Most only join so they can have a few extra letters after their name. Looks good on the business card.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘It doesn’t really matter, anyway.’

  ‘No? How come?’

  ‘Because I already got a pretty good idea who this A.T. is.’

  Vallejo shifted in her seat. Bishop said. ‘Care to share?’

  Kate shook her head and smiled. ‘Not on your life.’

  FORTY-SIX

  Bishop arched his eyebrows. ‘Something I said?’

  ‘You tell me. Was that story you gave me really the best you could come up with?’

  ‘But I wasn’t lying about Sam,’ Vallejo said. ‘She’s the whole reason I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you, Clarissa, but I don’t believe she’s the reason Bishop’s here. Unless I’m a worse judge of character than I give myself credit for. Which I’m not.’

  Bishop sat back in his seat. ‘So why am I here?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? But I’m pretty sure you’re not an old friend showing up to help out your old buddy. I mean, what took you so long? And for that matter, why didn’t Clarissa find this reference to Samantha before now? It’s been a month, after all. I may not know her that well, but I can tell she’s no dummy. If you found this elusive paperwork, then so could Clarissa. Especially as she’s got a lot more motive to go digging than you.’