The images for all three were now folded up in Reed’s back pocket as he parked in front of a two-story structure in the Short North, less than two blocks from Nationwide Arena. Nearby, the Olentangy River moved by in a lazy crawl, the lack of rain causing the waterway to have grown stagnant, the smell of garbage just barely present on the wind. On the opposite side of it skyscrapers rose upward, their misshapen outlines looking like fingers striving for something just out of reach.
The late afternoon sun reflected off their glassy exteriors, casting an unnaturally bright hue over everything.
Turning his back to the blinding glare, Reed hooked the short lead to Billie’s collar and led her inside. As they walked, he fished out his badge and hung it around his neck, in no mood to be stopped by someone reminding him that he was entering a hygienic facility and that animals were off limits.
They were both detectives, and they were finally making headway on a very important case.
Reed almost dared someone to raise an objection.
The building was two stories tall, made from dark brick, with large windows flanking a massive front door. Thick wooden blinds were tilted down, keeping both the sun and any curious onlookers from peeking in.
The style of the building resembled a home, the parking spaces outside the only indication of the business housed within. There was no sign on the door, no official insignia visible. Twice Reed had to check the wrought iron numbers screwed into the brick, following Solomon’s directions, trusting she would get him where he needed to be.
Passing through the front door, the character of the building changed instantly. No longer was any dark brick visible, replaced instead by white walls and blonde wood floors. Despite the blinds being down, plenty of natural light filtered in, making the place seem much brighter than anticipated.
Just inside the door was a reception counter behind a glass window, manned by a young woman that appeared to be a student of some kind. As Reed entered she glanced up from her reading, her gaze shifting from the badge to Billie before finally settling on Reed.
“Good afternoon,” she said, adding a smile as an afterthought.
“Hi, Detective Reed Mattox here to see Dr. Erin Levin.”
One eyebrow rose as the receptionist lifted the phone beside her. “Sure, just let me tell her you’re here. You can have a seat. Won’t take a second.”
Casting a glance over to the dozen or so empty hardback chairs clustered nearby, and at the smattering of magazines on the table in the center of them, Reed elected to stand. He took two steps away from the counter so as not to appear imposing, and rested his shoulder against the wall.
She had said it wouldn’t take a second. In truth it was more like a minute, though still much faster than Reed anticipated.
One moment, Reed was working the blend of information in his head into a rough outline, trying to figure out the best way to fit everything together, to present his findings as questions. The next, Dr. Erin Levin appeared in the hallway, striding straight toward him, her hand outstretched.
“Detective Mattox,” she said, stepping right up to him and gripping his hand, hers slightly wet from what was probably the 100th washing of the day.
“Dr. Levin,” Reed said, releasing the grip and motioning to Billie. “My partner, Billie.”
A smile formed as the doctor looked down at Billie for a moment. She clasped her hands in front of her and leaned forward an inch at the waist, Reed knowing she wanted to reach down and pet her before stopping just short and pulling back.
He liked her already.
She was a tall woman, only a few inches shorter than he, though quite slender. She had straight brown hair that disappeared somewhere behind her shoulders and an open face that was just starting to show lines around the eyes and mouth. A long white coat enveloped most of her body, extending to just past her knees.
“Come on back to my office. I’ll be happy to tell you anything I can.”
The two-part harmony of Reed’s running shoes squeaking and Billie’s toenails hitting the hardwood followed Levin down the hallway, her own square heels adding a third rhythm to the impromptu symphony. It continued past a trio of offices, two standing dark and empty, the third with the door pulled shut. On the wall between each one was a Norman Rockwell style painting depicting young children doing their best impression of medical professionals.
They finally stopped at the end of the hall, Levin standing to one side of an office door and motioning for Reed to enter. “Please, have a seat.”
Her tone suggested it was the exact thing she said to patients dozens of times each day.
“Down,” Reed said, Billie pressing herself flat to the floor beside the lone visitor chair in the room. He waited for Levin to circle around her desk and take a seat before doing the same, leaning back in the padded cloth chair and resting his elbows on either armrest, his fingers laced before him.
The office was functional, a space meant for performing academic and administrative duties. The center of the room featured a hardwood desk made of oak, or perhaps cherry. On it was a laptop and three even stacks of paper, not a single knickknack or personal item of any kind. Behind the desk was an executive chair for the doctor, and a single bookcase was situated on the side wall. More artwork like those in the hall hung on two of the walls, and a large window was behind her desk, the blinds drawn tight.
“I understand you and Patty work together in Franklinton,” Levin opened.
It was the first time Reed had ever heard Solomon referred to as Patty, or even considered the possibility that she would be. “We do. She’s been quite an asset since moving to the new outpost. I’m glad to have her. She said you two went to medical school together?”
“That’s right,” Levin said, nodding, her hair brushing against the tops of her shoulders. “Right up the road at Ohio State. Go Buckeyes.”
The phrase, the team, everything about the Buckeyes, often brought a cringe to Reed’s face, though in this instance he fought to keep it down. Born and raised in Oklahoma City, his tastes ran much further west, a fact he had to often keep in check while working in Columbus.
