Expose

by Danielle Girard

  Content with the day’s work, he headed to the airport for the flight home.

  45

  Schwartzman sat beside Malcolm Wei’s bed and studied the monitor that showed his heart rate and pulse. How could she be so damn calm? Hal had been too antsy, too amped up to sit. He’d been down to the ER registration desk twice to get the information on who had brought Malcolm Wei to the hospital, but they were swamped with a four-car pileup on the 101 South and told him he’d have to wait.

  Hal paced the small space, circling along the curtain that separated Wei’s bed from the next one. The cramped quarters stunk of iodine and plastic and disinfectant, smells he hated.

  Every few steps, he glanced down at Wei, his eyes closed, the oxygen cannula in his nose. Without the monitor confirming his pulse, Hal would have thought him dead.

  The monitor beeped, and Hal halted.

  “It’s checking blood pressure,” Schwartzman said. It was the fourth or fifth—sixth?—time that had happened. “His vitals look good.”

  Hal shoved the curtain aside and stared down the corridor. Where the hell was the doctor? A group of nurses glared his way as if expecting him to pitch a fit.

  Another fit. He’d had one after the first hour. Every time he asked a question, they told him he’d have to wait for the doctor. Nothing in the room indicated how long Malcolm Wei had been there. Or how he’d gotten there.

  He slammed the curtain closed again. Or imagined he had—it was hard to slam a curtain. He returned to the bedside and stared down at Malcolm Wei. He wore a hospital gown. His pants and shirt and shoes—the same ones he’d been wearing in the elevator when Tabitha Wilson had followed him across the lobby of the Century Hotel and into the elevator—sat in a small storage locker beside a sink.

  Where were the rest of Malcolm Wei’s belongings? He’d been staying in that room at the Century Hotel. Hal had seen footage of him coming and going up until the time the cameras stopped working. Then all his belongings were gone.

  Hal had requested the hotel’s security team go through the camera footage for evidence that Malcolm Wei had left the hotel. They had come up empty—not a single shot of someone taking him out of the hotel. And he hadn’t walked out, not with as much blood as he’d lost.

  Along with him, his things had vanished, too. The man who had left with Tabitha Wilson—the man who had put her in his trunk—hadn’t been carrying anything else. Wei’s suitcase, clothes, and briefcase had to be hidden in the hotel somewhere. Hal had texted Roger about sending the team back next week.

  Next week.

  It was only Friday, but there were no available resources until Monday. Three days away. Hal could go over to the hotel himself, but did he really expect to find anything? If Wei’s stuff had been hidden in the hotel, someone would have found it. Unless the killer was someone staying in the hotel longer term.

  Where did that leave him? Was he supposed to get a list of hotel guests and do background checks, one by one? He’d already overwhelmed the Records Department with a request for background checks on each of the male conference attendees. That request in itself was like asking them to crawl into a black hole. What kind of information was relevant? Were they to check for people who had been charged with violent crimes? Or those who’d had other brushes with the law? Had his killer graduated from a drunk-and-disorderly charge to murder? Or a DUI? And what about financial troubles, like bankruptcy or liens?

  Every single person had a story. Most had something unsavory, or at least unfavorable, in their pasts. In two thousand of those, he had to find the one who might be a killer.

  But it was too much ground to cover and way too much to cover on a holiday weekend, when the department was minimally staffed. Over twelve hundred of the attendees were men, and another seventy-five had names that made it impossible to tell whether they were male or female until some reporting was done. Hal had read through the reports on the first 270. He’d be lucky if he got all the background reports back before Christmas.

  In the meantime, Tabitha Wilson was out there. Somewhere.

  Hal moved to burst back through the curtain again when a tall black woman entered the small space. She wore a white coat and a stethoscope around her neck.

  “I’m Dr. Dennison.”

  Hal reached out a hand. “Inspector Hal Harris. This is my colleague, Dr. Schwartzman.”

  Schwartzman rose from the chair and shook hands with the doctor.

  “I apologize for the wait,” Dennison said. “We’re very short staffed because of the holiday, and we’ve had a number of critical situations come in.”

  Hal didn’t tell her he’d witnessed the chaos at the registration desk firsthand.

  Dennison rounded the bed and took hold of Wei’s wrist, pressing her fingertips along his pulse. Then she set down the metal file and listened to his chest with her stethoscope. Looping the device back around her neck, she retrieved the file and made a couple of notes. “He’s doing well,” she said.

  “When will he wake up?”

  Dennison gave Hal a patient smile. “I wish I could tell you, Inspector. He was showing signs of an infection when he arrived. Whoever was caring for him did a decent job stitching him up, but it’s likely they weren’t working under the most sanitary conditions.”

  “What do you mean, whoever was caring for him?” Hal asked, looking around.

  Dennison referred to her notes, holding her finger on a spot on the page. “He’s been here since early Wednesday morning.”

  “He was stabbed on Thursday—last Thursday,” Schwartzman said.

  “That makes sense,” Dennison said. “When I examined him on his arrival, the wound showed significant healing.”

  “Wait,” Hal said. “If he was stabbed last Thursday, where has he been for the last week?”

