“Not good.”
“I’m spread thin.”
“Okay. Lemme think.” Cody got up and paced. He started fiddling with Gabriel's exercise equipment. “Jeez buddy. Kinda dusty, huh? No wonder I wiped the floor with you!”
“I just got back from vacation, for fuck’s sake! Put the weights down. I need your help.”
“It’s how I think. Chill out.” Cody dropped the kettlebells and grabbed the Rogue Elite Surge 2.0 Speed Jump Rope. He held the jump rope behind him, turned it over his head, and jumped. The cable immediately caught under his toes. Cody stumbled awkwardly.
Gabriel snickered. “Try again, clumsy.”
“Nah. That’s enough. Back to business. You don’t have too many choices for your company. You need an influx of cash…fast. But you know that. If you don’t get any soon then you have a tough choice. Either miss payroll or miss rent. If you can hold off the IRS and your divorce lawyer, then you can use your personal money to make payroll. But then you’re co-mingling funds…and that creates other financial risk exposures. I can’t see any other options.”
“So, I gotta get cash fast or stiff my staff…or my landlord…or the government…or a lawyer.”
“Right.”
“What would you do?”
“No way, my friend. I’m not telling you what to do. Listen, I gotta go. Call me if you get new information.”
Gabriel locked his door behind Cody and returned to his laptop. I’ve got four prospects deep into my sales pipeline. I just need one…just one…or I’m royally screwed.
Chapter 6 – Boston
Detective Rick Kypreos was furious. He sped through South Boston’s late-night streets like a maniac in his brand-new Range Rover, cursing nonstop.
“I’ll kill him. So, help me God. I’ll kill him for this.”
Racing past Joe Moakly Park, he made the last turn onto University Drive and accelerated on the final stretch of road to the abandoned Calf Pasture Pumping Station in Dorchester. Kypreos skidded to a stop dangerously close to the man he cussed during his ten-minute drive.
“In the name of god are you outta your mind, Nino? What’s wrong with you?” the detective screamed as he flung open the car door and lurched out of the driver’s seat.
“Calm down, Rick. And watch your pie hole. You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nino coolly responded.
“Where’s my mother, you piece of shit? I’ll kill you if you’ve hurt her. As God is my witness, I’ll fucking rip your head off and shit down your throat if she’s got one scratch on her.”
“Your Mama is just fine, Rick. Now shut up and listen to me or you’ll both end up dead. We clear?”
“She’s okay? You sure?”
“Yes, Rick. You have my word. Now…you ready to listen?”
“It better be good. Speak.”
“This is coming from the top. You read me? This ain’t from me but they’re making me do it. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”
“Rick, how much did that Range Rover cost you? Seventy-five grand? Eighty?”
“Eighty-three…so what?”
“That’s what I thought. Listen. Rick. They’re tracking you. I can’t call ‘em off. I ain’t met any of ‘em. I got no names. They’re watching you. Shit, they’re stalking all of us. You spend that kind of money and it calls attention to you. The kind of attention we can’t have. You make about sixty, right? And now you’re drivin’ a brand new eighty-three-thousand-dollar rig. That’s not how to lay low. Too much…and too soon.”
“So, you fucking kidnap my mother? That’s how you make your point? You’re insane.”
“Rick, they are not messin’ around. They are sending you a message.”
“Message received. I’ll return the damn car. Now let my mother go.”
“Sorry, Rick. I don’t think you understand.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“The message is this. When we say lay low, we mean it. You screwed up. If you want your mother back safe and sound, then return half the money…and lay low. If you screw up again then you and your mother are toast.”
“You bastard. You fuckin’ bastard.”
“Watch your mouth you stupid, fat fuck. You knew the deal…and you screwed up. Don’t blame me. Now get your fat ass into that fancy yummy-mummy SUV and get outta my face. You wanna keep all the money? Then say bye-bye Mama. Otherwise, transfer half the money by noon tomorrow. Clear?”
