by Reed Arvin
“It would take a long time, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. How long has the clean-needle program been going on?”
“Couple of years, I think.”
Robinson laughed grimly. “Just as long as our program for Lipitran.” He closed his eyes. “Once he isolates these poor bastards, he knows that the second they take Lipitran, they are going to die like dogs.”
“He told me he didn’t kill those patients. He said they died from Lipitran.”
“He was right,” Robinson said, shaking his head. “He didn’t touch the compound, and he didn’t touch them. We could have given those patients armed guards and it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“But how could he get them on the test?”
Robinson shrugged. “They’re drug addicts, and he controls their clean needles. Ralston could even promise them pharmaceutical heroin after the test, which would be like gold to a junkie.”
I stood by Robinson in the silence of the park, thinking about how sometimes being gifted and talented doesn’t have a damn thing to do with virtue. “But we have him now, right?” I said. “I mean, what you just said. He’s busted. He’s going down.”
Robinson spat into the grass. “He walks.”
I stared at him, badly wanting off the roller coaster of ups and downs. “What?”
“He walks, Jack. It’s just theory. I can’t prove a word of it.”
“Because?”
“Because no one survived. All I would need is one. By surviving, that patient would, by definition, have the enzymes the dead patients lacked. Then you could compare the survivor to the others, and demonstrate that the test had to have been manipulated. But with all of them dead, it’s impossible.”
“Lacayo!” I retorted. “‘Mostly dead,’ you said. He’s still alive.”
Robinson gave a dry, brittle laugh. “Died two days ago,” he said. “Blew up, like the others.”
“God, that’s unbelievable. How did you find out?”
Robinson looked down. “Went down there,” he whispered. “Went to see old Lacayo. His mother saw me hanging around. She hit me.”
So that’s why I haven’t been able to find you. You’ve been here, nursing another wound over a final dead patient. A hot, brittle breeze whipped across the park. Robinson looked across the empty expanse of grass, his face a map of defeat.
“He’s better than I am,” he said. “He’s better.”
“You could give Lipitran to someone else,” I said cautiously. “Make a new survivor.”
Robinson looked at me. “You want to know the definition of genius? Ralston’s protected by law, now. Once the FDA withdraws their sanction, I can’t give Lipitran to anyone else without committing a felony. Medical malpractice. Reckless endangerment, probably even attempted murder.” He grimaced. “And whose life do you want me to risk, anyway? It’s theory, Jack. Do you want to stand up in a court of law and say you gave Lipitran to another person after eight people died horribly from it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Even if the patient lived, I’d still go to jail for the rest of my life.” Robinson looked up at the sky. “Don’t you get it? It’s the perfect crime. It’s unprecedented. He killed eight people by using their own bodies against them. He became a hero while he did it. And to top it all, he ended up with the entire federal government protecting him from anybody ever finding out.”
We stood beside each other in silence, partly in awe over Ralston’s genius, and partly in revulsion over the ends to which it was put. After a while Robinson asked, “Where did that ridiculous idea about poison needles come from, anyway?”
“I’m sorry about that. I thought we had them.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t.”
“The whole thing started when I found out Ralston didn’t know Doug was taking Lipitran.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Robinson slowly swiveled his head around toward me. “Say that again, please.”
“Ralston. He didn’t know Doug was on your test. I told him when I saw him.”
“What did he do?”
“He fell apart. Seriously rattled.”
“Rattled?”
“Yeah.”
Robinson lunged at me, grabbing me by the collar. “Listen to me now, Jack. You have to get me Doug Townsend’s body, and there’s not one second to lose.”
“His body? That’s a hell of a request.”
“If Ralston didn’t know Townsend was on the test, it means Doug wasn’t screened. Doug must have put himself on the test without Ralston knowing it.”
“Which means?”
“Which means he’s a survivor.”
“He’s dead, Doctor.”
“From fentanyl, Jack. Not from Lipitran. Do you understand what I’m saying? Everything we need to nail Ralston is inside Doug Townsend’s body this moment.”
“Hang on a second. If Doug was on the test, don’t you already have a sample of his blood?”
“Of course I do. Before he took the Lipitran. Then he vanished off the program.”
“Murdered because he would have been cured.”
“Exactly. Now tell me you know where his body is.”
“He’s on ice, at the police pathology lab.”
“Okay. But listen to me, Jack If I can figure this out, Ralston can, too. In fact, he must have, the second you told him Doug had taken Lipitran.”
“So why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?”
“What?”
I suddenly realized in my haste I hadn’t said anything about Ralston’s thugs. “Ralston arranged a little detour for me after I left Horizn. I got tied up and thrown in a closet.”
Robinson stared. “How’d you get out?”
“Force of will. At any rate, if they were trying to kill me, they were pretty bad at it.”
“They won’t make that mistake again.”
“So what about you?” I asked. “You need to get out of sight.”
“I’ll go to Grayton until you call me. It’s built like a fortress.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours.”
“Stay healthy, Jack. The mind that figured out how to kill those patients is capable of anything.”
