Parts Unknown

by Rex Burns

  “You find anything?”

  Bunch, a looming shadow vaguely lit by the tiny light, sighed. “Nothing that we’re looking for.” He turned off the computer screen with its menu of files and started thumbing through the manila folders in another cabinet. “He’s got a decent practice, but nothing big.”

  “Charges twice as much to make up the difference.” I went to the nurse’s desk. On it were displayed a series of children’s pictures and an awkwardly fashioned clay mug for pencils with “To Mom with Love” baked into the enamel. The drawers held a larger number of forms, a wider variety of medical supplies, the lists of often-called telephone numbers, and no drug samples. I shot a couple pictures of the telephone numbers, the white flash of the tiny strobe followed by the whine of the camera’s automatic advance.

  “Can I use that?” asked Bunch.

  “Got something?”

  “Calamaro’s jacket.” He bent over the open folder and the flash winked once. “It’s not much.”

  I looked over his shoulder. The printout, a single cryptic sheet, listed a history of services rendered: periodic health tests and dates, and, more recently, stitches and a reference to Warner for the blood panel. It was marked paid. Felix Frentanes had a file too; it listed two years’ worth of routine health tests only. Felix’s wife didn’t have a file, nor did de Silva.

  “We’d better split.” Bunch glanced through the blinds. “The door rattlers will be coming by soon.”

  “Private security? You didn’t tell me anything about private security!”

  “Didn’t want you to worry.” He led the way back and we glanced quickly into each of the closed rooms as we went. Desks and examining tables, an occasional coffee room. Workroom with copy machines and storage shelves. Supplies of a variety of items ranging from surgical masks to stainless steel operating tools. Small laboratory crammed with electronic analyzers that my partner lingered over.

  “Come on, Bunch.”

  Finally, the back entrance.

  A row of waist-high cylinders stood darkly against a shadowed wall, and Bunch ran his penlight across their barrels. Oxygen, liquid nitrogen, nitrous oxide. “The oxygen for operations, the nitrous oxide for anesthetics. What would he use the liquid nitrogen for?”

  “Freezing tissue, probably—a local anesthetic. Warts, small incisions, biopsies.”

  Bunch counted the tanks and rapped them with his knuckles. “Three tanks of liquid nitrogen, two of them empty. That’s a hell of a lot of warts. Whoa … . I almost forgot.” He turned and trotted down the hall. I heard drawers carelessly flung open and the flutter of a mess being made. A few seconds later, he came back with a dangling plastic bag. “Drug samples—the phone lines are cut and they’ll know someone broke in. Might as well let them think it was for this crap.”

  We threw the pills into a garbage can down the next alley, and Bunch guided the van slowly toward my house as we compared notes on what little we’d found. It was obvious that the files, if they ever existed, had been dumped. The folders on Nestor and Felix were there only because other records tied the men to Matheney.

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth, Dev. What reason would he have for seeing Felicidad?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “She needed a doctor to tell her that?”

  “And we both think he was lying about something.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled the van to the curb in front of my duplex. Mrs. Ottoboni had left her porch light on as always. “There is that. What time is it?”

  “A little after three.”

  From the back of the vehicle came a scuffling, snorting sound and the low growl of the pit bull.

  “Sid’s coming out if it,” said Bunch. “Right on schedule.”

  “Sounds like he has a hangover.”

  Bunch rubbed his chewed leg. “No sympathy from me. See you in the morning, Dev.”

  “Make it the afternoon.”

  It was midafternoon before I reached the office. I don’t like those tossing, dream-plagued times when you try to force sleep long past its usual reveille. I always feel wearier, perhaps, than if I’d stayed awake and started the new day without going to bed at all. A long workout helped, and a gentle pummeling in the Jacuzzi at the fitness center, so that when I finally reached the office and its unopened mail, I felt nearly human.

