The Angel Maker

by Ridley Pearson

  Her hand brushed against the chain link. Her collar sounded a quick warning and then delivered a devastating jolt of electricity. She fell back, letting go of the tubing. It slid through the chain link, threatening to fall into the next pen. She snatched it back quickly, but in doing so made contact with the fence once again.

  The dogs circled their cages frantically. He was coming! He was certain to see the needle!

  She stuffed everything under the burlap and sat down on top of it and looked up, only to see the I.V. bag still clipped to the top of her cage. This, of all things, would give her away.

  Then she saw that the I.V. needle in her had leaked blood onto her forearm. What to do? Think!! With the door coming open, with far too many loose ends to tie up, with no clear idea what she was doing, she pulled the I.V. bag down, its contents leaking out onto the floor. She grabbed the plastic tubing from beneath her and slipped the string off its end, leaving a knotted tangle—a mess—on the floor. Now it might look like an accident—it had tangled in her sleep.

  With all these thoughts swirling inside her, she dared not look at the needle. Don’t draw his attention to it. She looked away.

  As the door opened fully and he stepped inside, she vomited.

  Drenched in blood, he held a human heart in his outstretched hands. The heart looked so small. So pitiful.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said strongly. The door banged shut behind him. The barking stopped. With the scent of blood in the air, all the dogs hurried to the front of their cages. Tegg moved down the center aisle. “Practice makes perfect,” he stated. Sharon caught herself pulling at the shock collar—a forbidden action—not because she wanted out of it, which she did, but because she found it hard to breathe. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably; her hands went numb.

  “Who’s been good?” he asked the dogs.

  She screamed into the gag, but little sound came out.

  “What I bring you today, my friends,” he addressed the dogs, “is an example of the human condition: the pursuit of perfection.” He hoisted the dripping heart aloft as a kind of sacrificial offering. “Who’s been good?” He sounded so normal: a father to his children.

  She glanced at the needle; it seemed so insignificant now.

  With the heart clutched in his hands, he said to her, “Be thankful this wasn’t you.” He tossed the heart up lightly and caught it playfully. It slapped into his gloved hands with a sucking sound. He did this several times, like a child with a ball.

  He marched down the center aisle. “Felix, for you,” he said as he made the dog sit. “Hold,” he said. He dropped the heart in front of the dog. “Not yet,” he said. “Not yet.”

  He walked back to the main door. It sang as it opened.

  Felix’s full attention was on the chunk of meat in front of him.

  “Okay,” Tegg commanded.

  The dog lunged forward and ate the heart.

  WEDNESDAY

  February 8

  31

  “Okay. I’ve been on the phone all morning consulting some of the best in the business: Dr. Christiansen here in Seattle; Shires in Denver; Rantner and McCullough at Quantico—and the picture is not a pretty one. If this guy has done three, he’s done thirty. He likely views the runaways as street scum—but it’s unlikely he knows he’s killed them. He is trying to prove himself, as much as help those who need the organs. The fact that he’s done at least two kidneys and a lung indicates this is not strictly business—it’s a competency test as well. He’s in his early to middle-forties, married, with children.”

  Shoswitz huffed.

  She explained, “That’s the demographic on veterinarians, Lieutenant. It’s my job to play the averages. He’s probably attempting to overcome some prior grievance. With a vet, the most obvious is being turned down by medical school.”

  “He’s playing doctor,” Shoswitz said.

  “Exactly. Maybe he lost someone close to him either because of a failed organ transplant or, more likely, because of a lack of organ availability. He’s now both proving his own abilities and making certain there are plenty of organs to go around so that it doesn’t happen to anyone else.

  “He’s had extensive medical training. He may have flunked out of medical school—that may be his grievance. He or an associate has or has had exposure to the runaway and homeless community. He can deal with these kids without raising suspicions.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Shoswitz tested, “is that these three deaths you turned up are the exception, not the rule.”