One way to ensure earning the enmity of coworkers, witnesses, and pretty much anybody in the greater Columbus area, was to dare speak ill of the Buckeyes.
“And she tells me you are a heptologist?” Reed asked, saying the last word slowly, letting it be known he wasn’t exactly sure on the pronunciation.
“Hepatologist,” Levin corrected, smiling. “Close though, better than most.”
Reed matched the smile, using the moment to collect his bearings. “I’m not sure how much Dr. Solomon told you, so let me just start at the beginning. I’ll admit before I say a word that it’s a working theory, and once I’m done you can fill in any blanks I have or shoot the whole thing down in flames. That work?”
“Good for me,” Levin replied.
“Okay,” Reed said, running his hands down the front of his thighs. “Four days ago we had a 911 call from someone stating that a woman was having a heart attack. When officers arrived a few minutes later, they found her already dead, though it was determined after the fact that efforts had been made to resuscitate her. The caller was never identified.”
He paused, making sure she was with him, before continuing. “The next night we got another 911 call from somebody claiming that a woman was committing suicide. Responding officers found the second victim sealed into her car with duct tape, a hose connected to her exhaust. Once again, she was already dead, though no attempt at CPR had been made this time. And again, the caller was never identified.”
“Hmm,” Levin said, a crease appearing between her eyebrows as she listened. “And how was the first victim killed?”
“Sorry,” Reed said, realizing he had skipped over that part. “Suffocation.”
A small grunt in acknowledgement was the only response, the line growing a bit deeper as her eyebrows drew in closer. If she was surprised at the subject matter, or had any objections t
o it, she did nothing to show it.
“Two days ago,” Reed said, “a woman was beaten badly and dropped off at the Franklinton Memorial Hospital. Less than an hour later, she died.”
The look of concern on Levin’s face increased, one elbow going to the arm of her chair, her fist coming up under her chin.
“And finally yesterday,” Reed said, “a body was found in a dog park in Franklinton. Painfully skinny and covered in bruises, our first inclination was to think drugs, though the autopsy revealed he was actually experiencing end-stage liver disease due to hemochromatosis.”
Reed waited a split second to see if the doctor would correct his pronunciation. Instead, she shifted slightly in her seat, crossing her right leg over her left.
“Okay,” Reed said, again passing his palms over the front of his jeans, realizing he was sweating despite the air conditioning in the room. “Sorry, I know that was a lot, but I wanted to get it all out there so you could see what brought me here.”
One corner of Levin’s mouth turned up, her hand still propped beneath her chin. “That’s quite alright. Patty kind of prepped me ahead of time that this might be a difficult conversation. I’ll commend you though, you summarized it pretty well.”
Another half-smile was the best Reed could manage in response. He was fast approaching the moment of truth, the part where he was told if his theory held water or if he had to call Iaconelli and Bishop and inform them it was a false alarm.
“Earlier today I was looking at the Ruggles case,” Reed said, “and I plotted out his home, where we believe he was killed, or at the very least taken, and the park where his body was found. With just the two, there wasn’t much to work with, but on a hunch I plotted out the sites for Esther Rosen and Ira Soto’s homes as well.”
Shifting onto his hip, Reed extracted the folded up map from his back pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. The creases were already beginning to loosen from the continued use, a few new wrinkles appearing on the pages. Smoothing them out the best he could, Reed folded back just the pertinent portions and turned it to face Levin.
“As you can see, the more points I plotted, the more a pattern emerged.”
He didn’t bother pointing out the different sites circled in blue or the final destination in black, allowing the doctor to infer for herself.
“So, everybody was taken within a certain radius of Franklinton Memorial Hospital,” Levin said, glancing from the map up to Reed. “Why?”
Reed left the map in place and returned to his seat. “Here’s the part that I need your help on. Again, the key words here are working theory.
“The one victim in all of this that just didn’t seem to fit was Ruggles. The other three were all women. I haven’t looked into the Jurgensen case much, but I know Rosen and Soto both lived alone, were attacked at their home well into the night, both middle-aged, both healthy.”
The same concerned look remained on Levin’s face, though she gave no indication that she was picking up where he was leading.
“So why the deviation?” he asked. “Why suddenly go after a man who had just days to live? It didn’t make sense to me until I set his case aside for a moment and pulled the driver’s licenses of all three women.”
He removed the second clump of papers from his back pocket, the sheets folded into quarters. As a group he pressed them out flat before separating them and placing them side by side on top of the map.
Leaning closer, Levin rested her elbows on the edge of the table. One at a time she glanced at each of the photos, making it through all three before Reed saw a bit of recognition click and her gaze pass back over them in sequence.
“They were all organ donors,” she whispered.
Reed nodded. “That’s what I believe. I think that’s why the killer tried to resuscitate Esther Rosen and why he picked a much slower cause of death for Ira Soto. When that didn’t work, he beat Sandy Jurgensen and left her on the doorstep of the hospital.”
All color drained from the doctor’s face as she raised a hand, covering her mouth. Her eyes widened, and she stared from him to the pictures on her desk.
