by Brenda Novak
Chapter 47
Cruz, Slater, and Dr. Wilson gathered around the autopsied body of Dickey Hinchey, where it had been pulled from its drawer in the morgue. The former parolee looked more peaceful than he ever had in life. Cleaned up and the incision sewn closed, he seemed almost normal.
Cruz didn’t have time to fill Slater in before Patch began the particular details of the two post-mortems he’d done. After they viewed Dickey’s body, the medical examiner pulled out the drawer containing the Hightower girl’s body.
“I don’t get it,” Cruz said, stepping closer. “You’re saying the girl’s organs were removed, but Dickey’s weren’t? Why?”
Dr. Wilson shrugged elegantly.
Slater wore a puzzled look.
“Should we talk to Flood?” Cruz asked.
“Hell, no. Let the little weasel squirm.” Slater flashed a small grin, then quickly sobered as he turned to the medical examiner. “Have you sent the autopsy reports to Detective Flood yet?”
When Wilson shook his head, Slater asked, “Can you do me a favor and hold up for a few hours until we can figure this out?”
Wilson answered calmly, “As you wish.” He paused, touching the girl’s long hair. “It’s a bit of a puzzle, these two murders. The blows indicate different kinds of weapons caused the blunt force trauma – one was hard and wide like a baseball bat, the other narrow and heavier. A different size of blade also was used on the two victims.” He paused, looking perplexed. “And, of course, the victims themselves vary greatly as to age, gender, and general health.”
“And there’s the missing – or not missing – organs,” Slater added.
Both men followed the coroner into his office where he handed them a copy of the pathology report. “Mr. Hinchey’s liver was riddled from years of alcohol abuse,” Wilson informed them. “He wouldn’t have lived much longer on the street. His heart and lungs were compromised.”
“And the girl?” Slater asked.
“I can’t be sure, but her age alone suggests healthy organs were removed. Everything remaining was in excellent condition.”
“And Hinchey’s organs wouldn’t be worth pennies,” Cruz said.
“You think the organs were harvested to sell?” Wilson asked.
“It crossed my mind,” Cruz said, thinking of the inmates’ missing body parts. “But if someone is harvesting organs, why go after homeless people? Most of them have abused their bodies from years of living on the street. Many have Hep C or HIV.”
“Sac County’s dead body was a homeless woman, too,” Slater reminded him.
Cruz didn’t want to challenge another county’s medical examiner, but he had to ask. “How thorough do you think Sac County was with her autopsy?”
Slater’s craggy face had a fierce look. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
“That county is much more overworked than Bigler County is,” Wilson offered. “A too-casual autopsy wouldn’t surprise me.”
“If the homeless woman in Sacramento had her organs removed, too, it’s – ”
“Right,” Slater interrupted, “going to be a shitload of a mess.”
After Cruz and Slater finished at the morgue, Cruz turned to Slater. “There’s more,” he said, not quite knowing how to explain Frankie Jones’ role in all this. “A doctor at Pelican Bay contacted me, looking for a paroled inmate. She was nosing around in inmate medical records through a routine health exam and was attacked at the prison.”
They’d reached their cars in the hospital parking lot by the time Cruz had told Slater about the assault on Frankie at the prison parking lot, about Cole and the sudden attack on both of them at the Rosedale house.
“Mary, Mother of God!” Slater said. “How? Why?”
During the post-mortem discussion, Cruz had considered another puzzle piece. “There’s more,” he began just as Slater’s phone rang.
“Urgent, I have to take this,” Slater said as he slipped into his truck. “Tell me the rest at this – this prison doctor’s house. Right now we need to keep your two people out of harm’s way. Text me the address and I’ll send a deputy there.”
Yeah, Cruz thought as Slater sped away. But will that be enough?
Cruz swung by the Jesus Saves shelter before returning to check up on Frankie and Cole. The building was locked up tight, no lights, no one inside. A dozen or so homeless men and woman stood smoking and leaning against one of the buildings. A pile of backpacks and two bicycles lay on the sidewalk.
