Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant

by Lee Goldberg

"We know him!" Cloris shrieked, raising a hand to her mouth and looking wide-eyed at Jerry. "Oh, my God, we know him!"

  "Why don't you go make us some iced tea," Jerry said. "I'll take care of this."

  "Iced tea?" She said. "Since when do we drink iced tea? I want to hear this."

  "Cloris, please." Jerry said firmly.

  She glared at Jerry and stomped off. As soon as she was gone, Jerry turned to Mark.

  "We don't know him, per se. He's a client of ours," Jerry said. "We made some postcards for his restaurant. Souvenirs with pictures and recipes on them. That's where our relationship with him begins and ends."

  "It's definitely ended," Mark said. "He's dead."

  "Dead?" Jerry said, glancing at Begay, who's stone face revealed nothing.

  "Murdered, actually," Mark said. "The killer fed him to sharks."

  "Sharks?" Jerry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the color draining from his face. "That's horrible."

  "Worse than you can imagine," Mark said. "I saw what was left of him. He looked like a half-eaten sandwich."

  "I still don't see what this has to do with me," Jerry said. "I hardly knew the guy. We just made some postcards for him, that's all."

  "I wish it was," Mark said glumly. "One of the other kidnappers, Diane Love, was just murdered. And you know what she had in her kitchen?"

  Mark took out a Royal Hawaiian recipe card from his pocket and held it up.

  "One of these," he said.

  "She must have visited the restaurant," Jerry said. "And took home one of the recipe cards as a souvenir or a way to keep his phone number handy."

  "That would certainly explain it," Mark said. "But unfortunately, the name of your company is at the bottom of the card."

  "Of course it is," Jerry said. "Because we made it. When ever our clients let us, we put our name and address on our work so it doubles as advertising for us."

  "That makes good business sense," Mark said. "Except the killer isn't going to see it that way."

  "Why not?" Jerry said.

  "Because you also did the brochure for Dr. Morris Plume's plastic surgery clinic," Mark said. "And your company name and address are on that brochure, too."

  "So?" Jerry said.

  "Dr. Plume gave the four kidnappers their new faces,"

  Mark said. "And a couple days ago, someone broke into his office and stole all his files."

  "I'm completely lost here," Jerry said. "We make a lot of brochures for a lot of doctors. Maybe this Danny Royal got the idea to hire us from our work on the brochure."

  "I'm sure that's probably what happened," Mark said. "But I'm afraid the killer isn't going to believe the connection is so benign."

  "Why not?" Jerry said. "It's the logical explanation."

  "Because the name of your company is an anagram," Mark said.

  "What's that?" Jerry said.

  "A word or phrase made by transposing the letters of another word or phrase," Begay said.

  Mark smiled at Begay. "Exactly."

  "I still don't see the problem," Begay said.

  "Roswell Imaging is an anagram for William Gregson," Mark said. "One of the kidnappers."

  "Murderers," Begay corrected.

  "Right," Mark said. "Kidnapper and murderer. Now do you see the situation?"

  "No," Jerry said, swallowing hard.

  "The hit man is going to think you're William Gregson," Mark said. "And he's going to kill you."

  "It's a coincidence," Jerry protested. "That's all."

  "It appears you're a victim of your own advertising." Mark said. "Of course, there's also the other coincidence."

  "What other coincidence?" Jerry said, his voice becoming a bit shrill.

  "You moved to New Mexico and started your company a short time after the Standiford kidnapping," Mark said. "That isn't going to look so good to the hit man. Fact is, you add it all up, I could even be convinced you're William Gregson."

  "Me, too," Begay said.

  "This is a terrible mistake." Jerry sat down slowly on a stool and took off his cap. He looked longingly at the small town in front of him, as if he wished he could shrink and disappear into it.

  "At least you're still alive," Mark said. "We'd like to keep you that way."

  Jerry looked up. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Protective custody," Mark said. "We can put you under round-the-clock protection right here, or in one of the city's nicest hotels, until we can catch this guy."

