Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  'Sounds convincing,' I said.

  'You would think,' he said. 'But no. One kid looks at the pictures and he says, 'What did the poor bastard with the healthy lungs die from?' Damn punk kids. They've got all the answers. So what can I do for you'

  'We're looking for a John Doe.'

  'We get half a dozen a week,' he said.

  'This one would be easy to remember. He had a snake tattoo on his right arm, and he was probably the victim of a botched kidney surgery.'

  Hand smiled. 'I don't have a John Doe,' he said. 'But I definitely remember a Juan Doe. A Mexican kid. And I think it's more than botched surgery when the deceased has two fresh scars and zero kidneys.'

  'Both kidneys were removed?' Terry said. 'Are you sure?'

  'I'm pretty sure,' Hand said, i looked around in all the usual places where people keep their kidneys, then I backtracked to the loading dock to make sure none of the technicians dropped any organs along the way. Of course I'm sure, you putz. But don't take my word for it. Sit tight, while I get the file.'

  He left the room and was back in a few minutes with a folder.

  'This is the autopsy on the guy you're looking for,' he said. He opened it and flipped to a Polaroid of the dead man.

  'That's Esteban Benitez,' Terry said.

  Eli pounced. 'Are you sure?' He gave Terry a gotcha grin.

  'So the cause of death is kidney failure,' I asked.

  'It's not that simple,' Hand said. 'The decedent was a young guy, in his twenties, but the autopsy showed that he had an obvious heart problem. A leaky valve. He wouldn't have survived another six months without a heart transplant, and I seriously doubt he was a candidate. He was probably always short of breath, got tired easily, but he might not even have known how sick he was. But even with all that, it wasn't his heart that killed him. Somebody removed both kidneys. The poor kid had a bad heart, and they never even cracked open his chest.'

  'Why bother?' I said. 'Without his kidneys, wouldn't he die of renal failure?'

  'No,' Hand said. 'He still could have survived on dialysis, but once they harvested his organs, I doubt if he ever woke up from the surgery. Whoever administered the anaesthesia probably just dialled down the oxygen.'

  'Oh, I'm familiar with that medical technique,' Terry said. 'You take an unsuspecting guy with a bad heart and two healthy kidneys, you help yourself to the good parts, and you throw away the rest. It's called murder.'

  'According to the file,' Hand said, 'his body turned up in downtown LA. Two detectives from Central were handling the case. But there were no leads, so I doubt if they invested a hell of a lot of man hours in it. You ID'd the body, which is more than they could do. Do you know who cut him up?'

  'No,' I said. 'But we have a pretty good idea of who brought him to the table.'

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  There was a lot more that Terry and I needed to talk about. But not at the morgue. Not in front of Eli. We waited till we were back in the car.

  'I guess Marisol was wrong,' I said. 'Tony wasn't cheating on her.'

  'Not in the slightest,' Terry said. 'Unless one of their marriage vows was 'I promise never to harvest the vital organs of another human being,' he was being completely faithful.'

  'Tony wasn't in this alone,' I said. 'He was in charge of recruiting illegals and bringing them in for blood tests so the doc could find a match. But once you find a donor, what else do you need?'

  'Donees,' Terry said. 'People who are in desperate need of a working kidney and don't want to wait a couple of years to get one through legal channels. People who have the money to go to the front of the line.'

  'Or create their own line,' I said. 'And those kind of people don't travel in Tony Dominguez's circles. If you're looking for someone who can afford a couple of hundred thousand dollars to buy a kidney, where do you go?'

  'Craigslist?'

  'Dr Ford Jameson, psychiatrist to the Rich and Famous.'

  Terry shook his head. 'Darn, that was my second guess.'

  'The connection is right there on the video,' I said. 'Tony picked up Esteban from Raoul, a well-documented coyote. Then he delivers him to Jameson's car. And then Jameson takes him where?'

  'A back-alley operating room,' Terry said.

  'I'm betting just the opposite,' I said, if Jameson's car is picking up a donor, then odds are the recipients are Jameson's wealthy patients, or their friends or relatives. And since I doubt that any of them are back-alley types, most likely he takes them to a state-of-the-art, totally sterile operating room.'