  Dennison shook her head. “I can’t answer that.”

  “How did he get here?”

  “According to the file, Mr. Doe was brought in by EMTs in response to a nine-one-one call.”

  “His name is Malcolm Wei.”

  “He came in without identification,” the doctor explained. “When a patient arrives without ID, his chart will say John Doe until we can verify his identity with some sort of government-issued ID. I apologize that we didn’t contact the police sooner. The nurse leader located the police bulletin with his image this morning, which is why we called. I’m afraid the notice got buried under some other papers with the holiday.”

  Hal was still trying to make sense of the gap between the stabbing and Wei showing up at the hospital. “If someone closed him up elsewhere, why bring him here?”

  “Whoever treated the wound likely didn’t have the right medications to fight the infection.”

  “But they knew enough to stitch him up without botching it?”

  “Yes. I suspect he was cared for by a physician, maybe someone trained in the medical corps.”

  Hal withdrew his notebook and made a note to look for medical training in the background checks. “Has he had any visitors?”

  “No. I checked in with the nursing staff when the officer was posted at the door.”

  Hal looked up, surprised she had an answer so quickly.

  “It’s usually the first thing the police ask me when they post an officer on a patient’s room.”

  “How about phone calls? Anyone checked on him?” Hal asked.

  Dennison gave him a half smile. “That’s a little tougher. We don’t have a record of phone calls, although we don’t give out patient information without knowing whom we are speaking to.” Her voice trailed off.

  “But?” Hal prompted.

  “Occasionally, information is unwittingly disclosed,” Dennison said.

  It was lawyer talk, but he got the gist. She didn’t know if someone had called to check in on Wei.

  “I need the information on the ambulance that brought him in,” Hal said. “We’ll need to find out where he was picked up.”

  The doctor hesitated.

 
“It’s urgent.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I’ll see if I can find out for you.”

  As they were leaving, Hal studied Malcolm Wei’s face. He looked dead. Hal checked the monitor to confirm he wasn’t.

  “I will make certain you are called as soon as he is alert and able to talk,” the doctor told him.

  Hal glanced at Schwartzman, who nodded.

  Together, the three went to the nurses’ station, where the doctor got one of the nurses to stop what she was doing long enough to retrieve the vehicle number of the ambulance that had delivered Malcolm Wei to the hospital on Wednesday. Back at the car, Schwartzman drove while Hal called Dispatch with the information to get the address where the ambulance had retrieved Wei.

  “We got the call at 4:35 a.m. Location was 862 California Street.”

  “862 California,” Hal repeated. “That’s—”

  “The Century Hotel,” Schwartzman said from beside him.

  Hal ended the call, then called the department.

  “Dispatch. This is Tammy.” Hal didn’t know Tammy, but she sounded like she was in high school. Lately, everyone had started sounding like that to him.

  “Tammy, it’s Hal Harris from Homicide. I need to pull a nine-one-one call that came in at approximately four thirty a.m. this past Wednesday morning. Request was for an ambulance at 862 California Street. Can you email me the recording?”

  “Sure, Inspector Harris. We’re short an officer this afternoon, but we’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Hal rubbed his head and turned to Schwartzman, touching her leg.

  She gave him a soft smile.

  “You tired?” he asked her.

  “A little, but I’m okay. Why?”

  “I was hoping to make one more stop.”

  “Where?”

  “The Century Hotel.”

  “I don’t mind stopping, but what are you looking for?” she asked.

  “I want to watch the video of the ambulance pickup.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Then we’ll go home, I promise,” he said.

  “Home?” she repeated, her face flushing despite the cool air.

  Hal laughed. “Or wherever you want to go.”

  “Home is good,” she said, checking over her left shoulder before making the turn toward the Century Hotel.

  46

  The smell of bleach still hung in the air as Schwartzman and Hal descended the stairs to the basement of the Century Hotel. She stood back as Hal knocked on the door to the security room. The man who answered looked at them strangely, but Hal showed his badge and explained what he needed. After a call to the hotel’s manager, the security officer let them into the small, dark room and called a tech to join them.

  She stood against the wall to give the two men space as the tech pulled the camera footage for Wednesday morning, and Hal settled into a chair in front of a blank monitor. As he worked, the security tech explained how three separate cameras covered the front of the hotel. He spoke almost as though he were talking to himself.

  One at a time, the tech played all three. None showed any sign of Malcolm Wei between the hours of four a.m. and six a.m.

  Hal rubbed his head. “Can we try anything after midnight?”

  Still nothing.

  “Sorry,” the tech said.

  Hal’s jaw muscle worked under the skin. When he glanced up at Schwartzman, she recognized the intensity in his expression. He was not prepared to give up. “What about the back entrance?” he asked.

  “You mean receiving?”

  Hal nodded.

  The tech sighed, catching himself as Hal glared, and sat back at his desk. He typed a series of commands on his keyboard. Several moments later, another camera angle showed on the monitor in front of Hal.

  “Let’s start at midnight on Tuesday night.”

  A few seconds later, they were watching the footage in fast-forward. At about four a.m. by the time stamp in the corner of the screen, a large truck backed into the receiving driveway. A driver in a white button-down climbed down from the cab and opened up the back to unload two dollies of boxes.