Robinson’s urgent demand to get Doug’s body would require more than a phone call to Billy Little; a request that big had to be face-to-face. I looked at my watch; it was ten before five. Billy never left before six, so I knew I could find him. When I walked into his office, he looked at me in surprise. “So there you are. What’d you do, fall off the earth?”
“Sorry, Billy. Blu told me you called.”
I slid a piece of paper across his desk. He stared down at it. “Grayton Technical Laboratories? What’s this?”
“It’s the company Doug was hacking. I told you about them.”
Billy nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“They want Doug’s body. Not they, exactly. The lead scientist, Thomas Robinson.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “That a fact?”
“Robinson was conducting a clinical trial, and Doug was on it. He thinks he can learn something about the test from Doug’s body.”
“What kind of clinical trial?”
“Hepatitis C.”
Billy watched me a moment, then said, “You know what I’m wondering right now?”
“How it is you didn’t know Doug had hepatitis? None of us did.”
“No. I’m wondering why all of a sudden Doug Townsend has the most popular corpse in town.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean they’re late. Grayton Labs. Thomas Robinson. Whoever.”
“Late?”
“Late, as in we don’t have the body anymore. It was released yesterday.” Billy stood and walked over to a gray filing cabinet. He opened it, pulled a paper out of a folder, and handed it over to me. “Lucy Buckner, Phoenix, Arizona.”
I stared at the paper. “Doug’s cousin? She won’t even return my calls.”
“Yeah, well, she returned Ron Evans’s calls.”
“Who’s Ron Evans?”
“The guy who showed up with her notarized power of attorney to take possession of Doug Townsend’s body.” He looked at me sympathetically. “I couldn’t send it to the DA, Jack. There was nothing to send. The victimology report closed a couple of days ago, confirming the suicide. This guy Evans shows up to claim the body, and there wasn’t a legitimate reason to say no.” I stared at Billy for a second, too stunned to respond. Seamless. No body, no proof. That was why they didn’t kill me. They just needed me to be somewhere else for a while. Just long enough to take care of Doug’s body, and close the deal. “We go back, Jack,” Billy said. “So why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here? This guy Townsend. What was his real story?”
I was tired, more tired than I could ever remember. “It’s okay, Billy. There’s nothing you or anybody else can do, now.”
“Don’t be a hero, Jack. If you’re getting into something over your head, I can help.”
I closed my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
There was only one piece left to put into the puzzle, and later that night I did so listlessly, only to complete the circle. I found Doug’s cousin’s number and called her. A female voice with a southern accent came across the line. “Who’s this?”
I forced myself to speak. “This is Jack Hammond. I was Doug’s lawyer. I left you a couple of messages after Doug’s death.”
She sounded irritated. “I already told Mr. Evans, they can do whatever they like with his body. Help science, or whatever.”
“What man was that?”
“I’ve been over this before. If Doug’s death is going to help science or research or whatever, then, fine, they can have him. Well, for the three thousand dollars, like we said.”
Three thousand dollars. Pocket money. “Someone offered you three thousand dollars for Doug’s body?”
“Look, if Doug was in any more trouble, I didn’t know nothing about it. I told that boy a hundred times to stay off those damn drugs.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Ms. Buckner. I’m just trying to get some information about the man who paid you for Doug’s body.”
“Well, like I told you. He just said medical schools would pay money for his body for science.”
“Did he say what school?”
“No. He said if I signed the papers and faxed them back, he would give me the money. I said that was fine by me, except I wasn’t faxin’ nothin’ until after I had the money.”
“Did you get it?”
“Money order, three thousand dollars. Went down to Western Union and picked it up. I faxed him from there, too. I ain’t got a fax.”
“Do you still have the fax number, Ms. Buckner?”
“Yep. I got it right here. It’s 404.555.1610.”
I wrote down the number. “Did he leave you any other way to get in touch with him?”
“No. Doesn’t surprise me there’s some kind of mess, though. That boy was nothing but problems, right from the beginning.”
I clicked off without saying goodbye and dialed the fax number. I got a recording for a movie theater in Cobb County. Seamless, as usual. Take over a number for a while. They’d never even know they were used. I hung up and fell back into a chair, limp. This time, it really is over.
I closed my eyes. So close I could taste it. I had missed getting justice for Doug Townsend and seven other victims by what—hours? Eight people were dead, their endings invisible and untraceable.
And so the world spins, I thought. Ralston and Stephens would make their billion. The projects would lose a few more souls, which the greater city of Atlanta, never having cared much about them in the first place, wouldn’t even need to forget.
Sometime deep in the night, I awoke, stark and alert. I stared at the ceiling a second, wondering if I had lost my mind. But I hadn’t. There was a flaw, and it had nothing to do with cells and genes and science and other impenetrable things I could barely understand. It was beautifully human, and the fact that I was still alive meant Ralston and Stephens hadn’t figured it out yet. If things stayed that way long enough, I had the bastards.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, I climbed into the Buick. It was limping after the high-speed chase; the alignment had suffered, and the transmission—God knows how long it had been since the fluid had been changed—was showing signs of trauma. But it held together, and I pulled into the Atlanta morgue about an hour later. It was Saturday, but since crime never rests, neither does the facility. The morgue is conveniently attached to the police pathology lab, with which it shares an entrance.