  'Who does the surgery?'

  'Some Mexican doctor that Tony recruited to round out the team. Remember what Paco said - the doc spoke "real Espanol, not gringo Spanish.'"

  My cell phone rang. It was Anna DeRoy.

  'Hey, Mike, remember when you told me I'm one of the few people in the DA's office who has balls?'

  'I remember it as if it were yesterday.'

  'Thanks. It was yesterday, wiseass. Here's the problem,' she said. 'I may have them, but they are currently being squeezed. My boss wants these murders wrapped up, and I'll be honest with you - the case against Martin Sorensen is tight. The fact that one of the victims' husbands is inheriting money and another one was being tailed by his wife can't keep it open. Did any of those loose ends you were following lead you anywhere?'

  'Yeah, but not where we expected,' I said. 'Our hero cop looks like he's dirty, but it's got nothing to do with what you're working on.'

  'Then take it to Internal Affairs. Unless you can tell me you're going to substantially rewrite your report, I'm ready to close the case.'

  'Close it,' I said. 'We're on to the next one. We've got a victim and two principals connected to the murder. There's only one small problem.'

  'Let me guess,' Anna said. 'You don't have that damn proof thing that our system of justice is so finicky about.'

  'Proof is highly overrated,' I said. 'Did you ever think about looking the jury in the eye and saying, "Trust Detective Lomax. Would a cop lie to you?'"

  'First you'd have to convince me that cops don't lie,' she said.

  'Some of us don't, but I can't vouch for Tony Dominguez.'

  'Mike, if he really is connected to something dirty, you not only have to call IA, you need to warn the mayor's office before they embarrass themselves with a public display of affection for the guy.'

  'Thanks, Anna,' I said. 'I'll add that to my things-to-do list. Prevent mayor's office from embarrassing themselves. I'll put it right next to end global warming.'

  I hung up and turned to Terry. 'Anna's closing the case. She said if we have anything on Tony we should go to IA.'

  'It's a little late for that,' Terry said, if we tell them we investigated another cop without involving them or our boss, they'd just slap us with a Complaint 1.28. Even if IA was willing to listen, what can we say? We've got this really suspicious home movie of Tony paying for an CD with an envelope, then escorting a border jumper to a friend's car? They'd sit down and question Tony, he'd get all unglued, raise holy hell, and we'd be crucified. You're going after a hero cop who was shot in the line of duty? What the hell are you thinking? Tony would get the Medal of Valour, and we'd get a Conduct Unbecoming or a Neglect of Duty.'

  'So what do we do?' I asked.

  'Find a way to connect him to the surgery that killed Esteban,' Terry said. 'Anything less than that, and our asses are in more trouble than his.'

  We got home to Sherman Oaks by four thirty.

  'I love taking these personal days,' Terry said, it's good to get some time off from being a cop.'

  I called Wendy Burns at the office to see if we were missed.

  'Not as much as you'd like to think,' she said.

  I reminded her that we'd be out tomorrow to go to the funerals for Nora and Julia, and she reminded me that most of the squad room would be there too.

  Marilyn was in the living room, looking happier than I'd seen her in two weeks.

  'I've been getting calls from real
estate agents all day,' she said. 'People are making offers on the flip house. The latest is ninety thousand over our original asking price.'

  'I'll bet your partners would all be thrilled if any of them were still alive to hear it,' Terry said. 'But I'm sure their estates will be grateful.'

  'It's sick, isn't it?' Marilyn said. 'Last week, when Stephen Driscoll was lying dead on his bedroom floor, we got a few nibbles. Now that we have real murders happening in and around the house, we've got a feeding frenzy.'

  'Proving once again that real murders are not only stranger than fiction,' Terry said, 'they're a hell of a lot more profitable.'

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The double funeral for Nora and Julia was painful. Painfully long, painfully tedious, and painfully boring.

  Essentially, Nora controlled it all from the great beyond. Despite the fact that she had a normal life expectancy of at least another two decades, Nora apparently had begun preplanning her funeral years ago. Her casket was bronze and copper, solid as a Volvo, and probably just as expensive. Eight people gave personal eulogies, and a half dozen Hollywood celebrities read pieces assigned to them by their dear, dear friend Nora. One was a sonnet by Keats, the rest were all excerpts from Nora's bestsellers.