“My God,” she whispered. “But, that doesn’t explain Henry Ruggles. Why kill him too? He wasn’t a donor, he was...”
A second realization hit Levin, her eyes sliding shut.
Reed didn’t bother finishing her sentence. They both knew what she was trying to say.
The killer was eliminating competition. Sandy Jurgensen was the only one of the three who had survived long enough for her organs to be harvested. Best guess was that whoever the killer was had not received the liver that they needed and had gone after Henry Ruggles, presumably somebody higher on the list.
If not for the inclusion of Ruggles, Reed would not have even known what organ the killer was targeting.
“What this tells me,” Reed said, “is that the killer still has a need for a liver. That means either more donors or more people on the waiting list are going to die. I freely admit I don’t know a lot about this stuff, so anything you can give me would be much appreciated.”
There was no response of any kind from Levin as she pondered the information.
Finally, when she spoke, her features were paler than Reed remembered, her lips drawn into a tight line. “First thing, your killer is acting on behalf of someone. Anybody with a case of liver failure this advanced doesn’t have the strength or the stamina to be doing any of the things you’re describing.”
“Okay,” Reed said, nodding.
“Your theory does make sense,” Levin said, “in a very rudimentary way.” She paused and held a hand up, her palm facing him, her fingers splayed outward, “No offense.”
Reed shook off the apology.
“But it sounds like the killer has a very rudimentary understanding of the way this all works as well,” she said.
“How so?” Reed asked.
“Well, for one thing,” Levin said, “the process isn’t strictly geographic. It’s obvious that the killer believes it is, which is why you found the pattern, but it’s actually much more involved than that.”
Reed leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t sure how much of what he was hearing would be pertinent, but knew it was better to be armed with too much information than not enough. In an hour, he was going to be standing before his captain and two ranking detectives, probably a few other individuals as well. The more complete a picture he could give them, the more it gave credence to his theory.
“The waiting list is national,” Levin said. “It’s run by an organization called the United Network for Organ Sharing, which in a roundabout way is under the control of the federal government. It maintains an automated ranking of individuals and updates it at least daily.
“Geographic proximity factors in to the decision as to who gets an organ. They certainly won’t be able to fly someone in from Hawaii for a liver in Massachusetts, but it isn’t the most prominent factor by far.”
“Why not?” Reed asked. “And if it isn’t, what is?”
The previous looks of repulsion, of abject horror, had receded from Levin’s face. She was now back in her element, not forced to face the kind of things Reed dealt with on a daily basis. Instead, she was in her familiar cocoon of medical knowledge. With each question she grew more assured, the confidence she displayed upon first meeting becoming more evident.
“To answer the first question,” Levin said, “an organ is only viable for so long once it is out of the body. For a kidney, you might have upwards of a half hour, but for a liver you’re looking at closer to 10 minutes. Twelve if you’re lucky.”
“And since most donors pass suddenly...” Reed prompted.
“Right,” Levin said. “What’s interesting about the way your, um, perpetrator, chose to do things is he was actually causing brain death, not actual death. Asphyxia, especially from carbon monoxide poisoning, would make a person unresponsive, but they could be kept alive for days or longer if necessary.”
&
nbsp; “Giving the hospital time to bring in someone higher on the list from further away,” Reed said.
“But in the case of sudden passing,” Levin said, “the hospital has to go with whoever can get there in time.”
Both fell silent for a moment, Reed processing what he’d just heard. The doctor’s previous assessment that the killer was operating under a very rudimentary understanding of things was quite clear, displaying either a level of naivety or desperation that was quite unsettling.
“So what is the most important thing in the determination?” Reed asked again.
“The list is done using what’s called a MELD score,” Levin said, “Model for Endstage Liver Disease. Blood tests are taken and a computer calculates a score from 6 to 40. The higher the number, the more urgent the need.”
Adding this to the misshapen tangle of information he already had, Reed’s gaze drifted to the side. It fell on a painting of a little boy playing doctor, using a stethoscope to check the heart rate of an enormous dog. He left it there until his vision blurred, trying to force everything he was hearing to make sense, trying to put himself in the killer’s position.
“This list, where would one get it?”
“Simply put,” Levin said, “they wouldn’t. Like I said, it’s run by a government agency, accessible only by facilities with transplant capabilities, like Franklinton Memorial.”
“Mmm,” Reed said, the sound coming out more like a grunt. “And, ballpark, how big are we talking here? 500 persons awaiting a donor? 1,000?”
“Nationwide?” Levin asked. “Closer to 20,000.”
“Damn!” Reed spat, saying the word before he even realized it. He felt blood color his cheeks as he looked back at her, raising a hand in apology.
This time it was she that waved it off without comment.
“20,000 people and somebody thinks they can control the outcome right here in Franklinton?” Reed asked, making no effort to mask his surprise.
Levin’s eyes grew a bit larger as she nodded in agreement. “Exactly. A rudimentary understanding, at best.”
“No kidding,” Reed muttered. “Too bad the damn killer couldn’t just give his liver. Save us all a lot of time and headache.”
The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2) Page 16