Coffin Dodgers

by Gary Marshall

  "It's never the right time," Dave says. "You've always got some reason why right now isn't a good time. You're going to end up in a home somewhere, your teeth in a glass, a hundred years old, telling me that you don't want to move too fast."

  "It's complicated."

  "It's only complicated because you make it complicated," he says. "You like her. She likes you. What's complicated about that?"

  I just stare. Dave isn't usually this direct.

  "For God's sake, Matt. For a smart guy you're really thick sometimes."

  We drink a few more beers and talk about other things, but the night never really recovers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It's 6.53am and somebody is buzzing my apartment. I stumble out of the bedroom, stubbing my toe on a rogue shoe, and mumble into the intercom. Amy's face fills the screen.

  "It's me. I need to talk to you."

  If Amy hasn't won the lottery, invented a cure for cancer, found the Holy Grail in the glovebox of the Dentmobile or decided to rip off her clothes and ravish me, we're going to have words.

  Amy is barely through the front door before she's talking, her eyes like saucers and her arms waving. "I know what they're doing!"

  I zombie-walk to the coffee machine and pour two mugs. I drain mine and refill it before taking the mugs over to Amy. She's sitting on the very edge of the sofa, looking very much like a coiled spring.

  "Matt, I know what they're doing. I know why they're killing people."

  "Couldn't this have waited a few hours?"

  Amy ignores me. "It's about organs. It's the only explanation that makes sense."

  "It's about what?"

  "Organs. They're doing it for organs. Think about it."

  "Think? Think o'clock is later. Right now, I should be in bed."

  "Seriously, Matt. All that stuff about needing two people, the way the pairs were all the same gender, the same race, the same age, it all makes sense. If they just have one, it might not work. The second one's a backup."

  "Backup?"

  "In case there's a problem with the first one -- they might not get to them in time, or the organs they need are damaged, or there's some kind of rejection. Something like that."

  "Someone tried to kill me because they want my kidneys?"

  "No, not exactly."

  "You just said it was all about organs."

  "Yeah, I think it is. But I don't think the people who want whatever bits are doing the dirty work themselves. I think this is a business. Somebody's taking orders."

  "Great. I'm a takeaway."

  "Pretty much. The conversation you heard, they talked about getting names from somebody called Sansom. I think whoever he is, he's helping them find the donors. But somebody else is finding the clients and arranging the accidents, and they're doing it for a lot of money."

  "Sleazy Bob?"

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  "Wouldn't he be better off skimming the casino? That'd be a lot easier."

  "That would bring in, what? A few thousand? That's pocket money compared to this. Remember the fuss a couple of years ago when they made organ donations opt-out rather than opt-in?"

  I shake my head.

  "Really? It was all over the news."

  "Nope."

  "You're useless."

  "So what was all the fuss about?"

  "Too many patients, not enough donors. The way it used to work, as I'm sure you know --" Amy arches an eyebrow -- "is that hospitals wouldn't be able to use people's organs if they weren't registered donors. Problem was, hardly anybody registered. So they changed it."

  "To opt-out?"

  "Yeah. If you're on your last legs and you haven't registered to say that you don't want to be a donor, they're slicing and dicing before you're even cold."

  "You've lost me. If they've changed the rules, why do you think that's what Sleazy Bob's doing?"

  "Changing the rules wouldn't make that much difference. As long as you've got more old people than young people you're going to have loads of people needing organs and not getting them. If I'm right, and I'm sure I am -- I know I am -- then finding a way around that is going to involve serious, serious money. The sort of money that makes IVF look cheap."

  Amy's up and pacing around. "You've seen the money the IVF guys make," she says. I have. Of all the casino customers, they're the ones with the most cash. Insufferable arses the lot of them, of course, but without them my tips would be a lot lighter. "This is the same, times a hundred. Desperate old people with loads of money chasing something only a few young people can provide, so the price goes into orbit. The difference is, with IVF people will sell what they've got, because they'll still be around to spend the money. You can't really do that with a heart, or a liver, or stuff like that. So anyone who can provide those things can name their price."