When Cruz spied Sergei Petrovich from the corner of his eye, he approached him. “Where’s Angie?”
Sergei’s small eyes darted one way, then the other. “She’s missing.”
Cruz hovered over Sergei like a mountain. “What the hell do you mean she’s missing?”
The Russian man shrunk back. “I dunno, man. She’s gone.” He pointed toward the closed door of Jesus Saves. “She don’t show up today.”
“That’s not like Angie,” Cruz remarked, looking around the white picket fence of the Jesus Saves yard. He narrowed his eyes and fixed them firmly on the Russian. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
Sergei shrugged in a very east European manner, but his eyes slid away from Cruz. “Nobody know.”
“When did you see her last? Maybe she took a vacation day,” Cruz suggested.
“No, man, this place her life. She no show, she in trouble.” Again, his eyes didn’t quite meet Cruz’s. He started to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of a woman Cruz had never seen before.
“Thas Sharon Fasser,” Sergei mumbled. “She muss be here to work for Angie.”
Chapter 48
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the killer realized he’d been thinking subconsciously about Angie Hunt for a long time. Been waiting for the right opportunity. He drew in a deep, shuttering breath, calmed his excitement, tried to tamp down the adrenaline rush from having snatched her right outside the Jesus Saves building.
He’d made peace with it all now.
He freely admitted to himself that the death of the man in Ryder Park had been an impulse. A rage without thought in the moment. It could jam him up royally. He couldn’t afford to give in to that kind of sloppiness again.
This time he’d planned, taken his time, and chosen carefully.
Bitch Angie Hunt, street skank supreme, acted like she was somebody important. Running the worthless shelter, overseeing the funds that rolled in from wealthy saps who believed her sob stories about street bums and their tough lives.
He would take his time with her. It wouldn’t be quick or easy.
The old homeless man had been a spontaneous act, an accident that’d ended in a risky situation, but this time he’d figured out all the details in advance. He knew where to take her, how long he’d keep her, and where he’d dump her when he was finished. A careful plan.
His groin tightened in anticipation as he drove south on I-80 to Highway 50, then east on what used to be State Route 16 to Sutter Creek. He’d found the old abandoned gold mine there months ago. It was hidden well off the beaten track and virtually unknown.
He checked his watch. A little more than an hour. He heard the thump of the body in the trunk of the car and grew harder, his pulses thrumming with arousal.
One hand on the wheel, he unzipped himself and reached into his pants with the other hand.
When consciousness returned, Angie Hunt became aware of the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt and the rocky bump of a dirt road. She was curled on her side in a small space – the truck of a car?
The steady sound of the engine stopped abruptly, and her body was handled roughly as someone dragged her along uneven ground, feet first. Rocks jabbed her back, and brush tore at her clothes. She wanted to protect her head, but when she tried to lift her arms, they were uncooperative lumps of lifeless flesh.
A cold wind whipped through her coat. Her body hurt like she’d been somebody’s punching bag. Her fingers were numb and her head throbbed.
He must’ve clobbered her hard, she thought, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She squinted at the dim night sky, and suddenly was hauled roughly into a place darker and less windy.
To think her life would end like this – after the hard road she’d walked – seared her chest with a pain more real than the one in her head. Even as despair overwhelmed her, she shook herself like a wet dog.
Angie Hunt was a fighter. She’d survived six years living on the street, drug addiction, and cancer. She’d eaten out of dumpsters and sold her body for smack. She’d begged on street corners and woken to find rats gnawing on her fingers.
She’d gotten through those bad years, and she wasn’t going to let some crazy-ass mofo take her down. She only weighed 115 pounds, but she was wiry and tough, and suddenly had a profound desire to live.
She was a survivor, she chanted silently. A damn survivor.