  “That’s the opinion, yes. Cindy Chapman is more likely the rule: Harvest the organ, drug and electroshock the donor, and return him or her to the streets. A few of the unlucky ones didn’t make it.”

  “Thirty?” Shoswitz asked.

  “That was Dr. Rantner’s minimum estimate based on pattern cycles, his expertise. Two of the victims, Sherman and Blumenthal, occurred within three weeks of each other, suggesting a three-week cycle. But the indication is that this has been going on for at least three years—if, as these bones indicate, the harvests are the work of the same person. Somewhere between twelve and fifteen a year. It could be two or three times that.”

  “And the body count?” Boldt asked. “Is that consistent?”

  “It fits well. Yes. Three deaths that we’ve uncovered. At a ten-percent failure rate that still adds up to thirty or more.”

  “Jesus!” Shoswitz said. “This guy’s fucking out of his mind!”

  “Not necessarily, Lieutenant,” she corrected, taking him literally. “Christiansen profiled him as bright, charming, even active in the community. He sees himself as going a step beyond—going the extra mile—to save lives. He feels perfectly justified in what he’s doing. He feels good about it. Empowered by it. We’re dealing with a substantial ego here.”

  “Robin Hood?” Shoswitz asked incredulously. “Are you telling me this guy believes he is performing some kind of civic duty?”

  “Absolutely. That’s very well put, Lieutenant. That’s it exactly.”

  A uniformed patrolman knocked and opened the office door. “Lieutenant? We’re ready for you.”

  Fifteen people were gathered in the situation room. J. C. Adams, Butch and Danny—all working surveillance; several nerds from Tech Services, including Watson, who ran it like it was its own department, which it wasn’t; two women, Maria Romanello and Trish Leidecher, veteran Sexual Assault detectives currently assigned to Special Operations. Boldt, LaMoia and Shoswitz followed in behind Daphne.

  Shoswitz paced the room rubbing his elbow, and spoke in a commanding voice. “Here’s where we stand, everybody: Robbery has quite possibly located the laptop computer that was lifted from a van we had under surveillance. A pawn shop on Pine called in serial numbers to a Toshiba laptop yesterday. The timing and the description of both the laptop and the kid who hocked it were a good match. We sent Watson and crew to have a look at it. Subsequently, we’ve been informed by them that the laptop is password protected. Watson,” he said, turning it over to a man with thick glasses and wet, red lips.

  He spoke with a slight lisp. “Given the existence of an unknown password, we are unable to retrieve any file on the hard disk in full. We can only grab data a few sectors at a time, and copying in any kind of order is out altogether. We have programs capable of testing sequences of passwords—trying to ‘break the code,’ if you will—but with this particular hardware/software combination it’s a terribly time consuming process.”

  Shoswitz cut him off. A couple of the wise guys applauded. Watson sat down. Shoswitz said, “Obviously we need that password. Interestingly enough, a different individual approached this same pawn shop late yesterday afternoon, claiming he had hocked the laptop, which we know is incorrect. He wanted the laptop back. He was told to return this morning. This individual fit the description and through in-store video has subsequently been identified as the driver of the van in question. We would not only like the driver of that van under surveillance, we
would also appreciate it if he would give us the password so we could have a look-see at the data. I hope you’re following this because I’m not going to repeat it. Sergeant Boldt has decided we will not—I repeat, will not—detain this individual when he returns this morning to claim the laptop. We will place him under surveillance and hope he leads us to bigger fish. Okay? Got it? But we need this friggin’ password in order to get at the laptop, and Sergeant Matthews has some ideas on how we might get it. Sergeant …” he said, turning it over to her.

  Daphne scanned the crowd, making eye contact with each person. “What we’re going to do—all of us—is ‘trick’ the suspect into volunteering the password. Each of you has some role to act out. You’ve already been briefed on that. What I’m going to be talking about applies to how you approach that role, how you approach the suspect.