  Amy's in full flight now. "You're old, and you're rich, and you're dying because some important bit or other has worn out. Meanwhile, somebody's walking around with just the thing you need. What are you going to do? Do you hang around, praying and crossing your fingers, hoping that the right person has a really nasty accident before it's too late and that it's your number the hospital calls? Or do you use some of your money to speed things up?"

  "It's like a website. Pay extra for guaranteed delivery by whenever."

  "Yep," Amy says. "Pretty much the same thing, but instead of 1-Click it's 1-Kill."

  By the fourth cup of coffee the caffeine is finally working its magic. For the next ten minutes I try to find a flaw in Amy's argument, but she's ahead of me every time. If there's another explanation, neither of us can even imagine what it might be.

  "Okay," I say. "We know why it's happening. What we don't know is who's doing it. We know Sleazy Bob's involved, and we know somebody called Sansom is giving them names. But there are at least two other people, the ones Dave and I overheard at the golf course."

  "Can you remember anything else about them? An accent, maybe? Anything that'd help us work out who they are?"

  "No, I don't think so. But one of them was definitely the brains, the one in charge, because the other two seemed to be intimidated by him. The other guy sounded like he was muscle, or maybe the guy who organises the muscle. Maybe the bug will help us work out who they are."

  "Maybe. But I don't think we should just sit on our hands and wait either. We need to try and find out who Sansom is."

  "Dave's on it. I'll ask him when I see him tonight."

  We talk some more, but we're both tired and we're both working tonight. Amy leaves and I go back to bed, but I'm too full of coffee to sleep.

  "I wish Amy had come up with this a few days ago. It would have saved me a lot of hassle." Dave looks tired, but compared to me he's bright eyed and bushy tailed. We're sitting in the security office, drinking coffee.

  "There are five Sansoms in the customer files," Dave says. Customer files are massive. To become a member you need to provide all kinds of information, and if you want to run a tab you need to provide even more. The casino knows things about people that even their nearest and dearest don't know.

  "Five?" I ask. "I didn't think Sansom was a common name."

  "It is round here. But I think of the five, there's only one we really need to think about. Andrew Sansom. File says he's a hospital administrator."

  "Which hospital?"

  "Mercy."

  Mercy Hospital is on the edge of town, and it's the place everybody goes to. When I was a kid I was there all the time. Sprained ankles, broken arms, foreign objects stuck in nostrils, the usual kid stuff. And more recently, Mercy was where I ended up after the car crash.

  "If you need somebody to find possible donors, you can't do much better than a hospital administrator," Dave says.

  "Sansom's going through people's medical records to find matches."

  "If Amy's right, then I think so."

  "Isn't that a pretty good job, though?"

  "Yep. Why?"

  "I'm trying to work out why he'd be
involved. If he's just finding names, he's not going to be getting an equal share of any money, is he? The guys we overheard didn't make him sound like an equal partner, so the money he's getting can't be that much." I drain my coffee. "Why would he risk losing a good job?"

  "I think I can answer that one," Dave says. He slides his notepad towards me and flicks it into life. "Have a look at this."

  It's a statement with some serious numbers on it. Andrew Sansom owes the casino money. A lot of money. Think your credit card bill is scary? Double it, then triple it, then add a couple of zeroes to the end.

  I'm halfway through my shift before Amy comes over, but there are too many customers for us to talk. We arrange to meet at my place after the shift ends. I'm so tired I'll probably fall asleep mid-sentence, but I know it's not a conversation that can wait until morning.

  I wasn't sure how Amy would react to Dave's discovery. Outraged, maybe, or furious at the thought of Sansom merrily signing people's death warrants. I didn't expect delighted.

  "This is brilliant." Amy beams at us. "Absolutely brilliant."

  "Amy, we've hardly cracked the case," I say.

