Deadly Conception

by Patrick Blake

  Nino hated loose ends but right now, he needed to get into Pablo’s room before anyone else to see if he could recover the missing memory chip.

  Getting that chip back was critical. It’s gotta be on the Cuban, in his room, or with Sweeney, the lumbering detective decided.

  Paolucci took the elevator to the 15th floor, where he had no problem getting into Pablo’s room thanks to Lefty Glynn, who’d lifted a hotel pass key card earlier.

  As he stepped through the doorway, the hulking detective scanned the room. He didn’t see the envelope near his feet. But he saw the food cart with one, all-but-finished hamburger, another which was untouched, a smattering of fries, and a few empty bottles of beer and Pepsi cans.

  Shit. Who ate the fuckin’ burger?

  Nino spent the next twenty minutes rummaging through the room, checking the pockets of Pablo’s clothing, looking through dresser and nightstand drawers, scouring the luggage, and poking through the assortment of electronic gadgetry. He even examined the slots and ports of the smartphone and laptops.

  “Goddammit. Where is that fuckin’ chip.”

  Nino decided to check Sweeney’s room next door. He reached for the doorknob to leave and then he saw it.

  “Well, well, well.” Nino smirked as he bent over and picked up the envelope with Pablo’s name on it. He ripped open the paper packet and his smile faded.

  “What the fuck?”

  Nino read the note signed by Raimy and skimmed the lab reports.

  “Shit!”

  The detective re-folded the documents and slid them into his breast pocket. Moving into the hotel hallway, he turned right and used the same pass key to quietly enter the adjacent room where Sweeney was registered. Hoping that the dumb ass PR hack was dead on the floor. But...

  Nothing. Nino scanned the dark room. Nothing.

  He turned on the lights and saw that the room was basically untouched. Bed made. Suitcase still packed. Nothing in the bathroom.

  Where the fuck is this guy?

  Nino searched the room, the luggage, the shoulder bag, everything. No chip.

  He tapped out a brief message to Keeler.

  Tossed both rooms. No chip. No sign of Sweeney. We got another problem. Talk soon.

  Detective Paolucci re-dressed the room and left.

  That stupid chip better be on the Cuban or I’m fucked.

  He tapped another text during the elevator ride down to the hotel lobby, this time to Tanzler:

  Lemme know if you find the chip. New problem. Robinson is up to something. Keep your head down.

  Chapter 38

  “Okay, everyone. Great work today. I know the circumstances are horrible, but you all really nailed it. Go home. Get some rest. Call if something pops. Have a good night.”

  Gabriel was exhausted. It was difficult for him to grasp that the day had started with an early morning call from the police to identify a dead body…his client…and now was wrapping up nearly 20 hours later following a flood of business news media interviews about the CEOs death, his replacement, and the stability of the bank.

  As he made his way out of the bank office, he checked his watch.

  Man, I’m beat. He yawned, calculating how little sleep he would get before his 7 am American Airlines shuttle flight to Washington, D.C. the next morning. Still, he could use a drink.

  Gabriel crossed the street to his hotel and, bypassing the main hotel lobby, walked into the Dean’s List bar. He ordered a double Crown Royal on the rocks – clearing the tab right away so he could carry off the drink to his room.

  In the hotel lobby he merged with a crowd of out-of-town Red Sox fans returning from the night’s game at Fenway Park. He funneled onto the elevator moments before Detective Paolucci stepped off the adjoining one.

  Gabriel knocked on Pablo’s room door to check in but got no response. Probably asleep, he thought, like I should be. He slumped to his adjacent room and let himself in.

  As he undressed, Gabriel tapped out a text to Pablo.

  Things ran late at the bank. Just getting to the hotel now. I have to fly out early. Let’s catch up tomorrow.

  Gabriel telephoned for an automatic wake-up call, settled into bed, and gulped down the rest of his drink. “I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight,” he exhaled and turned down the lights.

  Within moments, the PR executive was fast asleep, unaware his old friend was dead, his new friend was in danger, and a corrupt Boston Police detective wanted to kill him.