She passed out again and woke cold and wet. A dank, dimly lighted place. What the hell? He’d hauled her inside a cave? A single lantern lighted the interior and cast spooky shadows on the walls, horrible demon-like images.
Weak and dazed, Angie struggled to sit up, looking helplessly around. He was gone now, but she knew he’d be back. Tears made dusty trails down her cheeks and her nose dribbled snot. Crazy-ass mofo had dumped her on a tattered blanket and left her to die!
For a moment indignity overcame terror. Then a wave of despair swept through her. How could little Angie Hunt from Madison, Arkansas, fight against the white establishment of Rosedale, California?
Yeah, he was gone now, but she knew he’d return. And soon.
What chance did she have to survive?
By midday, her patient recovering nicely, Frankie Jones returned to the living room and curled up in the worn, comfortable chair she’d done homework in as a child. She felt the sweet drowsiness of memory and her father’s presence wrap her in a blanket of security.
She wouldn’t sleep she told herself, even though she’d had no rest for over twenty-four hours. Just a brief respite. Just a minute or two of closing her eyes. Checking her eyelids for cracks, her father used to say. She smiled as her mind wandered lazily and she relaxed her tired body.
Cole Hansen had mentioned prison talk about something illegal – illegal music. Musical instruments, like a keyboard or piano. An organ. She pictured the giant instrument, the tall various-sized pipes, the pedals, the double keyboards, the ... the organ. She felt herself go limp, her body succumbing to much-needed rest.
Music. Organ.
Organs.
Cole simply hadn’t understood how the overheard chatter fit with Anson Stark and his terrible, threatening plan of harvesting inmates’ organs.
Chapter 49
Sharon Fasser was a frazzled-looking white woman, bleached blonde and a little on the plump side, hurried through the gate to unlock the door to the lobby. “Sorry, guys, sorry.” She panted heavily and pushed her way inside, moving directly to Angie’s office and dumping her things on the desk.
Cruz followed her. “Where’s Angie?”
The blonde looked harried, but guarded. “Who are you?”
“Parole officer.” Cruz indicated the badge at his waist and repeated the question. “Where’s Angie?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. She didn’t show up, I got a call from one of the people, here I am. I never know anything,” she complained. “She’s a recovering addict. You know how it goes.”
“You file a missing person’s report?”
“Get serious. You think the cops care if someone like Angie goes missing a few hours?” She shrugged. “She’ll turn up.”
Cruz’s large body framed the doorway. “You don’t like her much.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Not really, but what’s that got to do with anything? She’s left me with a load of work. That’s what I’m worried about right now.” Turning away, she ignored him and shuffled through the paperwork on the desk.
Irritated, Cruz wandered outside, asked a few questions, but no one knew anything about where Angie had gone. The last person to see her was an older veteran, grizzled and boozy with vodka. “She close up late, man, ‘bout a couple hours after dark. Thass all I know.”
Cruz jumped in his jeep and drove to the Rosedale Police Department. What the hell happened to Angie? This disappearing act was not like the woman who’d dedicated the last ten years to rescuing down and outers.
A bad premonition washed over him. Sergei was right. Angie’s disappearing was a sign of trouble. Shit, would it end up being another murder?
At police headquarters Cruz examined the bored look on Officer Jeff Rawley’s face as he riffled idly through a stack of reports. Pretending he was busy while he manned the reception desk. How had a man who looked like an anorexic, balding version of a sumo wrestler made it through the Police Academy?
Across the room in the detective division, Andrew Flood glanced over at them with his usual smirk. “Ease up on Rawley, man. You know the drill, twenty-four hours at least before we can file a missing person’s report.”
“Yeah,” Rawley echoed. “It’s not like some twelve-year-old disappeared. We got better things to do, even if you don’t.”
“Angie Hunt is a responsible woman,” Cruz answered patiently. “She cares for her charges. She wouldn’t bail on them without a good reason.”