Kypreos nodded and hoisted himself up into his Range Rover. “You’ll have the money by Noon. I swear to God, Nino, if Mama’s got one bruise, one scratch, one hair outta place then I’m comin’ after you.”
He sped off, leaving Nino alone at the abandoned pumping station.
Chapter 7 – Monday, July 23 (Boston)
“Raimy. Good morning. Christ, you look like shit.”
“Thanks Arvind. I feel like shit. I need to talk to you. In private.”
Dr. Arvind Bhatt, the Chief Medical Examiner for the commonwealth, had taken the helm of the embattled office three years ago as part of a plan to regain its national accreditation following criticism over sloppy autopsy reports and accusations of mishandled cases. His office investigated the cause and manner of death that occurred under violent, suspicious, or unexplained circumstances.
Dr. Bhatt hired Raimy soon after his own appointment, explaining that his research chemistry background and deliberative approach would be the key to fixing their C-minus rating for shitty autopsies. Raimy was one of the best, and it only took a year to reverse things. His natural curiosity, expertise, and workplace efficiency quickly led to autopsy discoveries that helped settle insurance claims, cleared up criminal justice confusion for both defense lawyers and prosecutors, and earned back the national accreditation that had been so embarrassingly stripped from the Office three years prior.
Arvind and Raimy had become very good friends professionally, but that friendship rarely extended beyond the office.
“What’s up my friend? What’s on your mind?”
Raimy sat down on the mahogany leather couch in Arvind’s corner office overlooking the greenery on the Boston University Medical Campus, his alma mater. The view from his own office looked out on the tops of several nearby medical buildings, a FedEx depot, and the Suffolk County House of Correction.
How close did I come to making that my new home, he mused.
“Raimy?”
“Oh, sorry, man. The last 12 hours have been a nightmare.”
“Lay it on me.”
Raimy rubbed his temples, took a deep breath, and explained it all.
“Raimy, I’m so sorry. How many cases do you have today?”
“Arvind, are you kidding me? This is your damned answer? I have four bodies today. If I hadn’t controlled myself, you could have another two on the table this morning. Dear God, what is wrong with you?”
“Raimy, I know this is tough. But listen. We have a saying in India: ‘The end of an ox is beef. The end of a lie is grief.’”
“Cute.”
“Raimy, pour your grief into your work. You’ve got your boys. Keep your focus. Don’t look for answers that will never come. Stop looking back. Just look forward.”
Raimy shook his head. “She cheated on me…on the kids.”
“Do you believe you can perform your job today?”
“Yes.”
“Are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol? Have you consumed any drugs or alcohol in the last 24 hours?”
“No. Blast it all. What is this all about?”
“Raimy, when you are betrayed and then look into a dead body there is no more betrayal. Dead bodies don’t lie. Dead bodies don’t betray you. Luckily, you have a job that lets you look at dead bodies without having to kill them or bury them.”
Arvind wrapped his arm around Raimy’s shoulder and walked him to the door. “Now, go to work…and come see me before you leave today. I want to buy you a drink.”
Chapter 8<
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Raimy changed into his scrubs for the first autopsy, entered the pathology lab, turned on the voice and video recorders, and sighed.
“I’m Dr. Raimy Robinson with the Massachusetts Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. It’s 9: 49 on Monday, July 23rd. I’m presented with a white male, 66-years old…”
Raimy conducted a physical examination.
“…the victim shows evidence of hypoxia around the eyes, a large bruise in the lumbar section of the victim’s back just above the waistline…with fresh abrasions and lacerations…no more than a few hours old…”
Raimy made the Y-incision, cutting from either shoulder to the lower end of the sternum and then downwards in a straight line over the abdomen to the pubis. Opening the breastplate of the deceased, Raimy removed the organs for examination. He collected ocular fluid and urine. He took blood and tissue samples from the heart, stomach, lungs, liver, and gall bladder – sending them all out for toxicological tests.