  Two notes from Bunch sat in my box. The first said that Sid Vicious hadn’t shown any rabies symptoms yet. The second said that Bunch was at the photo lab developing the pictures from last night. The mail was the usual and I did the usual with it. The phone recorder held a variety of voices. Allen Schute of Security Underwriters urged me to expedite the Taylor case. He didn’t say “or else”; it was in the tone of his voice. Bob Costello finally called to tell me he would not be needing the services of Kirk and Associates after all, thanks anyway, and he’d be in touch as soon as something else came up that we could help him with. You’re welcome, Bob. The Hally Corporation was inclined the same way, and I was beginning to suspect the unwelcome consequences of halitosis on career and social life. The stack of bills seemed to grow taller as I stared at them. Several blank spaces on the tape indicated callers who didn’t want to leave messages, and an unidentified voice said simply, “You can run, you son of a bitch, but you can’t hide.” I was mulling over that aphoristic bit of wisdom when Bunch came in and tossed a large envelope on the desk.

  “Here’s a blowup of Calamaro’s sheet. The one we found in Matheney’s office.”

  I tilted the glossy out onto the blotter. “Bob Costello called; he doesn’t need us.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Hally Corporation doesn’t either.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Allen Schute wants us, though. He wants us to do something on Taylor. Soon.”

  “Do something? You want I should send him a picture of my dog bites?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But we’d better have more surveillance.”

  “They’re looking for us.”

  “You have anything better to offer?”

  He shook his head and sighed, thinking of the cramped hours ahead. “No.” He tapped the photograph. “Take a look.”

  It was a crisp color shot that made the file page starkly visible. I read with closer attention than I had been able to the night before, but aside from the factual information of Nestor’s physical description and blood type, there wasn’t much new.

  Bunch, looking over my shoulder, rubbed a finger across the photographic print. “I hope that’s not a flaw in the glass.”

  “What’s not?”

  “That blurry spot—it looks like the camera lens has a scratch.”

  I peered closely at the photograph. A trace of oil from Bunch’s finger dragged across the shiny surface where the letters on the form seemed hazy and ill-defined. “It doesn’t seem to be the photo. It looks like the paper was scraped—like somebody erased something.” Using a magnifying glass, I examined the section. “See? That’s not the photograph. It’s the paper itself.”

  “Somebody changed his blood type?”

  “That’s what it looks like.” Something had blurred the printed line to be filled in as well as the print on each side of the gap. Then a crisp new letter had been typed in over the careful erasure: “A.”

  “You’re right, Dev—it’s a different typeface, even.” Bunch moved the magnifying glass back and forth over the rest of the photograph. “The other type’s one kind—look at this ‘A.’ Now, that’s a different typewriter.”

  I dialed the records office at Warner Memorial and read from Nestor’s health insurance claim form. “This is Dr. Simpson. I understand you did a series of blood tests on a new patient of mine, Nestor Calamaro.” I cited his patient number, which gave my name all the authority it needed, and asked for his blood type. The woman’s voice asked if I would like to wait or if she should call me back. “I’ll wait.”

  A minute or two later, her voice came back and she said with slight hesitancy,
“It’s Rh null, doctor.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Yes sir. I’ve never heard of it, but he’s had a lot of blood work done and that’s what it says: Rh null.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  “Why would Matheney want to change the man’s blood type?” asked Bunch.

  I didn’t have an answer, but we did have a suspicious act. Also we had a question. And as one of my old profs who was fond of John Dewey used to say, the question entails the answer.

  Bunch went out to the Ace Roofing construction site, driving a rental van and armed with the camcorder and a telephoto lens. We had no proof Taylor was working that job, but it was a place to start and I could call Schute and tell him with clear conscience that we were actively pursuing the case even while I spoke to him. That done, I tried to call Jerry Kagan, but his nurse said he wasn’t available and would I like to leave a message. I put it off until later that evening, and when I finally reached him, I offered a dinner for him and Judy by way of apology for bothering him again.

  “It sounds good, Dev, but we’ll have to take a rain check; Judy and I are going to a medical conference in Hawaii.” The phone was silent for a moment, and I wondered why they never had conferences in places like East St. Louis or Detroit. “You know, I don’t understand why anyone would want to change the blood type on a chart. That could be damned dangerous.”

