ColdScheme

by Edita Petrick

  I wasn’t aware that I had spoken my thoughts out loud and only when two voices asked, “What?” did I wake up.

  I leaned into the padded cushions and flashed across ten years, to land on my feet, in front of my Criminal Law professor, as a lawyer. With eloquence and clarity that immobilized my companions, I stated my case.

  “They’re at the stage of the operation where they have to move the action from Baltimore to somewhere else. They’re winding down their business. This is their finale,” I finished.

  “Where would they be moving?” Ken asked haltingly.

  I was about to answer when Field said, “To Washington. They’ve tagged whoever they had identified as the key targets in economics and finance—now they’re going into politics. They’re looking for control.”

  Chapter Ten

  I stood beside the photocopier, looking down on another field of shredded red poppies. I felt I should kneel. It wasn’t just horror at seeing literally into the core of a human being. It was more like being struck with a realization how fragile and helpless human beings were.

  The predatory component of these murders weighed me down. The killer struck silently, long-distance and with no personal involvement. Even a snake, a cold-blooded creature, would strike with more feeling than whoever was behind these executions. It was not just contempt for life. It was the mockery of its vulnerability. To him, death was commonplace. He took a lump of clay, molded a figurine and stuck a bomb into it. When it served his purpose, he shattered it.

  I imagined him as someone who walked across a sheet of glass, leaving a trail of dust. He liked his path smooth. He never looked back, as most of us would, when troubled by conscience.

  It couldn’t be a doctor.

  I couldn’t see anyone dedicated to preserving human life leading an existence on such parallel levels. Doctors were “touching” people. Their hands were bleached clean, their faces marred by memories of complications and difficulties left elsewhere in the hospital. They brought their patients’ charts with them to lunchrooms. They were driven by compassion inherent in their vocation. They wore two coats—a lab coat and their duty. Neither was sufficient to protect them from the pain and suffering they encountered every minute on the job.

  “Joe,” I said quietly. He was finished but still knelt beside the victim, head bowed. He looked lost in thought. I knew there was more to it. Joe liked to do his thinking after he walked away. This time he didn’t move.

  “Same as the other two?” I decided to forget protocol.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe it’s time to take it to the next level. Our administrative officers should go talk to the Hopkins’ directors, convince them to implement emergency measures and stringent guidelines.”

  “Yeah. They’re going to do it, no matter how much Quigley hates the idea. It’s too late for him.” He slashed a hand across the body.

  “Joe, what if it’s not a doctor?”

  He gave a blast of hollow laughter. “I’ll take you over to Hopkins, Meg. I’ll give you one of the implantable defibrillators and watch you shoot it through the blood vessels, okay? There’s no need for open-chest surgery. You just install it through a blood vessel, make sure the patches are on the heart…would you like to try that?” He finished with another grind of cynical laughter.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. It was just an idea.”

  “There’s no need for me to be so nasty. I’m tired.” He lifted his head. “Come on down.” He waved me to his level. “Take a look at this.”

  The victim wore a long-sleeved polo shirt. He had fallen across the photocopier as if trying to embrace it, arms spread wide. I had already looked at the batholithic piece of office equipment. It was an IBM. It bore images on its outer non-skid surface that would have shocked a service rep. The toxic substance was quick and powerful. The victim didn’t leave an imprint of his internal organs in the plastic material but a few horizontal smears were shaped like fragments of bone—a rib cage.

  The photographer’s flash sizzled behind me. I moved to the side. The man took two more shots then began to work with a digital camera so the crime scene shots could be input into the computer. It was part of the forensic protocol but in this case I didn’t see what we’d gain by computer-modeling the crime scene, changing scenarios. The killer was never on the crime scene. He probably wasn’t even in the building because his killing tool was remote-activated. I wondered if any of those pictures would find a way into the medical textbooks—to frighten students.

  Joe pulled up the meshed cotton fabric to reveal the victim’s arm. His gloved fingers traced an irregular checkerboard pattern. It started at the wrist and ran up the forearm. It probably extended all the way to the shoulder. I saw alternating patches, of lighter and darker skin, connected by puckered, brownish seams.

  “Are those skin grafts?” I murmured.

  “Extensive,” he confirmed. “It was done over a period of several years.”

  “It’s not recent?”

  “No. It could have been done when he was a child or a teenager. The scar tissue’s smoothed out. You don’t get that kind of regeneration in an adult.”

  “Is it good work?”

  “I’d say it’s pretty decent, without knowing the extent of damage and how serious the injuries were.”

  “Burns?”

  “Fire or acid. It was probably fire if it happened in childhood—or a car accident when he was a teenager. Was he a Baltimore native?”

  I looked up to see where Ken and Field were. I saw them talking to Sven and a guy in a uniform. He had to be the security guard. I snapped my fingers to attract their attention.

  Field came over. I asked him Joe’s questions.

  His notebook was in his head. “He was born in San Francisco and came to Baltimore with his family at age five. His father is an accountant with the Solingen Chartered outfit. The victim went to the University of Maryland. He got a job with the bank right out of school and had just finished his Master’s degree in computer science last year, as a part-time student.”