  Chapter 39

  “Hey Mort, I got one coming over to ya. Hit and run victim. Cops will need the usual. See you in 20.”

  Bernie Clum ended the call after leaving the voice message for the overnight pathologist, Mort Tanzler, at the M.E.’s office. He had just loaded a corpse into the back of the transport ambulance and was starting the four-mile drive from the hospital to Tanzler’s lab.

  Bernie had been an EMT in California for three years before getting into Harvard Medical School. From a modest background, Bernie had saved money to help pay expenses during the four years required to complete his degree. But it wasn’t nearly enough. He needed the overnight medical transport job to help make ends meet. It didn’t pay as well as the EMT job, but it also wasn’t as demanding, so he had more time for his rigorous studies.

  When Bernie arrived on the scene of the accident near the intersection of Cambridge and Lynde Streets, he saw a fleet of squad cars flooding the intersection with blue and red flashing lights. Beyond the police perimeter he spotted a compact car up on the sidewalk, the front end crumpled against a three-and-a-half-foot stone wall, pinning a middle-aged man just below the waist.

  “No signs of life,” the cop on the scene explained. “But we have to get the vic to the ER, fast, to be sure.”

  Bernie knew why. Cops can’t declare anyone dead on the scene, and paramedics can’t either unless the victim was decapitated, showed rigor mortis, or dependent lividity.

  “Driver injured?”

  The cop shook his head. “Hit-and run. Stolen vehicle, Driver disappeared. No witnesses.”

  Bernie knew what that meant, too. The victim would be going to the ME’s office for the autopsy. That’s where any stiff ended up if the cause of death was violent or suspicious.

  It didn’t take long for the emergency room physician at Massachusetts General Hospital to declare the hit-and-run victim dead on arrival. No heartbeat. No blood pressure. No breathing. No brain activity. Pupils dilated and unreactive. The doctor made the diagnosis immediately, and then waited about seven minutes before doing the same exam and confirming death at 9:26 pm.

  Orderlies collected all of the victim’s belongings and rolled the gurney to Bernie’s ambulance, who drove the cadaver across town, under the supervision of a Boston Police officer.

  Chapter 40

  Mort Tanzler changed into his scrubs right after getting Bernie’s message. But he didn’t need the message. Nino had briefed him on the basics, so he was ready for the body of this Souza guy.

  He knew the cause of death would be easy, especially if the car accident was brutal enough. He hoped he would find the memory chip Nino was eager to collect. But he wasn’t prepared for the cryptic part of the text from the detective.

  …New problem. Robinson is up to something. Keep your head down.

  “What in Jesus’ name does that mean,” Tanzler worried. He liked Raimy well enough. But he detested having his work validated by the upstart pathologist and he hated the cameras in the morgue. He couldn’t understand the wild overreaction officials had after his necrophilia was discovered.

  They’re already dead, he reasoned, who cares?

  Tanzler smiled to himself. He had long-since found a workaround to satisfy his preference for dead bodies.

  They put cameras in the lab, but not in the ambulances.

  It was easy enough for Tanzler to bribe low-level medical transport drivers with a few dollars to take a 15-minute walk around the block while he did his thing with a cadaver, and then
clean up the evidence so his watchdog, Raimy Robinson, wouldn’t catch on.

  No fun for Morty tonight. Bernie don’t play. He got ethics. Tanzler pouted when the lab doors opened. He turned and saw an officer walking with Bernie who wheeled in the hit-and-run victim.

  “Thanks fellas. Put ‘im over there. The paperwork is on the desk. You know what to do. I want to get started right away. Where’re the personal effects?”

  The officer handed over the plastic bag containing Pablo’s clothes, wallet, jewelry, and everything else he had on him at the scene of the accident.

  Tanzler tossed the bag of personal effects onto an adjacent table and then crossed the room to double check that the officer and Bernie had completed all the forms.

  “Okay, fellas. Looks good. See you next time.”