  “You mean if someone gave him a transfusion of the wrong blood?”

  “Among other things, yes. It could be fatal. And with that blood, the chances are extremely good he’d get the wrong type.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Rh null is extremely rare. I’ve never run across it. Statistically, only one person in, maybe, two hundred thousand has it.”

  “Two hundred thousand?”

  “Yeah. Compare that to AB, which is considered pretty uncommon. The statistics there are one in two hundred.” He added, “My guess is it must have been a clerical error. But as I say, it’s a damned dangerous error.”

  “Thanks, Jerry—kiss a wahine for me.” He said he would if Judy let him, and we set a vague dinner date for sometime after he returned from his neonatal conference. I leaned back in front of the cold fireplace to think. Matheney. Billy Taylor. Chiquichano. The Wilcox farm. The pregnant women. The shooting in the tunnel. Names and events drifted back and forth through my thoughts as I tinkered first with one case, then the other. And came up with nothing.

  Bunch had the same kind of luck, and then it was my turn to keep an eye on the roofers. The machine shop owner told me where they had gone for their next job—a residence in south Boulder—and I drove the surveillance van along winding streets until I spotted the familiar pickup truck and tar wagon. This job was a flat-roofed home nestled in a small valley at the edge of the city’s open space.

  A section of mountains formed the striking backdrop for the town. A pull-off at the top of a hill overlooking the house and pool gave a good view, and a squint through the binoculars told me Taylor wasn’t among the men swabbing tar across the new felt. But he might be nearby or they might talk about the man, and that hope kept us on watch with binoculars and parabolic microphone. The surveillance site, on a ridge higher than the house’s roof, was excellent for listening to the workmen’s chatter; their voices rose on the warm air toward the parked car and the barrel of the microphone resting on the window ledge and aimed in their direction. Unfortunately, they didn’t say much except to ask for more tar, and what they did say had nothing to do with Billy Taylor. I did find out where they would be working after this job, and that saved a little detecting time.

  The farm was too hot to approach right now, but while one of us watched Ace Roofing, the other did tour the county roads near the farm in an effort to catch Taylor riding his bike. The wasted time was irritating to me as well as to Schute, though he had to admit we were doing all anyone could. But a more fundamental irritation came from my sense of something just beyond vision in the Calamaro case—something I should be grasping. Something … . But exactly what remained vague, worrisome, and it contributed to the restlessness that filled me with tension even when I sprawled in front of my fireplace in the evening with a glass of ale at my elbow. It was like knowing that the phone was about to ring or a knock to rattle the door, and I couldn’t just stretch out and forget that sense of something waiting to happen. Finally I gave up, drained the mug, and shoved to my feet. Better to waste the time doing something, even if it was pointless, instead of staring at the back of a dark fireplace.

  Exactly what I wanted, I didn’t know. But after a day sitting in the van, I did know I wouldn’t spend the whole evening sitting at home. I let the Subaru decide, and it turned south to drive slowly past the unlit windows of Mrs. Chiquichano’s home. The house, with its steep roofs and ivy, was totally dark, and I cruised the alley behind to verify that everyone there seemed asleep. Not that I expected anything different, but finding out that much brought a tiny—if irrational—feeling of satisfaction.

  From my notes on Matheney, I knew his home address in the Pinehurst area, and the Subaru turned in that direction through the empty streets. The house was on the boundary between Denver and Jefferson counties, in one of those enclaves that sprawl at the edge of golf courses. Mansfield Avenue was a fashionably dim lane that wound past deep lawns and barely glimpsed roofs. A mailbox sported the house number on the upright, and an enameled hunting scene decorated the box itself. Matheney’s name wasn’t on the box. Instead, a wrought-iron arch over the drive featured an M in a circle of tracery, and the drive curved away into darkness toward a spread of spruce trees and elms. I corroborated that Dr. Matheney’s practice paid well, but there wasn’t much else to poke around for, and I swung east on Hampden and headed back to I-25 and my office.