  Jerry sat for a long moment, thinking. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "I don't believe I need protection."

  "You would if you'd seen the parts of Danny Royal that the shark spit out," Mark said.

  "Thankfully, there are no sharks in Corrales," Jerry said, standing up again, regaining some of his composure. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't think I'm in any danger. No offense, but I doubt anyone would see these events the way you have. It's a mishmash of coincidence and conjecture that's predicated on a huge contrivance and a complete disregard of common sense."

  Begay glanced at Mark. "Aren't you glad he preceded all that with 'no offense' first?"

  "The hit man is going to scrutinize your finances, pick apart your past, and look into every aspect of your life," Mark said.

  "Then I'm even more confident that I'm safe, because then he will certainly discover his mistake," Jerry said, put ting on his cap again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't get much time to play with my trains."

  Jerry turned his back to the two men and started up his train again, filling the room with the whistles and chug chug-chugging of the locomotive on its tiny tracks.

  Mark and Begay saw themselves out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "He didn't confess," Begay said as they walked to their cars.

  "Not overtly," Mark said.

  "Not at all," Begay replied.

  "All we have to do now is wait for him to run."

  "We?"

  "I can't watch him alone," Mark said. "His house opens up on a forest. It's going to take half a dozen men to do this right."

  "I can't help you on that," Begay said, stopping at his car.

  "I thought you owed my son a favor," Mark said.

  "I did," Begay said. "And I've just repaid it. I can't justify the manpower or the hours necessary to watch this man.

  "You don't believe he's William Gregson?"

  Begay shrugged. "Whoever he is, I think he's right about your evidence. There isn't enough there, certainly not enough to convince my captain it's worth paying the over time to watch this guy."

  "You know he's lying," Mark said.

  Begay nodded. "I'll check him out, work the phones a bit, maybe come up with something more convincing than an anagram."

  Mark sighed. "Someone has to try to watch him. I'll park myself here as long as I can."

  "Think what you'll save on hotels," Begay said, glancing at his watch. "I'll ask for a patrol car to cruise by every hour or two. There's a shopping center up the street. I'll stay here while you get whatever you think you're gonna need."

  "Thanks," Mark said and went back to his car.

  Mark parked his car around the corner from Jerry's house and angled his rearview and side-view mirrors so he could recline comfortably in his seat and keep a constant watch on any comings or goings.

  There weren't any.

  He wasn't trained in surveillance nor did he have much experience doing it, so he didn't have any clever tricks for getting past the crushing boredom. Worse than that was the heat. He didn't dare keep the motor running so he could use the air conditioner, for fear of drawing attention to himself. So instead he rolled down the windows and toughed it out, his back sticking to the hot leather seat.

  Mark kept himself hydrated with bottled water and munched on fresh fruit, raisins, and unsalted nuts. True to his word, Begay did send by a patrol car, the officers acknowledging Mark with a nod as they passed each hour. Between Mark and the patrol cars, it didn't amount to much surveil
lance or protection, but at least Jerry Bodie/William Gregson couldn't just hop in his car and speed off without being noticed. Still, Mark was keenly aware of the inadequacy of the effort, and the opportunities and dangers posed by the irrigation ditch and the forest behind the house.

  He used the time in the car to study the recipe card, trying to figure out where in it Jason Brennan was hiding. The key to finding the fugitive was there somewhere, just as it had been for Stuart Appleby, Diane Love, and William Gregson. But as hard as Mark tried, he just didn't see it.

  Shortly after nightfall, when the temperature finally dropped below three figures and Mark was reasonably comfortable for the first time, his cell phone trilled.

  "Mark Sloan," he answered.

  "Bart Feldman here," said the tired voice on the other end of the line. "I went up to Keystone, got the book, and ran the prints. It must not be a very popular title."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Not that many unique prints on it," Feldman said.

  "Were you able to match any of them?"

  "We got yours, we got the bookseller's, and the guy you were talking to," Feldman said. "I got his picture here, and he's definitely the same guy in the Hawaii shots you sent me."