  It took more than two hours to give Nora the send-off she always dreamt of.

  Julia's ceremony felt like an afterthought. Charlie spoke for a few minutes, then read one of his wife's poems. His rhythm was off, and he pronounced a few of the words wrong, but thanks to Nora, at least Julia's poetry got exposed to a full house.

  Finally, Helen Ryan, the blind woman we had met at Jo's funeral, spoke briefly, thanking Nora for giving her the audio versions of every one of her novels. Then she sang 'Amazing Grace,' and once again, her powerful, soulful voice gripped the crowd.

  Six bagpipers led the procession as the coffins were carried from the church to the cortege of hearses and flower cars. Nora Bannister, the ultimate control freak, was still very much in charge.

  After the burial, friends and family gathered at Charlie's house. It was the first time we got to talk to Tony. Aside from having his arm in a sling, he seemed in good shape and good spirits.

  'I'll be back in the office tomorrow,' he said.

  'Isn't that a little soon?' I said.

  'It's very light duty. In fact, it's no duty. I got a call that Mel Berger from the mayor's office wants to come over tomorrow morning and make some kind of a little fuss about me, so what the heck? You know politicians,' he said. 'They'll turn you into a hero, and then take credit for everything you did.'

  Terry and I told him we were happy to see him back and promised to be there tomorrow when Berger made that little fuss. I'd known Tony for five years, and his slick, suave mannerisms always seemed like part of his Latin charm. Now, knowing what I knew, every polished gesture was just further proof that he was a lying sleazebag, and

  I couldn't shake the mental picture I had of him leading Esteban Benitez to Jameson's Lexus. I was trying to think of how to politely get away from him when I was rescued.

  'Detective Lomax? Detective Biggs?'

  It was Helen Ryan.

  'I hope that's you,' she said. 'You're kind of a visual blob, but I recognised your voices.'

  'It's your voice that should be recognised,' I said. 'Last week, when I heard some neighbour lady was going to sing at Jo Drabyak's service, I thought, oh, great. But today, I knew what to expect, and you didn't disappoint me.'

  'Thank you,' she said. 'I heard Marisol Dominguez was being buried in Mexico. In a way I'm glad. I sing in church, and karaoke clubs, you know...fun places. I wasn't looking forward to singing at yet another funeral.'

  'I guess you knew her pretty well,' I said. 'Your house is next door to the one they were renovating, and Marisol was on-site every day.'

  'Yes, and for me, her death was the most personal. I mean, I was a witness.' She laughed. 'Not an eyewitness, but I did hear the shooting.'

  'We call that an earwitness,' Terry said.

  'You do not, Detective,' she said.

  'Were you in the house at the time of the shooting?' I asked. 'Or outside?'

  'I'm not embarrassed to tell you that I was cowering under the kitchen table with Dalton.'

  'And who's Dalton?' I said.

  'My cat. It all happened so fast,' she said, it was a beautiful Saturday morning, and I was fixing Dalton's breakfast, when I heard the first gunshot. It wasn't very loud. Just kind of like "pop." At the time I just thought it was a kid shooting off a firecracker. But then bam, bam, bam! Well, there's no mistaking that, so I crawled under the table, and I had the open can of cat food in my hand, so Dalton crawled under there with me. I held onto her, and I said, "Pussycat, we are not standing up until it gets real quiet out there." And sure enough, two more pops. Of course, by now I figured out they weren't firecrackers. It was two different guns. One much louder than the other.'

  'Did you dial 911?' I asked.

  'Oh heavens, no. When you're blind, and you don't know which way the bullets are flying, you don't stand up to make phone calls. I stayed under that table another ten minutes till I heard the police sirens. Dalton stayed with me and just ate her breakfast straight from the can.'

  'Helen, are you sure of that?' Terry said.

  'Now, Detective Biggs, I made a mistake when I thought you and Detective Lomax were life partners, but I know when my kitty eats her turkey and giblets. Of course I'm sure.'