I don’t like crime labs. They remind me of hospitals, and the crime pathology lab of the Atlanta Police Department is as much like a hospital as I want to get. It’s spotless, smells distinctly of chemicals, and is lit with an angry, defiant light. What it doesn’t have in common with a hospital it shares with jail: it bristles with electronic security. It’s located in south Atlanta, in an industrial park, far from police headquarters. There is no identifying sign on the building, and because the loading dock is in the back, I doubt that many of the other tenants in the park even know its purpose. It is kept clandestine for very good reasons: first, because the value of the immaculately pure testing materials inside it is immense, and second, because a great deal of highly sensitive evidence is stored there. Upon arrival, cameras record your every move. Before you can leave the reception area, you’re issued a temporary ID, which must be worn at all times. I showed my driver’s license, signed in, and told the secretary I wanted to see Dr. Raimi Hrawani, the pathologist in charge of the lab. As Doug’s lawyer, I had a right to his file. I looked up at the cameras, and felt like praying.
After a few minutes, a woman in a white smock came through the large double doors opposite my chair. She was in her mid-thirties, olive-skinned, with brown hair cut short, pulled behind her ears. I’d never met her, but I had seen her name on several cases. Hrawani had a stellar reputation, and had given testimony on several high-profile murders. “Hello, Mr. Hammond,” she said in an East Indian accent. “I understand you want to talk about Doug Townsend. I don’t have a lot of time. We had some unpleasantness in south Atlanta last night, so we’re heavily booked.”
“Detective Little says his body was released.”
“That’s right. All the papers were filled out correctly.”
“When was this?”
“About four-thirty yesterday afternoon.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
She shook her head. “We were basically just a holding place.”
“So there are no tissues or blood samples?”
“A Valtox test was administered on the scene, but the test consumes the sample. I believe a photograph was taken, however.”
“Can I see the photograph?”
She handed me a plastic badge. “Clip this on your shirt and follow me.”
“To where the dead people are?”
“That’s right.” I followed Hrawani through heavy metal doors into the secure part of the Altanta P.D. crime lab. The tone is industrial, a place for work and nothing else. There isn’t a single image in the place to soften the view. The lab is built in a square, with a large, open work area in the center, with four autopsy tables. The tables are perforated, stainless steel, and they shine spotless in the harsh hospital light. Surrounding the tables are some medieval-looking tools, including saws, drills, and pliers. This central work area is ringed by offices along the sides. I followed Hrawani into her office, a square, spartan space with gunmetal-gray metal filing cabinets, metal desk, and a padded chair on wheels. There was a faded picture of a man and a woman arm in arm, in front of an ornate, colorful building. She noticed me looking and said, “My parents, forty years ago. Before I was born.”
“Where was the picture taken?”
“Pakistan. Islamabad. They say it was beautiful then.”
She motioned for me to take a seat, and she did the same. She pulled out a large manila folder. “So. Do you use drugs, Mr. Hammond?”
“No.”
“If you ever feel like starting, just give me a call. I can provide a marvelous bit of perspective.”
“Hell on the body?”
“If people saw it from my point of view, they’d do nothing but eat Grape-Nuts.” She took a seat, motioning for me to do the same. Then she reached under her desk, grabbed a metal trash can, and kicked it over beside me. It was lined with a plastic bag. “Just in case,” she said.
“I’ll be fine.”
She shrugged. “It’s usually the men who lose it.” She reached into the folder and pulled out two photographs, spreading them across her desk. I spent the next several seconds swallowing back bile, trying to acclimate to the stark, relentless images of a naked, merciless death. Doug was lying on a metal table, his shirt off, his body obviously lifeless.
“Your client was somewhat emaciated, which is fairly normal with extended drug use. They get appetite suppression and can’t keep weight on. You see the sunken cheekbones, the dark, hollow eyes? There are the discolored burn marks on the fingertips. Although your friend was more careful than most.” She looked at me. “But there aren’t any track marks, so it’s also clear he wasn’t an IV drug abuser.”
“Doug told me several times he was terrified of needles.”
Hrawani flipped over another picture which showed a close-up of Doug’s left shoulder. I stared, disbelieving: the words Pikovaya Dama were tattooed in the same style of lettering I had seen on Michele, although the image was less exquisitely made. The letters on Michele’s thigh were delicate, obviously made by an artist. Doug’s had a crudeness of execution, lacking finesse. But there was no doubt about it. He had a copy of her tattoo cut into his skin.
“So the hepatitis was from the tattoo,” I whispered.
“It certainly could be. Do you know what the writing means?” Hrawani asked.
“It’s Russian,” I said. “‘The Queen of Spades.’”
Hrawani raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, your client overcame his needle phobia.”
Ralston’s words came back to me: I have no doubt that for five minutes with my wife he would have cut off one of his own fingers. “He had a powerful motivation.”