  "I know that," Amy says, not letting me tarnish her mood. "But we've got something important. It's like a loose thread. If we yank it hard enough, the whole thing's going to unravel."

  "Amy, did you just compare a whole bunch of murders to an old jumper?"

  "You know what I mean. When you had your crash, we thought there was something weird going on -- but we didn't have a clue what was happening, or any idea of what we should be looking for. Now, we know exactly what's going on and we know how people are being targeted. That's big. That's really big."

  Amy's enthusiasm doesn't seem to be rubbing off on Dave. "It's not enough to take to Burke, though, is it?"

  "No. Not yet. We need to know who Sleazy Bob's involved with. That's why the bug's so important. Did you manage to get it into his office yet?"

  "Not today. He wasn't in, and nobody knows his entry code." The security guys have the entry codes to every bit of the casino, including the money rooms, but not Sleazy Bob's office. You might think that's a sign that he's a pompous arse. I couldn't possibly comment.

  "Dave, you never said -- how are you going to do it anyway?" I ask.

  "I've been giving that a lot of thought. I've considered every angle, given it a full risk assessment, explored every option, run a few ideas up the flagpole --"

  "Dave," Amy says.

  "And I've decided I'm going to walk into his office and stick it on his desk."

  Amy and I are in unison. "You're what?"

  "I'm going to walk in and stick it on his desk. Well, under his desk."

  "You're kidding," I say.

  "It's either that or dress as a leprechaun and try to persuade him he's hallucinating," Dave smirks. "I don't think that one's really got much chance of working, to be honest."

  Amy's face is serious. "You're just going to walk in?"

  "Yep."

  "And you really think that'll work?"

  "Yep," Dave says. "What could possibly go wrong?"

  As plans go, Dave's one is risky, stupid and potentially dangerous. So naturally it goes without a hitch. As he explains it the following afternoon: mid-shift, security gets a call from Sleazy Bob demanding some files. Dave offers to take them up, which makes the other guys happy; like all sentient beings, they can't stand Bob and would rather not spend any time in his company if they can possibly avoid it.

  So Dave grabs the files, heads for the office, turns on the bug and knocks on the door. Once he's in he deliberately puts the files too close to the edge of Bob's desk. The files fall to the floor, Bob swears, Dave ducks down and sticks the bug to the underside of the desk. He retrieves the files, puts them down properly, and that's that.

  For once, Dave doesn't appear to be exaggerating when he tells me the story. It's just as well that the casino's cameras can't detect smugness, though, or Dave would be well and truly busted.

  Amy seems to be in a good mood, despite being at work.

  "If one more ancient --"

  "Arrogant --"

  "Obese --"

  "Corpulent --"

  "Corpulent? Get you, dictionary boy!"

  "Anyone we know?"

  "Not this time. Some random."

  Amy checks that no customers are within earshot.

  "Did he do it?"

  "Yep. Halfway through his shift."

  "And he didn't get caught?"

  "Amazingly, no."

  Amy grins. "Excellent. Let's tune in tonight."

  We meet up at the end of the shift and, as ever, decide to go to my place. Dave makes a half-hearted suggestion that we should go back to his, but I tell him that I'd done a beer run that morning. Which is true, but it isn't the reason we don't want to go to Dave's. My apartment is a mess, but it's nowhere near as bad as Dave's. Nothing is.

  It's weird, because Dave isn't a dirty guy. His uniform's always immaculate, his shoes are always sparkling. And yet his apartment has mysterious things under chairs and dust bunnies the size of Alsatians. You know those movies where there's a nuclear holocaust and people live in the ruins? If you're ever making one, don't bother building sets. You can film the whole thing inside Dave's apartment, although you'd probably need to tidy it up a bit first. You don't even need to bring your own monsters. Give it a few weeks and the contents of Dave's fridge will have evolved into something more terrifying than any special effects lab could ever come up with.