  Denver still has the heart of a small town, even if its body has sprawled widely. It’s most evident in those chill hours after two in the morning, when even the police head back to the barn because the bars are closed and the dark streets are draining of hunters and hunted alike. In cities like New York or Chicago, life may change pace throughout the night, but it steps along nevertheless. And Los Angeles, for all its pockets of suburban emptiness, has its arteries of rushing freeway lights and ceaseless swirling cars every hour of the night. But Denver goes to sleep. Altitude, maybe, or the cold air that closes around the tall office buildings and drives the wanderer home and the homeless into boxes or under bridges to wait for the warming sun. You can see them if you look hard enough, scattered out from the remnants of a skid row that lingers on upper Larimer Street. The loading docks in alleys behind Wazee and Blake are favorite places, and many of the owners have nailed heavy wire mesh all the way down to the ground to keep out the bums and winos who crawl under to sleep and sometimes to die. Occasional trash piles give some warmth and concealment as well as stray bits of free paper that serve life’s little necessities. Sometimes the down-and-out find protection in doorways. When it’s coldest, they crowd into lines waiting for a mattress and blanket on the floors of shelter houses and soup kitchens. But not all can fit in—a small town’s heart isn’t necessarily a soft one.

  The streets around our office were convenient to the railroad yards—the jumping-on and-off places where trains made up for California, Texas, Minnesota, and points east. So it wasn’t unusual to pull into our parking lot behind the refurbished warehouse and have the headlights pick out bundles huddled against the lingering warmth of brick walls. As I shut off the engine, one of three dark shapes lifted to a sitting position and stared my way.

  “Hey!” The figure struggled to its feet, hoarse voice carrying softly through the night. “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “What do you need?” I was already feeling for loose change.

  “You got a office here? Up on the second floor?”

  “Why?”

  The gaunt figure came closer, clutching a ratty shred of canvas about its shoulders. “If you do, there’s something I can tell you.” Beneath the sh
adow of whiskers and grime, the man’s bright red lips rolled away in a gaping grin to show the glimmer of a few lonesome teeth. “Cost you, though. Gimme five dollars and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Five dollars is all. That ain’t too much for you, is it?”

  I pulled a bill from my wallet. The man’s eyes followed my hands like a dog watching a bone. “Here.”

  He tilted it briefly to the light to read the number, a waft of dirty clothes and unwashed skin riding on the crisp air. The bill disappeared and he backed off a step or two. “Fella give me some money to warn him if anybody come. Said to throw some pebbles against that window up on the second floor.”

  I looked where the thin arm pointed. No light showed, but it was the window to my office. “What man? When?”

  “Don’t know what man. Maybe ten minutes ago. Said to throw a handful of—”

  “He still there?”

  “Ain’t come out yet.”

  I sprinted for the door, yanking against the lock and cursing softly as my key fumbled at the hole. Then, on tiptoe, I ran up the spiral of iron stairs, feet loud despite my efforts. I reached the landing and heard a clatter of broken glass as a warning rock sailed into my office. The bum was proving his integrity to both sides. The dark door swung open to show a figure hurrying into the dimness of the landing toward me, and behind it came another.

  The first shape was short; the other seemed larger even than Bunch. The short one’s face—as much as I could make out— looked almost chubby, with his hair pulled back under a watch cap. The big one hesitated only an instant before he aimed himself at me.

  Fists high, he feinted with his right and followed with a quick left uppercut that had the full weight of his shoulder behind it. I rocked outside the punch, blocked it with a forearm, and grabbed his elbow to use his own momentum to twist his torso away from me. The heel of my hand drove hard against his kidney and spine, and I heard him grunt as my knee jabbed sharply against the side of his. His legs tangled and he sprawled across the landing and thudded into the open door of my office. The shorter one, holding back, suddenly swung a flat pry bar as a weapon and came toward me.