“…notwithstanding the result of the tox-tests my preliminary findings are that the cause of death is accidental drowning as a result of severe trauma to the spine sufficient to trigger immediate limb paralysis. This is consistent with EMT and BPD reports that the victim slipped on his lap pool deck following a pre-dawn swimming work out. Blood and tissue from the lap pool edge was collected and matched to the victim. Finding no evidence of a struggle or the presence of another party or parties it appears the victim slipped and fell on the edge of the pool, shattering the lumbar portion of his back, causing severe nerve damage and probable paralysis of both legs and arms. The victim likely fell back into the pool water and was unable to recover before drowning.”
Raimy completed two more cases, a car accident and a suicide. He checked the time and realized three things.
I haven’t thought about my cheating whore of a wife for hours. Arvind was right about working through the day. I’m famished.
He grabbed a well-worn, back issue of a weekly news magazine from the reception area for some light reading while eating his bag lunch. Sitting on a wooden bench in the garden adjacent to the BU Medical Campus, Raimy relaxed in the heat from the intense July sunshine burning through the trees, casually flipping through the year-old magazine.
Raimy suddenly stopped eating. “Holy cannoli! Is that Nia?” He put his sandwich down and read the article listing the Top 100 Most Influential People in the World.
“No. 23: Dr. Nia Katiakan’s ground-breaking research advances are uncovering new pathways to restore human fertility. Dr K (as she prefers to be called) is in the running to be the first scientist in the world to gain regulatory approval to edit the genomes of human embryos for research. She obtained her PhD at UCLA, specializing in stem cell research…. “
Raimy shook his head. Son of a monkey. We were in the same class at Oxy as chem majors. Now look at her. She’s a total badass. Dang it. Could that have been me?
He sighed and finished off his avocado, bacon, and bean sprouts on pumpernickel sandwich and started in on an oatmeal cookie.
Just one more case for the day, he thought. Criminy, Tanzler. You’re a good ME but I hate having to double-check all your cases. I wish you would hurry up and retire.
Dr. Mort Tanzler, the overnight medical examiner had been a “rising star” under the embattled former chief ME. But that quickly ended when Tanzler’s necrophilia was discovered.
The internal investigation was very hush-hush. The Office was already under fire for sloppy autopsies, misplaced bodies, and the loss of its national accreditation. The thought of revealing that a government medical examiner was fornicating with dead people in the morgue was mind-boggling. The callous political appointees running the investigation concluded that the embarrassment was too much, too soon.
So, they struck a deal.
They added cameras to the morgue, demoted Tanzler to overnight duties, let him finish off the balance his career, and get his full retirement. The trade-off was no jail time for Tanzler, provided he didn’t screw up, and no additional embarrassment for the medical examiner’s office.
Raimy’s mission for every Tanzler case was three-fold. First, make sure the creep didn’t violate the corpse. Next, make sure Tanzler’s work was bullet-proof. Not because he was sloppy but because if any questions were raised about one of Tanzler’s autopsies then it wouldn’t take much digging by a reporter to discover the necrophilia cover-up. Finally, Raimy’s double-checking provided Tanzler with an ongoing reminder to keep his mouth shut and his pecker in his pants.
After returning to the lab and dressing in fresh scrubs, Raimy skimmed Tanzler’s preliminary report.
“…white male teenager…abrasions on the elbows and knees, at least a few weeks old…multiple tattoos on the victim’s chest, shoulder, forearm, and bicep…across the teen’s chest is an elaborate rider and horse tattoo…no known gang symbols….a skull with the letters L-I-L-O in the teeth and the Irish flag in the background on the right shoulder… needle marks on the left forearm…no other physical injuries…”
Raimy stopped. He went back to the top of the report to check the name, but he already knew.
“…white male teenager identified as Liam Lohan….”
Son of a gun. Poor kid, just a few days ago he was having a blast on a jet ski on the Vineyard!
He stifled his regret. It was rare to conduct an autopsy on someone you knew, but it was also an occupational hazard. It had happened before, but not for some time.