  I looked at Joe to see what he was thinking. His shoulders were hunched. His hands rested inert in his lap as he knelt.

  “Those grafts had to be done in Baltimore,” he said. “When we get his medical records, it would be worthwhile to track down whoever did it—and where.”

  “The doctor connection,” I sighed, growing even more uncomfortable with this premise. No doctor, who had spent hours each day trying to heal physical tissue and prod a gossamer spirit into continuing its difficult life’s journey, would do this.

  “It’s got to be, Meg,” Joe growled with frustration. “I can’t think of anyone who’d be this good.”

  “Good, Joe?” I echoed, rising. “I would have said deadly.”

  * * * * *

  Ken and Field had finished talking to Kim’s colleagues and the security guard. I listened to Ken’s clipped speech while my mind edited impatiently.

  Felix Kim worked all evening in the open concept office down the hall, diligently and normally, as had everyone else. They were serious workers, not prone to socializing. He’d needed to make copies of his work, to distribute among his peers. He left his computer station calmly, unaware that he was leaving for good. His prolonged absence was not questioned. Taking a washroom break, or going to get a snack from one of the vending machines in the cafeteria while on a business errand, was normal. The guard found him as a result of his punctuality. At nine forty-five, his route took him to the fifth floor, in the hallway, where the copier stood. He was well trained. The sight of a body draped over the copy machine activated his first-aid training. The blood momentarily confused him. Then he blocked it out and administered CPR. He called 9-1-1 while still trying to resuscitate the victim. The instructions given over the phone were useless but the guard returned to administer further aid. There was no one around. The office was way down the hall.

  “That device must have a range of several blocks,” Field said.

  I th
ought it could be city wide. Hell, country wide.

  “How would they have set it off?” I wondered. Since the device came filled with the seeds of its own destruction, we had nothing that would give a clue about its operation, range or activation.

  “It must be a frequency signal,” Field replied.

  “So the device would have to be a receiver.” I looked at his hand. He held a cell phone. He followed my look and his lips curved.

  “It could be as simple as calling a number from a phone,” he nodded.

  Joe stopped by on his way out. The paramedics had lifted the black bag onto the stretcher. Since there was only staff around, no supervisors, I told the guard that he could notify the cleaning crew.

  Joe’s shoulders sagged under the burden of his job. I had more questions.

  He spoke tiredly, eyes downcast. “Technology is rapidly changing. The Federal Communications Commission is making new frequencies available all the time. I’ve read that the newer cellular phones using these frequencies might make pacemakers unreliable. Phone companies are studying these possibilities but we’re not dealing with a regular pacemaker here. It’s a device, based on the same premise but it’s far too sophisticated to malfunction. It’s possible that a certain frequency could activate it. What the range is, I couldn’t begin to tell you. It could be a block. It could be across the state.”

  I imagined Joe, walking around his automated morgue, holding a high-tech journal in one hand and a chicken wing in the other, reading out loud between the bites. He’d probably finish reading the research article even before he finished sucking all the meat off the chicken wing. His brilliant mind would always come ahead of his stomach. I smiled, in spite of the crime scene and made a mental note to urge Joe to publish a few research papers himself to show his medical colleagues that pathologists weren’t just the “keepers of the dead”. I promised to get him the victim’s medical records as soon as we visited his family.

  I glanced at Ken, then said to Joe. “We’ll deliver them. And we’ll bring two buckets of Nando’s chicken.” I meant to cheer him up.

  He moved his head uncertainly from side to side. “I’ll be in but I’m not all that hungry these days.” He left dispirited.

  “The Chairman’s coming in,” Ken said, after Joe disappeared into the hallway shadows. “He wants us to attend a midnight session in the boardroom on the top floor.”

  Field anticipated me well. He grabbed my arm. “My impression was that he might back off. Let’s see if I’m right.”

  “My feelings haven’t changed,” I mumbled.

  “He might surprise us,” he said. “This has to make an impact. He’s not made of steel.”

  “Oh yes he is.”

  “This is work,” Field said and dragged me along.

  “Yes, yours.”

  Ken turned and waved to us, heading for the elevators. Field brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Reunions are always interesting and emotional. Don’t you think so?”

  “So are the funerals,” I growled.

  He laughed.

  * * * * *

  “I would have thought that the Baltimore Police Department had made some progress by now.” Those were the Chairman’s first words, spoken in place of a greeting. His tone of voice was well controlled and even. Then again, his words conveyed his irritation.

  The panoramic window wall had built-in filters, not just shutters. The light oak paneled walls were stained whisper green. The restful background was not enough to hide the arrogance of the furnishings.

  Police officers drank coffee in the middle of the night. I didn’t expect his three associates to do it too. The tray also contained a teapot—and a saucer with lemon wedges and honey containers. It made me wonder just how long he’d kept track of Fielding Weston—and why? He had initiated the FBI involvement. It was no coincidence as to whom the FBI had dispatched. I wondered whether Field had read anything into it and what he thought.