  I'm on the sofa, laptop open and Dave and Amy sitting on either side of me. We're crammed close together so we can all see the screen, and I'm very conscious of Amy's leg touching mine. Dave's leg is touching my other leg, but it isn't having quite the same distracting effect.

  "Okay Dave," I say, trying to keep my mind on what we're supposed to be doing. "How do we get into it?"

  "There's a program that comes with it. I've installed it already, so it should just be a matter of opening it."

  "That one?" I'm no computer whiz, but even I can guess that the program with an icon of an insect is probably the one for the bug.

  "Yep. Open that."

  A login screen appears. "Enter user name and password, it says."

  "The username is 'sneaky1'," Dave says. "Lowercase, all one word, the number one at the end."

  "Okay. Password."

  "Daveisgreat."

  Amy and I give Dave a look. "It's what?"

  "Daveisgreat. All one word," Dave says. He's blushing.

  I'm tempted to tease him about it, but I want to know if this thing's actually working. After a few seconds, a folder appears containing a few dozen icons. Each one has a date and time and then a number.

  A thought strikes me. "If we can access the bug from here, doesn't that mean the IT guys can find it too?"

  "I doubt it," Dave says. He's stopped blushing. "We give wireless to everybody who stays in the casino, and it's in all the public areas except the gaming floors. Even on a quiet day that means dozens of computers, phones and other things are popping in and out. On a busy day it's hundreds. Nobody's going to notice one more thing. And even if they do, if they don't have the right software they won't be able to get into it. It could be a toaster for all they'll be able to tell."

  "Where did you put the receiver?" Amy asks.

  "Store cupboard on the same floor as Sleazy Bob's office. Nobody goes in there apart from the cleaning staff, and it's on a high shelf. Nobody'll notice it. Even if they do, it just looks like a box. It doesn't have any lights on it or anything."

  Amy turns to me. "Dave is great, isn't he?"

  "He is, Amy. Dave is great."

  Dave's grin is halfway across his face before he realises we're taking the mickey.

  "This is going to be a very big deal, and I want every single thing to be perfect. Better than perfect. I mean it. If you screw this up I swear, I'll have your balls."

  Hello, Sleazy Bob.

  He's on the phone, and while we
can't hear the other side of the conversation Bob's voice is crystal clear. As the clip plays we hear Sleazy Bob in full effect, making dire threats and the odd promise to people who couldn't care less if he lives or dies. This call seems to be to an interior design firm. We've got a big charity dinner taking place in a few weeks, and Bob's talking about decorating one of the function suites.

  "And remember, I want it classy."

  That makes us laugh. Bob wouldn't know classy if it fell on him and crushed his head.

  The rest of the conversation is about money -- prices, discounts, deposits and so on -- so we click on the next file. Bob wanting to know when his dry cleaning will be picked up. Click. Yelling at one of the cashiers. Click. Yelling at housekeeping. Click. Yelling at security. Click. Listening to a teacher spanking a naughty student.

  Wait. What?

  It takes ten seconds or so before we realise what's happening. The bug isn't just picking up speech. We can hear movement too.

  "Oh, good God," Amy says.

  "He can't be." Dave says.

  "I think he is," I say.

  He is.

  I don't know what's worse: Sleazy Bob watching porn in his office, or us listening to Sleazy Bob watching porn.

  Amy has her fingers in her ears and her eyes screwed tight. "La la la la la la la," she chants. "La la la la la laaaaaaa."

  We stop the clip. If Sleazy Bob confesses to the whole plot halfway through, names his co-conspirators and explains exactly where to find the smoking gun we need to convince the police, we've missed it. It's a risk we're all happy to take.

  "I am going to pour bleach into my ears," Dave says. "And then, I'm going to pour some more. And after that, I'm going to join the Foreign Legion."

  The rest of the clips can wait until tomorrow.

  The next two nights are a waste of time. There's plenty of audio, but unless you're desperate to know more about Sleazy Bob's tastes in pornography, nothing of any interest happens.