He put down the report and examined the young man who was found in a public park in South Boston – checking the victim from head to toe, including his orifices, just to make sure Tanzler didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have. Then he read over the toxicology test results.
“…non-toxic levels of THC and cocaine…no evidence of amphetamines, PCP, methamphetamine, or benzodiazepine…free and total peripheral blood morphine concentrations consistent with fatal heroin intoxication…no alcohol present…cause of death is complications related to heroin overdose….”
Raimy checked the specific tox-screen for heroin, specifically diamorphine – which is produced by the acetylation of crude morphine. The Marquis field test produced a purple coloration, a positive result. The gas chromatography detected diamorphine, too. But the mass spectrum test was different.
Odd.
The major ions represented should be 327, 43, 369, 268, 310, 42, 215 and 204. But there were additional ones.
Raimy put the case on hold and called the lab techs.
“Hey, it’s Dr. Robinson. You know Tanzler’s overdose victim? Right, Liam Lohan. Listen, I’m sending you new tissues to test. Full tox screens. What? No. Mort didn’t do anything wrong. I found an anomaly and I want to double check it. Thanks. Let me know when they’re ready. Send them directly to me. Got it? Okay. Have a good night.”
Raimy ended the call, cleaned up the lab, then changed clothes before going to Arvind’s office.
Dang…what a waste. That kid’s about the same age as my boys.
Chapter 9
Arvind looked up from his desk as Raimy entered the office. “Hey, buddy. Howya doin’?”
“Better. You were right. Focusing on the work helped a lot.”
“Any trouble with the cases? Lab tech called and said you ordered up new screens for Tanzler’s overdose case.”
“Yeah. About that. All the cases were clear cut. A suicide, a car crash fatality, and a slip-n-fall by a residential pool that led to a drowning.”
“Hah. The insurance boys will love it. What about Tanzler’s OD?”
“I want more time on that one. A white male teenager, Liam Lohan, plenty of tats – but not gang-related, some old scrapes on his elbows and knees, a few fresh needle marks on his arm but no old ones, mostly clean tox report except for some low levels of pot and coke, and a diamorphine result that’s off the charts.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Arvind skimmed the report.
“I looked at the tox screen and it hits almost all the marks
for heroin.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But the mass spectrum report has additional ions reported. All the ones are there for the diamorphine, but there are others. I don’t recognize ‘em…it’s probably an anomaly. But I want to be sure. I ordered another round of tests.”
“Raimy, the kid OD’d,” he said, handing the file back. “The screens and the physical evidence all point to an overdose. So, you spotted a variance. Big deal. It changes nothing. We’re backed up in Lab Tech as it is. No more tests. Wrap it up.”
“I can’t do that. Believe it or not, I met this kid at the Vineyard. Just casual. At the beach. He just seemed like a normal, tough, Irish kid. He didn’t strike me as a junkie. Here. Take another look. It’s odd.” He tried to hand over the lab tech reports but Arvind brushed him off.
“Raimy, look, I don’t have time for this. I’m in the weeds here. Stop chasing shadows. Not every anomaly is a breakthrough. You’re not going to win the Davy Medal or the Nobel Prize in chemistry working here. Just do your job.”
“Dammit, this is my job. I saw what I saw. Lemme do the test.” He stood up and glared at his boss.
“Not for some teen junkie, my friend. End of discussion.”
Whether it was professional curiosity, or the news about his college classmate’s success, or the loss of control over his life…and his marriage – whatever it was, he blew up.
“God damn it to hell!” Raimy shouted. “This is NOT the end of the discussion. I’m not rolling over anymore. Not for you…or anyone else. I’m doing the test whether you agree or not. So, go pound sand.”
Arvind glared at his friend…and his employee. He sat down, behind his desk, and calmly started clicking away on his computer, finally hitting the PRINT button.
Raimy smiled. “Thank you. I’m sorry I had to be so rough.”
“I’m not authorizing the test. That’s not what this is. I’m sending you home. Mandatory leave. Paid. Get your shit together. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
Deadly Conception Page 4