At What Cost

by James L'Etoile

  “That’s easy. The answers to anything are out there, if you know where to look. Mrs. Brown always says, ‘Science is fun,’ even though it sucks. So I typed in science is fun and my teacher’s name into a search box and found it.”

  John looked at the screen. The title of the page was “Science Is Fun” by Emily Brown. Smart kid. “That’s enough studying for the night. Get ready for bed.”

  “Okay, Dad. Thanks for helping me.”

  Tommy started out the door and paused, his brow knit in a serious expression.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, Tommy?”

  “What’s it like when you die?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you die. What happens? Does it hurt?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  Tommy shifted against the doorframe and broke eye contact with his father. He stared out the window as a car passed by, and after a pause, said, “I heard Mom and Dr. Anderson talking the other day. Mom said if I don’t get my kidney transplant, I could die.”

  John felt his stomach grow cold. “You are going to get your surgery, and you’ll feel better than ever.”

  “What if I don’t? Am I gonna die?”

  “Don’t worry about that. You’re gonna be fine,” John said with as much reassurance as he could muster. It wasn’t only for Tommy.

  Tommy nodded and disappeared down the hallway, his stooped shoulders and floor-bound gaze broadcasting his insecurity and fear.

  John closed his eyes, tipped back his head, and let loose a breath he didn’t know was trapped in his chest. A nine-year-old boy should not have to ask about what happens when you die. Kids that age are supposed to run, play sports, and not have a care in the world. It wasn’t fair, and John couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He felt helpless.

  Tommy’s words replayed in his mind: “The answers to everything are out there, if you know where to look.”

  John pulled the wireless keyboard over, used the mouse, and brought up a search engine. A cursor blinked in a blank white box, awaiting his command. He typed in the words black-market organ transplant and hit the enter key.

  “Down the rabbit hole, John.”

  Transplants were, as Dr. Kelly had said, big business; eight billion dollars spent on organ research, preservation, and procurement, all in the name of extending life. John’s Internet search confirmed what he already knew—that megahospitals, big-pharma, and insurance companies were the real gatekeepers of organ-transplant transactions. “Transaction” was the correct term because money, bundles of it, changed hands at each turn in the process. At the end of the day, everyone made a profit except for the patients. Those lucky enough to survive and receive a transplant found themselves mired in debt for the rest of their days.

  John drilled deeper into the darker corners of transplants, where a husband in India sold his wife’s kidney and where the harvested organs of Chinese prisoners went to the highest bidder. Humans were worth more dead than alive. Spare parts. Urban legend mixed with threads of authentic desperation. One truth among the stories captured a common theme—if you have enough money, all waiting lists disappear as long as you don’t ask questions.

  Black markets in human organs thrived in India, Asia, and Eastern Europe, where the accounts of the “donations” smelled of extortion and abuse. Few of the thousands of links tracked back to North American sources. An intact body was worth up to two million dollars when parsed out to those who waited in the shadows.

  John plucked his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. After a single ring, Paula’s voice, shrouded within a veil of sharp, off-pitch noise, responded.

  “Hi, John.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Oh, I was listening to Yanni, sorry. Let me turn it down.” A moment later, the sound retreated. “Okay, I’m back.”

  “Yanni? Seriously? No wonder you have no social life.”

  “It’s after midnight, partner. I’m entitled to some downtime,” she said.

  John checked his watch, surprised at how much time had gotten sucked away while he probed the dark reaches of the web.

  “How did we find the warehouse?”

  “What do you mean?” Paula said. “Guzman told us he and Cardozo picked up deliveries from the place. And your CI, Jimmy Franck, called in the tip about a sacrifice.”

  “I guess what I mean is, why were we allowed to find it? The killer made sure we’d find the place, complete with a personally autographed body part.”

  “You think?”

  “Hey, I mean we’re good, and we would have found it eventually, but he wanted it found now,” John said.

  “The killer wanted us to know he’s killing gang members—for parts?”

  “I did a quick search and found dozens of websites that claim they can get around the transplant waiting lists. I can’t get over the idea that the killer could be trolling these transplant lists for desperate buyers.”

  “What aren’t you saying, John?”

  “I want to draw him out.”

  “If he gets wind that we’re baiting him, we might lose him.”

  “You saw the message he left for me. He thinks he’s untouchable. He might be right if we don’t change tactics.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We look at who received transplants. Tomorrow we hit the UNOS network and pull the data for people who got a transplant and didn’t have to wait long.”

  Silence was all he heard from Paula’s end of the connection.

  “Paula?”

  “Are you certain that Tommy’s long wait for a match isn’t coloring your judgment?”

  “I can’t say it hasn’t. If anything, what we’ve gone through with Tommy points out that transplants are a system with rules and boundaries. And with any system, some people don’t think the rules apply to them.”

  “You’re talking about thousands of records to sift through. That’s if we get a judge to ignore the confidentiality of medical records and give us a warrant. We need more than a theory that someone was able to cut in line and get a transplant.”