  Mark felt his pulse quicken. "Who is he?"

  "Raymond Wyatt," Feldman said. "Did some time in the military, mostly overseas doing covert wetwork for Special Forces. When he got out, he joined the Baltimore PD and rose up to the Major Crimes Unit, Special Investigations Division."

  "He's a cop?" Mark asked incredulously.

  "Used to be," Feldman said. "He quit about eight years ago, right after a big case he'd put together against some pedophile fell apart. The bad guy walked, and so did Wyatt."

  "Where is Wyatt now?"

  "Nobody knows," Feldman said. "Wyatt disappeared. Here's an interesting tidbit, though. The pedophile got himself killed a few months later. Fell asleep in his recliner, smoking a cigarette. His whole house burned down."

  Feldman had more to say: that Wyatt was a decorated soldier but had been disciplined at the Baltimore PD for violating the civil rights of suspects and for using excessive force, though no formal charges were ever filed against him. He described Wyatt as an expert in hand-to-hand combat, firearms, electronic surveillance, interrogation, and undercover work.

  There were more details, which Mark eventually wanted to hear, but he already knew what was important. He was beginning to get a sense of the man and, perhaps, the ethical code that drove him.

  * * *

  It was a great life, and Jerry Bodie hated to leave it behind, but it was better than having his ass fed to sharks.

  Maybe in his next life he'd try being an actor, because he'd given an Oscar-caliber performance for the doctor and the Indian cop. When the doctor said Stuart and Diane were dead, it was all he could do not to start shaking. But he'd done it. He'd taken command of himself and overcome, as he would now.

  He was lying naked in bed beside Cloris, listening to her breathing, waiting to be absolutely sure the sleeping pills he'd ground into her dinner had taken hold. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up in middle of his escape. He'd miss her and her limber young body, though not as much as he'd miss his horses and his miniature trains.

  Jerry got up and quickly got dressed. He didn't bother packing anything; the only essentials he needed were the overseas bank account numbers in his head, the false passports in his pockets, and the $50,000 in the money belt around his waist.

  He'd sneak into the stable, hitch up one of the horses, and ride out the back into the Bosque, following it into the city unnoticed. In an hour or two, he'd leave his horse grazing in somebody's field, walk to a street, and phone a cab from a convenience store. Then he'd take a bus over the border, and then figure out where to go from there while enjoying a margarita and a nice rib eye steak.

  By the time the cops or Standiford's hired gun showed up, he'd be long gone, starting his third life somewhere really different. France maybe. Or Australia.

  In a way, it was kind of exciting. A year from now, he'd be living somewhere else with a new life, a new name, and new face. It was like a gift. How many people ever got the opportunity to start over, as if they'd never existed, and to do it without going broke first?

  He was getting too fat and comfortable as Jerry Bodie, anyway. It was time to move on. He chose to look at this as a much-needed and welcome wake-up call. He'd let his guard down and nearly paid the ultimate price for it.

  Jerry peered out the back door. It was pitch black outside, darker even than the night Roger Standiford went into the desert with his bags full of money. He took a deep breath and smiled. The air felt charged with excitement and possibility, just as it had five years ago.

  He crept to the stable and slipped inside. The two horses, Enterprise and Voyager, stirred gently in their stalls. Jerry took a step toward Enterprise and was suddenly pulled backward, a muscular arm tight across his throat, a big hand clamped on his jaw, someone's warm breath in his ear.

  "Roger Standiford sends his regards," a voice whispered.

  Jerry whimpered pleadingly. "It was an accident."

  "This isn't," Wyatt said and neatly broke Jerry's neck. He released his hold and let the body drop to the hay-strewn floor.

  Wyatt stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts, formulating his plan.

  He knew Mark Sloan was just a few yards away, sitting in his rental car. It would be so easy to kill him, if Wyatt was that sort of man. But he wasn't, and killing the doctor wouldn't do much good now, anyway. The damage was done.