  As the two men left, Tanzler returned to the examination table and turned on the recording equipment.

  “I’m Dr. Mort Tanzler, Massachusetts Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. It’s 12: 49 AM on Wednesday, August 8th. I’m presented with a Hispanic male, approximately 44-years old…identification reads Pablo Souza.”

  Chapter 41

  The physical damage was astonishing. The impact speed must have been close to 50, Tanzler reflected, and then continued recording the autopsy.

  “...dislocation of both knees…severe tendon ruptures...compound fractures of both femur bones…hyperextension of the knee ligaments…dislocation and compound fractures of both hip joints…fractured pelvis…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…”

  He completed the physical examination, turned off the voice recorder, and started to catalog the contents of the personal effects bag. Tanzler made certain to keep his back to the lab cameras just in case he found the memory chip and needed to surreptitiously conceal it before handing it off to Paolucci.

  Tanzler began the tedious job of writing down each item in the victim’s intake log.

  “One pair grey Asics sneakers, size nine-and-a-half,” he uttered while checking under the insoles for the chip.

  “One men’s dress shirt, blue. One men’s windbreaker, navy blue. One pair men’s sweat socks, white…” Tanzler droned on, precisely describing every item, the contents of Pablo’s wallet, his smartphone, his wristwatch, and so on until he checked the last item. A bloody, shorn pair of Levi 501 jeans.

  “One pair men’s jeans,” Tanzler noted as he fumbled with the faded jeans, bloodied from the accident and scissored into several pieces by the emergency docs who had cut the pants off in a futile effort to stop the bleeding and save the man’s life.

  He frisked the garment in vain, finding nothing in the pockets, no hidden memory chip, nothing. But as he re-bagged the remnants of the pants, he spotted the Levi 501 tag and remembered something.

  The watch pocket!

  Tanzler found and fingered the small, pocket-within-a-pocket on the right side of the pants. The watch pocket, a vintage feature of the modern jean, was originally intended to store a pocket watch which was a conventional possession in the late 1800s. But tonight, it didn’t hold a watch, rather it held the elusive memory chip, and the deviant pathologist had found it.

  Slipping the chip into his surgical glove, Tanzler bagged up Pablo’s belongings, inserted the written catalog, minus the memory chip, and sealed the evidence bag for the pickup by law enforcement investigators.

  Next, he turned back to the corpse on the examination table and cut the Y-incision to complete the autopsy.

  “…the preliminary findings are that the cause of death is massive blood loss and internal organ injury as a direct result of the accident documented in the EMT and BPD reports.”

  Tanzler cleaned up the lab and, having no other cases, he went to the staff locker room to change clothes and wash up. He put the memory chip in a size 10 envelope and slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket before sending a text to Paolucci.

  Chip found! Meet?

  Chapter 42

  Detective Paolucci took a booth seat opposite Tanzler at the Back Street Diner on Kneeland Street just after 4:00 in the morning. The retro 24-hour diner served breakfast all day. It was just over a mile from Tanzler’s lab, and it was a favorite among the city’s night shift employees.

  “I was glad to get your text. Any problems?”

  “No.” Tanzler handed over the envelope with the missing memory chip from Asrani Patel’s phone.

  “Good. Thanks. We might have a problem with your colleague. Take a look at this.” Nino slid the folded manila envelope across the table to overnight pathologist.

  “What is it?”

  “You tell me. I found it in Souza’s hotel room. Looks like your Dr. Robinson has some questions about a couple of lab reports, and he was looking to get answers.”

  Tanzler reviewed the handwritten note hastily scribbled by Raimy and the tox screen results from Patel and Lohan.

  “I don’t see anything in the lab reports. But the note says, ‘see if this info sparks more interest from Trail. Ask her to focus on the missing ions, and the new ones, too.’ I don’t understand.”

  “You’re the fuckin’ doctor. What’s this ion shit?”

  “The tox screens are correct. But Dr. Robinson has a background in chemistry research. Maybe he spotted something.”