  “The link is there. I know it.”

  “Maybe, but we have to find a way to get there without individual patient records.”

  “We’ll figure it out tomorrow morning when we talk with Trisha Woods at Central Valley Hospital.”

  “The contact Dr. Kelly gave us.”

  “You want me to swing by your place and pick you up?” he asked.

  “Sure. What time?”

  They agreed on a time and hung up. John went to flick the computer monitor off, and his hand hovered over the power switch. A new e-mail message flashed on the screen and drew his attention. The subject line simply asked, “Waiting list too long?”

  John clicked on the link, and a software file downloaded a Tor Internet browser. He’d seen this kind of anonymous Internet browser before when he worked a child pornography case. The Tor browser allowed fully anonymous, untraceable communication on the dark web, the Sodom and Gomorrah of cyberspace. A plain screen appeared without the banners, menus, and advertising that usually infected the Internet. The screen resembled an old-fashioned green-screen computer terminal with a blinking cursor parked in the upper-left corner. Pale-green letters spelled out Log In.

  He typed in organ and pressed enter, but nothing happened. He tried the words transplant, waiting list, and kidney, all with the same lack of response from the web guardian. John shifted in his chair, mulling over the thousands of possibilities that would open this portal. He picked up his cell once more, this time flicking though photos he’d taken of the kidney delivery at the old ice plant. Maybe the series of random letters and numbers under his name on the tag wasn’t so random.

  John held his phone next to the screen, typed in the combination of letters and numbers exactly, and pressed the enter key. John ran his mouse across the screen and nothing happened. Another dead end.

  As John prepared to give up and kill the power to the computer, th
e screen suddenly changed. The cursor blinked and moved as words flowed onto the display.

  Welcome. How may I help you? The cursor blinked on a new line below the words, waiting for a reply.

  “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.” He tugged the keyboard toward him, poised his hands over the keys, and tapped a response. Who is this? He hit the return key and waited.

  You may call me the Broker, came the reply after a few seconds.

  John sat upright, decided to play along, and typed. What kind of broker?

  The kind that gets things done. How may I help you?

  Transplants? John typed.

  Donor or recipient?

  Recipient, John replied and waited.

  The letters scrolled out the next question. Are you on the waiting list?

  Yes. I don’t want to wait any longer, John replied, thinking of his son.

  You should allow the waiting list to take its course.

  I’ve done that. Can you help me or not?

  John waited. After a long pause, the reply spilled onto the screen. I may be able to move things along. I will extract information from your medical records so that I can expedite the process for you.

  A cold ball of lead formed in John’s stomach. The conversation teetered on the edge of all ethical boundaries, and yet nothing damned the person on the other end of the connection. Using his son’s medical condition as a cover was a new low, but John needed to press the Broker for more information to get the killer to give up a vital piece of information that would bring him down.

  Where do you get the organs? John pressed the return key.

  Donors, of course. They don’t grow on trees, which brings me to my fee for expediting this process. Ten thousand, up front.

  How do I know you can do what you say? John typed.

  You don’t. Call it a leap of faith.

  John waited, not sure of his approach.

  New words scrolled out onto the screen while John watched. Contact me when you are serious.

  The lines of the discussion disappeared from the monitor, leaving no trail that it had ever occurred. The lone, blinking cursor was all that remained on the screen. John tapped out a message on the keyboard. I’m in. What information do you require to get started?

  His question held vigil on the screen. Not a single word response came from the other end of the computer connection.

  The Broker was gone.

  A twinge of panic surged, and John refreshed the screen.

  I need your help, John typed.

  There was a long pause with nothing but the blinking cursor, thumping in time with John’s heartbeat, and then it sputtered to life.

  Patient’s name?

  John entered Tommy’s name.

  Transplant center?

  Central Valley Hospital, John responded.

  Send full payment to this account. A long string of letters and numbers followed the demand.

  John saved a screenshot of the information and closed the laptop cover as if a virus would ooze from the screen and infect his family.

  But in truth, it already had.

  FOURTEEN

  Following a fitful night’s sleep filled with images of computer screens and human organs tied up with bright ribbon, John rose hours before the rest of the family.

  He made coffee for Melissa and collected the newspaper from the front drive. A quick scan of the main section revealed nothing surprising: a rehashed version of yesterday’s political squabbles and budget shortfalls. His morning routine included a review of the obituaries for people that he knew. Occasionally, one of the memorials struck a chord; a young person succumbed to disease before they had a chance at life. This morning’s paper listed a boy Tommy’s age. The announcement didn’t list the cause of death, but the family asked that donations go to Central Valley Hospital Transplant Program. John couldn’t recall if he’d ever seen the boy during one of Tommy’s visits at the hospital. Melissa would remember; she was good at making those sorts of connections. Networking, she called it.