  Wyatt had been high up in the trees, watching the house and Mark with infrared binoculars, when he intercepted the cell phone call from Agent Feldman. Wyatt was astonished to learn how sloppy he'd been in Hawaii, and how stupid and careless in Colorado, and how quickly it had cost him his anonymity. Now he'd have to go to ground the way his prey did, maybe even resort to plastic surgery himself.

  He'd always known his life as Raymond Wyatt was over, but he'd never reconciled himself to the possibility that he'd become as hunted as the men he pursued. He certainly never thought he'd be unmasked by an amateur like Dr. Mark Sloan.

  Wyatt realized now that he'd let his huge advantage over the doctor lull him into dangerous complacency. His ego had emerged and he'd indulged it. It was ego that compelled him to talk with the doctor in Keystone, to step out of the safety of the shadows. He never should have given in to that temptation. It had cost him dearly.

  Now that he'd identified his own critical weakness, his inflated ego, he'd examine it and adjust his future behavior accordingly. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. If anything, the revelation of his own incompetence would become a psychological asset. He would remind himself of his failures every day. That should keep his ego in check.

  But there was no time for regrets, only action, now. He had to erase any possible clues he'd left behind, and let Jason Brennan know, wherever he was, that his days of freedom, of simply breathing, would soon be over.

  The first thing Mark noticed were the horses trotting out of the stable into the ring. He sat up in his seat and saw tongues of fire licking out of the stable doors.

  Mark immediately started the ignition, shifted the car into reverse and, looking over his shoulder, floored the gas pedal. The car shot backward across the street, peeling rubber, and smashed through the white picket fence that surrounded Jerry Bodie's property. He shifted the car into drive and sped right up to the stable, which was already engulfed in flames.

  He jumped out of the car. The back door of the stable was open and he could see a body on the floor, in the calm center of the firestorm. It was Jerry Bodie.

  Mark took a deep breath, bent over, and dashed into the stable, which had become a swirling tunnel of fire. The air was heavy with the intense heat. It was like running through superheated Jell-O. He grabbed Jerry under the arms and dragged him out, but it was obvious to Mark that he was rescuing a corpse. Jerry's neck hung too loose
ly from his shoulders, his eyes open and unseeing, his face a death mask forever capturing his last seconds of terror.

  He dragged Bodie's body to the car, a safe distance from the inferno, then grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.

  Mark reported the fire and the murder to the operator, then realized, as he saw the flames lapping against the house, he hadn't seen Cloris leave. She was still inside. He tossed the cell phone into the car and ran into the house.

  "Cloris!" he yelled as soon as he entered, but there was no response. Already smoke was beginning to fill the house and he could see the fire against the windows.

  He hurried up the stairs to the master bedroom. Cloris was naked, sleeping deeply, in the large bed. Mark nudged her hard, shouting her name, but she barely stirred. So he yanked off her sheets, sat her upright, and shook her.

  "Wake up," he shouted.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and then widened in surprise when she saw Mark staring her in the face.

  Mark yanked her to her feet. "The house is on fire—you have to get out of here."

  She looked back to the bed for Jerry.

  "He's gone," Mark wrapped a bathrobe loosely around her and steered the dazed woman out of the room.

  Once she was in the smoke-filled hallway and saw the fire lashing against the windows, her head instantly cleared. Cloris charged past Mark and ran screaming out of the house ahead of him. She flung open the front door and bolted into the night, her untied bathrobe flaring out behind her like wings.

  Mark emerged from the house a few moments later, coughing hard, just as the fire trucks, paramedics, and police cars came screaming up the street, sirens wailing.

  The blazing stable collapsed into an enormous campfire, smoke and embers spiraling up into the night sky in a thick plume. The next instant fire spit out of the top-floor windows of the house. By morning, William Gregson's existence on the earth would be cleansed by fire.

  Mark glanced at Cloris, hunched sobbing over the body of her dead lover, then he shifted his gaze beyond the fire to the darkness of the Bosque. The dense forest was cold and implacable, like the man it hid.

  Wyatt was in there somewhere, watching. Mark could feel it.