  “That your guy?” the tech asked.

  “No,” Hal said, an edge in his voice. “He needed an ambulance, so he probably won’t be walking.”

  The tech shrugged.

  The truck pulled away at 4:20 a.m. Ten minutes later, a broad-shouldered man opened the door beside the tall receiving dock. A moment later, he pushed a wheelchair through the door, halting on the small platform at the top of the stairs.

  Schwartzman gasped.

  In the chair was Malcolm Wei. They were coming out of the same door where Tabitha Wilson and her abductor had exited the Thursday before.

  “There,” Hal said. “Slow it down.”

  The tech hit two buttons, tap, tap. The film slowed, and the man rounded the wheelchair.

  “Stop on him.”

  The screen froze. Schwartzman moved in behind Hal, studying the broad-shouldered man. He was Caucasian, tall—six two or three—with curly, dark hair.

  Most definitely not the same man who had left the hotel with Tabitha Wilson.

  “Go ahead and play it in slow motion,” Hal directed, his gaze focused the monitor.

  The video ran again, and at a snail’s pace, the man lifted Malcolm Wei out of the wheelchair and carried him down the short flight of stairs to the street level. Then he laid Malcolm Wei out on a bench by the curb.

  The man then retreated to the doorway, partially hidden by the doorjamb, waiting.

  “What’s he doing?” the tech asked.

  Hal said nothing.

  The video didn’t have an audio track, but it was clear from the way the man’s head lifted that he’d heard something. Several seconds later, an ambulance pulled to the curb in front of the bench where Malcolm Wei lay.

  The man watched, hidden inside the doorway, as two EMTs loaded Wei into the back of the ambulance. As soon as the second ambulance door shut, the man vanished back into the building. The door fell closed.

  Hal jabbed his finger at the screen. “I need to know who that man is.”

  “He was wearing a hotel uniform, so he must work here,” the tech said. “I’ll send his photo over to HR. They’ll be able to tell you.”

  Hal drew a business card and handed it to the tech. “I need that information as fast as is humanly possible. Someone’s life depends on it.”

  The tech took the card, staring down at it with a sort of awe. “You understand?” Hal asked.

  “I’ll do it now,” he said.

  Hal clapped him on the shoulder, and the tech swayed from the impact. “Thanks.”

  Hal’s mood was markedly improved as he drove them back toward Schwartzman’s house. He had changed the radio station to classic rock and was drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. Seeing him more relaxed made her savor the memory of their night together. Their jobs were always at the front of their lives. Finding those quiet moments would not always be easy.

  “I never asked what you thought of George Ramseyer,” Hal said, breaking the silence.

  She reflected on the professor, wondering what had made Hal think of him.

  “He’s got a little of that absentminded thing going,” Hal said.

  “With the keys,” she agreed.

  “So maybe he really did rent his house to someone he found on a bulletin board and never did a background check on the guy.”

  She thought of the house, of the art and photographs on the walls. The photographs had included a series of images of people, close-ups of faces. The photographer had been skilled, and wherever the images had been taken, the poverty and desperation were evident. One image stood out—a group of young boys, their faces dirty, standing in front of an industrial building, its concrete stained and pitted.

  From her view at the doorway, the relics had been harder to judge. They included bits of
porcelain and tapestry that must have been hundreds of years old, gorgeous in their intricacy and designs. “There were so many beautiful relics. Did you see them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d be curious to meet Mrs. Ramseyer,” Schwartzman said.

  “Because even if he was absentminded, Mrs. Ramseyer would want to be more selective about who was living in their home?”

  “Right,” she agreed. “It’s hard to believe that Tabitha Wilson and Aleena Laughlin had some traumatic experience in that house.”

  Hal looked at her. “Except maybe it wasn’t that house.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The dungeon they described in their interviews doesn’t match the basement at Ramseyer’s. I’ve seen pictures of his basement.”

  “So maybe he drugged them and took them somewhere else?” Moving two bodies in the middle of a party seemed a risky enterprise. She tried to picture the yard around the house. “Was there another building?”

  Hal shook his head. “Not on Ramseyer’s property.”

  Schwartzman lifted the copy of the assault file sitting at her feet. “Maybe it was an upstairs room that he made seem like a basement.”

  “Maybe.”

  It was far-fetched. She flipped open the file and searched for the victims’ descriptions of the place where they were held.

  “Whatever happened in 2004, something recent brought Tabitha Wilson back out,” Hal said.

  “Another chance to put her rapist behind bars for what he’d done?”

  “That was my first thought,” Hal agreed. “But the statute of limitations on a rape charge was ten years. It’s way past that.”

  “Maybe there was another victim? Something more recent?”

  “Maybe, but then where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Schwartzman conceded. She scanned the words the women used in their descriptions of their prison. Smells of wet cement and rust. The dankness. How utterly black it was. The details made her shiver. It certainly sounded like a basement.

  “And why Malik Washington? What did he have to do with any of this?” Hal went on.

  She closed the file and returned it to the floor. She didn’t have an answer to that either. “And Parveen Yasmin.”