  “We know what this guy looks like—you’ve all been shown a photocopy of a shot lifted from the store’s video. We’ll be fully wired. Watson will be set up in the back of the shop.” She studied a report. “I’ve had the chance to study the in-store video of the suspect. This guy is the nervous and anxious type,” she said. “He’s cocky. He’s used to being in control and is not at all comfortable about his present situation. He wants this laptop. And that’s why he plays into our hands so well. He’s suspicious, which means he’ll respond best to negative reinforcement—reverse psychology. We want to play him like a fish—let him run. We act like we don’t give a damn. That’s what it amounts to. We’re in no hurry to help him out. None whatsoever. If he senses our trying to help him, it’ll tip him off. He’s looking for us—remember that, too. Those of you who are going to be on the shop floor as patrons, I want you to put him down at every opportunity. That shouldn’t be too tough for most of you.” More laughter. “Get in his face. Call him an ‘asshole.’ Call him ‘stupid’—”

  “Just don’t call him late to dinner,” someone shouted out.

  “Cute, Meyers. Bet you thought that up all by yourself,” she said quickly, stealing the laughter that Meyers had hoped for, boosting her confidence. She looked Boldt in the eye and was gratified to see respect there. “We want to use his insecurity against him. He wants this laptop. You must remember that at all times. He’ll do what’s necessary to get it back, including giving us the password as long as we make him think of it. It may take us several times. We must be prepared for him to walk. We can’t be afraid of that. Let him go; he’ll be back.” Lots of doubting faces on that one. “This is my territory,” she reminded. “Trust me: He’ll be back. That is, if that laptop contains the kind of information we think it does and if our surveillance boys don’t tip him off to us.” She allowed them time to talk among themselves and then interrupted. “We’re going to push and pull him. Toy with him. It’s essential we make this tough for him.”

  Boldt interrupted, his confidence apparent. “Once we have the password, we’re going to copy files from the laptop’s hard disk. That may take a minute …”

  She reinterrupted, “Which is when he will grow the most suspicious. Those of you acting as patrons—that’s your moment to cause the most confusion. We want to make it safe for him to be delayed. If he wants to leave—fine. Once we have the password, we don’t really care.”

  Boldt corrected, “But we do care about his catching on to us. The whole reason we’re letting him skate is the hope he’ll lead us up the ladder. It’s like a Narco bust that way—which is exactly why those of you from Narco were assigned here. We need your expertise.”

  Meyers asked, “How do we know this guy ain’t the cutter?” Some heads nodded.

  “We have a profile of the harvester. This guy doesn’t fit,” Boldt answered. Daphne witnessed the glum faces and felt tempted to defend herself. He glanced at her from the side of the room where he was standing. “We have reason to suspect that the harvester is a veterinarian.” They both allowed a few seconds for the resulting chatter that always followed such an announcement. This was the first time anyone had been told this, other than Shoswitz, LaMoia and herself.

  Daphne offered, “There’s also some physical evidence. We believe the harvester has a harsh voice. Our pawn shop suspect does not. We believe the accomplice wears size thirteen running shoes; the suspect in the pawn shop was wearing large running shoes.

  “The important thing,” Daphne continued, “is to use his impatience against him. To criticize him: his looks, his intelligence, anything to heighten his anger. If we keep him angry, he won’t be thinking clearly, he’ll stop being observant—his focus will be on directing his anger.” She asked the two women, “Which one of you is the prostitute?”

  That caused all the male heads to spin.

  Maria Romanello raised her hand. She was a good choice: dark skin, sultry attitude, with an eye-popping figure. But she was a gum-chewer and not at all glamorous. The guys applauded her. Maria flipped them the bird.