  At the bottom of the page was the funeral announcement for Daniel Cardozo. There was no attempt at flowery praise of Cardozo’s lifetime accomplishments or mention of whom he left behind. It contained the date and time of the memorial service with a graveside service to follow, nothing more.

  John refolded the paper with the child’s obituary facing out and sat it next to the coffeepot for Melissa. He made a mental note to ask her about the boy.

  He showered in the guest bath and dressed in the dark to avoid disturbing the family. When he returned to the kitchen, he didn’t expect to find Melissa at the table huddled with a cup of coffee.

  “I tried not to wake you,” he said.

  She lifted her head, hair still tousled from sleep. Wayward strands hung across her face, hiding her blue eyes. She tucked the stray hair behind an ear and said, “You only think you’re quiet.” She pointed at the newspaper. “You saw this? The Gunderson boy didn’t make it.”

  He nodded. “I can’t place him. Which one was he?”

  “He had Tommy’s doctor, and his mother said he had polycystic kidney disease. He went on the transplant list two months ago.”

  “Wow. I guess he never had a chance,” John said.

  “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “He got the transplant a month ago. The same time Tommy got bumped from the top of the list.”

  “That was him? I wonder what happened.”

  “Rejection, probably. Shame. I liked his mother. She felt bad about taking ‘Tommy’s kidney.’”

  “The kid was a better match for the donated kidney. At least that’s what Dr. Anderson told us. I just don’t understand why other kids get their transplants and Tommy gets put on hold.”

  “I know.” She reached out and took hold of John’s hand. “We have to be strong for Tommy.”

  John thought of his dark web conversation from the night before. “You think it matters where Tommy gets his donated kidney from?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Does it matter what kind of person the donor was? A creep, a gangbanger, or a prison inmate?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think Tommy would care if it meant he was finally healthy.” She kissed the back of his hand and let him go. “Where are you off to so early this morning?”

  “Paula and I have some follow-up on a case.”

  “Anything to do with why you stayed up late last night?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I’m a mom. That’s what we do.”

  John sat across from his wife. “You know how I said I’d always separate work and home life?”

  “Yeah. We both agreed the kids didn’t need to see or hear about the monsters you run across.”

  “Paula called me on it yesterday. The case we’re working looks like it involves human-organ trafficking, and Paula said Tommy’s condition might cloud my judgment.”

  “Trafficking? Here? I’ve read stories about it, but always in some other corner of the world. You shouldn’t have anything to do with it. It’s too close to home, John. Our home.”

  “Someone might be manipulating the waiting list. It could affect Tommy. I can’t let that happen.”

  “Dr. Anderson explained how the wait list works to us. There are safeguards to prevent that kind of thing from happening. Paula’s right. You are letting Tommy influence your thinking. You need to get someone else to handle this one,” Melissa said.

  John leaned back in his chair and considered Melissa’s argument. He’d never asked to have a case reassigned and took pride in that fact. Pride. Is that what this was about? He wasn’t about to tell his wife about his late-night chat with a black-market organ broker.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “I know what maybe means. You’re too stubborn and bullheaded to admit when you’re wrong.”

  The woman was perceptive.

  John stood,
leaned across the table, and planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead. “I’ll consider it.”

  He left her huddled with her coffee and went out the back door so he didn’t wake the kids. Light, early-morning traffic meant he got to Paula’s address without much trouble. He pulled the police sedan to the curb in front of a clean, Craftsman-style home in midtown. The bronze number on the impeccable 1920s residence matched the address Paula gave him.

  The neat and tidy image was so out of character for his new partner that John’s first thought was that she deliberately sent him to the wrong address. John dialed Paula’s number.

  She picked up on the first ring. “I’m almost ready. Come on in.”

  John turned to the house and glimpsed Paula waving at him from the front door.

  He got out of the car and followed a walkway framed with a low boxwood hedge to a wooden front porch. Paula left the massive mahogany door open for him and called out when she heard his footfalls on the porch.

  “In the kitchen,” Paula said.

  Gleaming hardwood floors and meticulously crafted built-in cabinetry looked as if they could be featured in an issue of Architectural Digest. The period light fixtures, rubbed-bronze switch plates, and antique furnishings made the place seem more museum than residence. It looked so different from Paula’s landfill of a work space at the station.

  Paula caught him taking in the mortised woodworking detail on a glass-fronted library cabinet. “Like that one? I found it in the basement. Someone painted it blue and used it as junk storage.”

  “Nice. Did you restore it?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. Turns out it’s only a copy of a Stickley piece, but it does go with the house.”

  “Is this really your place? I mean, don’t take this all wrong, the place is beautiful, but . . .”

  “It’s not what you thought. I have my work life and my private life. This is my private life. Here there is order, peace, and reason. At work, it’s different.”

  “This is like night-and-day different. At the office, your desk—”

  “I know. I’ve heard it. Wasteland, dump, toxic-waste storage. People see that and think a certain way. They make judgments about who I am and what I can do. I like proving them wrong.”