  “He only pulled these two results. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t either. He could be chasing bullshit. He’s done it before. He even got put on administrative leave a few weeks ago for something like this.”

  “We gotta cut this off.”

  “Kill him?”

  “No, you dumb fuck. My god. We can’t fuckin’ kill everybody. But you say this Robinson guy has a history. Can you get him fired, throw him off track, discredit him? Anything?”

  “Well, maybe. Those lab tests are proprietary. It’s illegal for a doctor to take them out of the office.”

  “What can you do? It needs to be fast.”

  Tanzler thought about it. He thought about a lot of things. He’d been a slave to Detective Paolucci ever since his necrophilia had been exposed. Nino had been one of the investigators and he was blackmailing the pathologist with public exposure.

  “Nino, this ain’t like fudging a cause of death. You’re asking me to frame a senior government official.”

  “Listen to me, you freak of nature. Get the nosey doc out of the way or the only thing you’ll be worrying about is droppin’ the soap in prison.”

  Tanzler didn’t have a choice. Raimy was a good guy. Smart. Minded his own business. Except for now. Oh, well. Too bad for you, Raimy.

  “Well? I ain’t got all fuckin’ day.”

  “I have an idea. A smear campaign for physician misconduct.”

  “Misconduct?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Robinson is stealing lab reports and sharing them with cyber-hackers…well, you can imagine the blow back on City officials.”

  Nino smiled. “I like it.”

  “Just one thing – when I initiate this Raimy will know I got a hold of something that I should not have gotten. I’d be exposed to Raimy.”

  Paolucci pondered a moment. “What if you claim you found the documents on the hacker’s body when you did the autopsy? Just part of your normal work.”

  “Yeah. That’s good. I’ll have to act fast though. Raimy checks all my autopsies. He gets to work at 8 in the morning. That’s less than four hours from now. I need to get this into the catalog, bag it, and write up the complaint.”

  “Make it happen. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Chapter 43

  Detective Paolucci texted his contact that the chip had been recovered, and that a new threat from a nosey medical examiner had been identified. He received an immediate response.

  Destroy the chip immediately. Eliminate all threats.

  When Nino got home, he poured himself a healthy double dose of Jameson’s Irish whiskey and
called Keeler with new orders.

  “Sweeney dodged another bullet. I want you to take care of him directly.”

  “I’m on it,” Keeler responded, and hung up.

  Nino texted Lefty Mason.

  I got another job for you. Call me.

  When he was done, Nino fired up the kitchen stove, pulled out a pair of pliers from his kitchen junk drawer, pinched the memory chip between the gripping jaws, and moved to burn the chip in the stove top fire.

  But curiosity got the best of the veteran cop, and he pulled the pliers back.

  I wonder what’s on here?

  Nino took the chip to his dining table, powered up his laptop, made certain to disconnect his internet to eliminate any message from the virtual trip wire, and downloaded the chip files.

  He didn’t know it, but thanks to the hacker he’d just had murdered, the virtual trip wire on the chip was already disabled. Nino spent the next two hours puzzling through the files. His greed kicked in, and he started to scheme.

  Chapter 44 – Wednesday, August 8 (Boston)

  Good morning, Mr. Sweeney. This is your scheduled wake up call. Please press the pound sign to activate a 10-minute snooze or press 1 to dismiss the service.

  Gabriel rolled out of bed, leaving the handset on the pillow and fumbled to press the number 1 button on the phone keypad.

  He sat up in bed, rubbed his face with both hands and then replaced the handset in the cradle. Shuffling into the bathroom he showered and shaved. At 5:20 am he turned on his phone to arrange for a ride to the airport.

  Then Gabriel noticed his phone was still on silent mode. “Shit.”

  He restored normal alerts and saw multiple missed calls from Pablo, Raimy, and Detective Keeler…but no messages. He tapped out texts as he dressed in a fresh suit. The first was to Pablo.

  Hey man. Sorry I missed you last night. Call me later today. I’ll be in the DC area.