  Refreshments did not improve the overall mood.

  Field tersely sketched the nature of the situation—a widespread possibility of walking human bombs. He mentioned Hopkins. For a moment it looked as if the Chairman might give an order to execute all the doctors at the hospital. Such a sweeping solution would bring a swift closure to his problems and the banking robots would stop malfunctioning and continue doing productive work.

  “We’re dealing with an organization,” I said. “What’s in Baltimore may be just a chapter. The technical genius is a key figure but he’s not working alone.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “He’s a facilitator, not a banker. His role is to make sure that the money routes in our banking system remain open. He would have one or two assistants. Whatever implants have been manufactured, have been planted in targets. Baltimore is set up. He’s ready to move on.”

  “That’s the first good thing I’ve heard,” my father declared. A slight grimace crossed his face. It was like a shadow. He continued, “The team members are undergoing extensive medical checkups as we speak. I will reassure them that this was the last such incident.”

  “Murder,” I interrupted. “The team members are human beings. They need more than reassurance. They may be winding down the Baltimore operations but Tavistock banking interests are all over the country. You can’t reassure people that this incident will not occur somewhere else, at Tavistock or some other banking institution.”

  “Would you like me to tell them that the Baltimore police are incapable of doing their job?” he asked. His eyes hardened into polished crystals.

  I smiled. “You probably will, since blaming someone else makes you feel better. It’s a lot easier than agreeing to cooperate with the police and suspending work on the project, at least until we’re closer to discovering the identity of the techno-whiz behind these killings.”

  “I will not be blackmailed,” he said with a deepening frown.

  “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” I assured him, with all the sincerity of a grinning headhunter.

  “I meant whoever is behind this.”

  “Of course. They’re not blackmailing you. They’re threatening you. They’ll simply slash their way through bodies, until there’s no one left with the kind of expertise that’s needed to finish this system. I suggest you make a discreet announcement through secure channels, that you’re halting the project. Don’t say temporarily. Leave it at that.” I looked at Ken for concurrence.

  “I’m not arguing tonight,” he murmured. “You’re doing fine.”

  I glared at him and then at the FBI agent.

  “Just what I’d have suggested,” he murmured, eyes downcast.

  “Inspector.” The Chairman’s voice hardened. “How long would it take to get results that would reassure my colleagues that it’s safe to proceed with the system definition?”

  “Give us a month,” Field replied. I wondered what he had based his estimate on—other than blind faith and luck.

  “Hartill,” the Chairman said, turning to an executive standing nearby. “Contact Washington, New York, Miami and Los Angeles. Halt all work. Do not release the staff, merely reassign them to other duties. Make them understand that it’s temporary but utmost discretion is required.” He looked at me. I read him correctly.

  “For now, that’s satisfactory,” I said and smiled.

  Hartill was the one I had shocked in the hotel by asking him whether he was the hotel security. He was already on the phone, connecting to another banking stronghold.

  “I understand that you were going to appoint a liaison who would represent your interests and pass on your instructions,” Field said. He looked down the length of the table.

  “I prefer to stay close to the issue while in Baltimore.” The Chairman’s mouth twisted in a peculiar smile. “I assumed that the FBI would enjoy working with me. There’s less chance of misunderstanding, misinterpretation of directives.”

  “The FBI does,” Field nodded solemnly.

  I looked
at Ken. He hurriedly assured the Chairman that the Baltimore police were honored to work with him in such difficult circumstances.

  “To have a liaison is still a good idea,” I said. “We need details that are far removed from the top operating levels.”

  “So you think that I don’t know enough about what’s going on at my own financial institutions?” he said, challenging me. His eyes were no longer frozen in crystal.

  “You certainly didn’t know that one of the experts on that team was wired with a bomb, sir.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “He was your employee.”

  “He was your citizen,” he shot back quickly.

  “Don’t bother saying that I failed to protect, sir.”

  “Don’t bother saying that I failed to change, Officer.” He was in good form tonight.

  I laughed.

  “One moment.” He raised his hand. Hartill was trying to get his attention. Our conversation was a quick tattoo, polite and rich in what the French called “éclair sarcasm”.

  “You certainly don’t stand in danger of drowning in diplomacy,” Field whispered with heavy resignation.

  I was trying to come up with a crack when I heard Hartill’s report. Something caught my attention.

  “Blank concurs that we should halt the project but he thinks the reasons and the intimidation method should be publicized, not kept quiet. He thinks for now the project members could be reassigned to studies and issues that deal with tax havens and harmful tax practices.” Hartill shrugged apologetically, as if to show that he was only a messenger. He was still holding the phone. He had covered the mouthpiece with his hand, waiting for instructions.

  The Chairman turned to us. “What would we gain from publicizing what’s been going on?”

  “The media has already stirred the public with their detailed reports of these executions,” Field replied. “The police have been flooded with calls from anxious citizens who think they may have a bomb planted in their chests. Hopkins will be empty if such news continues. Other medical institutions may find themselves under similar scrutiny and beleaguered with demands from ex-patients, for explanations, medical exams—removal of life-saving devices.”