  Daphne explained, “You’ll want to turn it up pretty hot. Not for him—just in general. Lots of eye shadow. Some skin—as much as you feel comfortable with. Anything to keep him distracted without going over the top.” Maria nodded. One of the men let out a wolf whistle. “What we’re looking to do,” she told them all, “is pull this guy in as many directions as we can. We make the environment busy. We make him feel unwanted. We piss him off, if possible. Maria keeps his hormones active. The more compartments in his brain we can activate, the less mental power he has to concentrate on what’s being asked of him. We make him believe he’s offering. We make him think this is all his idea. We play this right, and he’ll volunteer that password without thinking about it.”

  “If we blow it,” Boldt said, “chances are we’ve sacrificed a nice piece of evidence. Maybe even the smoking gun.”

  Daphne looked up at the clock. “The pawn shop opens at ten. That gives us one hour to get into place. Any questions?”

  A single hand raised. Meyers again. Daphne nodded. “Anybody thought about what we do if he pulls a piece and demands the laptop?”

  Boldt said, “We’ll have an identical laptop on hand. If he tries to rob the place, we’ll substitute it and give him the wrong one.”

  “Anything else?”

  No other hands surfaced. Daphne felt herself perspiring as she watched for the lieutenant’s reaction. Shoswitz looked his crew over. He hesitated but finally nodded, giving his approval. Boldt glanced over at her. She felt a real connection to him.

  As she passed closely to him on her way out, she whispered, “What’d you think?”

  He said softly to her, “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  She was thinking about Sharon again—it was all she could think about anymore. What had become of her? Where did this man at the pawn shop fit in? And what fate awaited Sharon if they failed in the task before them?

  32

  The receptionist left for lunch.

  Pamela locked the front door and placed the CLOSED clock in the window—back in an hour—because they had a surgery to do and they couldn’t be disturbed. In truth, this wasn’t the only reason she locked the front door. It was for privacy as well, for while it trapped the public out, it also trapped the two of them inside, together. They had work to do.

  She had lost two pounds in just three days. Some kind of miracle! She attributed this newfound strength to him. She placed the phones on the service, unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, and headed for his office. If she was honest with herself, she was worried about him. He wasn’t himself today. He had spent the morning brooding in his office, his nose buried in medical journals and textbooks. He had outright refused to see several of their patients, passing the work along to her. Not like him at all.

  She knocked.

  “Enter,” he called out in a threatening voice that reminded her of her father. No, he was not himself at all. She opened the door.

  He looked worried behind his desk. Others might not see it in him, but she knew him better than anyone. He picked at his beard nervously. “What about that st
ray?” he asked. “What’s become of him?”

  “We’ve called around. No one is claiming him. He’s headed for the pound later this afternoon.”

  “The pound? But they’ll kill him in three days! I saved that dog’s leg!” he protested.

  “The farm? Is that what you mean? You want him out at the farm?”

  “Are we prepped for surgery?” he asked.

  “A knotted intestine. Routine. It’s all set up for you, prepped and ready to go.” She added as a hint, “I’ve locked up. The phones are off.” She wondered if he noticed her exposed cleavage. He didn’t seem to. She reached up and undid the next button as well.

  “Very well,” he said, rising from his black leather chair. “But not the lower G.I. Set up the stray for thoracic.”

  “Excuse me?” she questioned.

  “Prep the stray. Now!”

  A few minutes later, they were standing alongside one another ready for the first incision. He studied the animal for what seemed like an interminable amount of time.

  “Doctor?” she said, breaking the silence.

  He glared at her. He looked down at her breasts and told her to button herself up. “This isn’t a porno movie, you know. We have work to do. Correction! I have work to do. I’ll handle this alone.”

  “What?” she gasped, fishing for the buttons.

  He glanced around the room. “Get me some ice,” he said.

  “Ice?”

  “Now!”

  She left the room and headed into the small kitchenette. She collected ice from a freezer there. She heard a buzzing from the surgical suite. The saw?

  “Saline!” he called out loudly. She had to go to the back room to find it. It took her longer than she wanted. She hurried back into the operating room, because he blamed her for any problems, even if she was off doing something he told her to. “Where’s that saline? Penicillin! Where’s the ice?” he repeated sternly.