Flood shrugged. “Tell it to someone who cares.” He rose from his desk, shoved past Cruz, giving him a little bump on the way to the coffee machine.
“You know what,” Cruz said, “Rosedale PD is full of lazy bastards like you two.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rawley retorted, hands fluttering nervously over the items on his desk.
If Cruz said “boo,” the man might jump, but the parole officer decided to let it go. Finding Angie was more important. Protecting Frankie and Cole was more important. The murders were more important.
Cruz appealed to Detective Flood. Like Rawley, Flood had a lousy attitude toward the homeless population in Rosedale, and he didn’t hide it, which was one of the reasons he’d only risen to detective, second grade. When he saw Cruz walk toward him, he snarled, “Back off, Santiago. I got enough on my plate with these homicides.”
Cruz stared him down, noting the sweat that broke out on the detective’s forehead, the tight shoulders, the anxious eyes. Maybe the cases were getting to him. Leads were dwindling to nothing, and Flood acted like he’d given up.
Or didn’t care, more likely. He was a hard-ass, who basically despised the entire homeless community. He should never have headed the case.
Cruz stood close, eyeing him pugnaciously.
Flood edged backward, tried to act nonchalant. “So Angie Hunt’s got herself into trouble.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It was just a matter of time. She’s an ex-junkie, works all day with those losers, and makes my job harder than it should be.”
“How’s that?” Cruz followed Flood back to his desk. When the detective sat down with his coffee, Cruz perched on the edge without invitation.
“You don’t want to irritate me, San-tee-AG-o,” Flood warned, sipping his coffee.
Cruz leaned forward, up in Flood’s business. “Oh, yeah, why’s that?”
Flood cleared his throat, had to look up to Cruz. “Angie’s a bleeding heart do-gooder. Always on the side of ex-cons, even when they break the law – hell, especially if they break the law.”
“No one’s breaking the law right now, and Angie Hunt’s missing.” Cruz towered over Flood. “Angie could be another victim like Dickey Hinchey and Valerie Hightower.”
Flood sneered. “So now you’re a detective, is that it? Why don’t you get the hell out of my office and leave the investigation to me?”
“You just man up and do your job, Flood.” Cruz gave him an icy glare and walked away, flinging the last words over his shoulder. “Or someone will have to do it for you.”
“Oh, yeah, sez who?” Flood muttered, but not loud eno
ugh for the big man to hear.
Chapter 50
Frankie awoke from a light sleep and checked on Cole. In spite of her crude surgical techniques he was holding his own. So this is what medical practice was like a hundred years ago, she thought. Clean, cut, and wait.
He was still running a low-grade fever, possibly indicative of an beginning infection, but now rested quietly on her bed upstairs, looking much better since his wash-up. Luckily, she had plenty of pain killers on hand, along with her surgical kit supplies.
Frankie was fond of the ex-con, but knew when this ordeal was over with, she’d have to burn the sheets and bed coverings he lay on. The blood, the stains, the infected areas – she didn’t want any reminders when this ended.
If they all survived when it was over.
Frankie swept the kitchen, ate a hearty lunch. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she returned to the huge leather chair that had belonged to her long-dead grandfather. She pulled her grandmother’s quilt tight around her.
Too wired, she knew she wouldn’t sleep again. The locked and loaded pistol that’d belonged to her father lay on her lap beneath the quilt.
Frankie had no intention of letting someone take her unaware again.
She jumped when the cell phone buzzed on the end table. She picked it up quickly.
“It’s Cruz,” he said before she could speak. “How is everything?”
She updated him on Cole’s condition. “When he – when Cole recovers, what are we going to do with him?”
That wasn’t the most important point, she knew, but the words had erupted from her mouth as though her brain had no control over her lips and tongue.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that,” Cruz answered. “Right now we have to consider safety.” He hesitated, thinking. “When do you think it’ll be okay to move him?”
“A few days probably, but he’ll still need nursing care.”
“Right.” A long pause filled the space like the calm before a storm.