  'No, I meant the gunshots.'

  'Absolutely. There were six shots all together.'

  'Right,' he said. Pop, pop, pop. Then bam, bam, bam.'

  'No, no, no,' she said. 'The first one sounded like a firecracker, then came the three loud gunshots, then two more firecrackers. So it was more like pop, bam, bam, bam, pop, pop.' She laughed. 'Listen to me. I sound like a Rice Krispies commercial.'

  Terry and I thanked her, then moved outside where we could be alone.

  'I think we just got some damning testimony from a blind eyewitness,' Terry said. 'According to Tony, there were six shots fired, and all of them were accounted for, so we didn't question him. But in Tony's version the sequence was pop, pop, pop fired by Martin, then Tony draws his gun and fires bam, bam, bam.'

  'But in Helen's version, there was only one pop,' I said, 'followed by a very deadly bam, bam, bam, any one of which would have killed Sorensen. And yet, with three .45 slugs in his chest, by some miracle his little pistol managed to go pop, pop, and shoot off two more rounds.'

  'I think the words Helen sang this morning have just come true,' Terry said.

  'How's that?'

  'I was blind, but now I see.'

  It was time to reopen the case, and we knew exactly where to start.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Even before we met Ford Jameson we had heard of him. When you're shrink to the stars your name gets around. We knew from Tony that despite the fact that Jameson was supporting three ex-wives, he loved, and lived for, the finer things in life. Art, wine, travel, and a variety of candidates for Wife Number 4.

  His home was smack in the middle of 90210. It was a substantial Tudor on Rexford, off Carmelita, that Tony had told us was magnificent.

  Terry and I didn't get the tour. We rang the front doorbell, and Jameson, delighted to see us, quickly escorted us through a marbled foyer into his inner sanctum, a wood-panelled room that was more airplane hangar than doctor's office.

  The furniture, the size of his desk, the degrees on the wall said it all. I am highly educated and very expensive. You're sick. If you've got the money, I can fix you.

  'Detectives, what a pleasant surprise,' he said, after we had all eased our butts into soft leather armchairs. 'I'm so glad you took me up on my offer to help.'

  'Rumour has it you're a miracle worker,' I said.

  'My colleagues chide me constantly,' he said, 'but my goal is to get my patients out of analysis.'

  I smiled. 'And dialysis.'

  It was swift and hit the target like
a kick in the balls. There was no way he could hide his reaction. His face, his eyes, his body language all went into panic mode. I only wished I could watch from the inside, as his heart, brain, adrenaline, blood pressure, and other protective organs scrambled, kicking into high gear, opening up airways and shutting down sphincters, as the internal Klaxon screamed out DEFCON 1.

  The best he could do was sputter, 'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Let me phrase it another way,' I said. 'For a psychiatrist, you have an amazing track record of curing kidney failure.'

  'I don't know what kind of license you're taking with your authority here, Detective,' he said, struggling to regain his composure, 'but my medical practice is none of your business. The last I heard, you were being paid by the taxpayers of the county to solve homicides.'

  'You're right,' I said. 'I apologise.'

  His lips twitched into a half smile.

  'Here's the murder victim,' I said, handing him the morgue photo of Esteban. 'I believe you knew him.'

  He grabbed it quickly so I wouldn't have a chance to see his hand shake. He studied it carefully. He knew who it was, but he needed time to think. 'I don't recognise this man,' he said. 'I never treated him. Obviously he's dead.'

  'All but his kidneys,' I said. 'Are you still treating them? Which one of your patients is walking around LA with one of Esteban Benitez's kidneys?'

  'And before you decide to continue to play dumb, let me tell you something,' Terry said. 'We've been to all the major dialysis centres in LA. Once a patient starts going for treatment, they don't drop out because they've finished reading all the magazines. And yet, there have been a number of people who suddenly just stopped showing up for dialysis. But the records show that they didn't die, or get a transplant. At least, not one that's been recorded by the government agencies who like to keep track of body parts whenever they relocate. And here's the kicker. All those miraculously cured people are either your patients or close blood relatives of your patients. You, Dr Jameson, have been trafficking in black market human organs.'