Naomi led me to the body, which looked eerily similar to Daniel Huber’s, except John Kruse had both hands. His right side cut almost in half, he was naked and lying on his back without an ounce of blood in sight.
“Liver again?” I bent over the body, straining to see inside the wound.
“Not just the liver. According to the coroner, from what he could see, he’s missing his liver and a kidney.”
“Both!” I looked at Coop, who had joined us, and anticipating my next question, he answered it.
“No. There’s no one on the waiting list for both, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
“Well, I guess that shoots my angered-relative-of-a-person-in-need-of-an-organ theory right in the ass.” I sighed. “I suppose he was homeless, too?”
“It looks that way,” answered Naomi. “The shelter actually called us yesterday inquiring about filing a missing-persons report. I guess he was a frequent visitor who at least checked in daily for food and stuff. They hadn’t seen him for several days, which they thought unusual.”
“Fuck.” I looked at Coop. “Now what?”
“Funny you ask. I was watching TV earlier tonight, and there was a show that had some type of black-market organ-removal ring. I didn’t know such a thing existed. I’d say it’s something we might want to look into.”
“You’re right, Coop.” I had an epiphany. “And I know just where to start.”
CHAPTER THREE
It was time I contacted the doctors associated with the Quinn-Herstin Funeral Home. To Naomi and Coop’s surprise, I told them I would be in touch, before starting toward my car. Coop, resorting to a slow jog, caught up to me.
“CeeCee! What do you think you’re doing? We’ve got a homicide scene to work.”
“I’m well aware of that, and I’m investigating it. Just not here.” I opened my car door and got in. “You and Naomi can take care of things just fine. Trust me—this is something that needs to be done.”
He stood quietly and shook his head as I drove away. While heading toward the department, I called our records division and requested them to find any information, including phone numbers, on Dr. Donovan Esposito and Dr. Neal Schmidt. The clerk said she would call me in my office shortly. I anticipated at least a forty-five minute wait. My office phone was ringing when I arrived on station a few minutes later. The clerk had found the requested information in less than fifteen minutes—a new world’s record.
My watch showed four thirty a.m. It would be quite rude to call these doctors at this hour of the morning. Hell with it! I thought, before picking up the phone and dialing Donovan Esposito’s number. It rang several times before a groggy-sounding woman answered. After informing her who was calling, I requested Dr. Esposito.
“Lady, do you know what time it is?” She sounded more awake.
“It’s Sergeant, and yes, I can tell time.”
“Miracles never cease,” she whispered flippantly. “My husband is sound asleep, and unless you have a good reason for calling, you’ll have to contact him tomorrow during office hours.”
“I’ll let you decide if this is a good enough reason. I have two dead bodies that each had a major organ removed—while they were still alive, no doubt. I was just made aware of your husband’s tissue-donor side job today and feel he may have the answers to some quite important questions. To sum it up, your husband is the closest thing to a witness, or a suspect, that I have. Now, I can certainly subpoena all of his medical records and possibly serve a search warrant on his office if that’s the route he chooses,” I said wryly.
“Oh, please, spare me the drama,” she snipped. “Hold on.”
The sounds of Mrs. Esposito attempting to rouse her husband came loudly through the phone. After a few grunts and groans, I could clearly hear her relaying our conversation to him.
She ended it with “…she threatened to serve a search warrant on your office. She’s a real bitch.”
The feeling’s mutual, lady, I thought. After a few coughs and obscenities, Donovan Esposito picked up the phone.
“This is Dr. Esposito. What do you want?” He was pissed.
“Dr. Esposito, this is Sergeant Gallagher…” I began, in my most enchanting voice.
After informing him of the homicides, I made a futile attempt to contradict his wife’s interpretation of our conversation.
“Doctor, I couldn’t help but overhear your wife telling you I threatened a search warrant. Perhaps she misunderstood. I was merely telling her about standard procedures in a homicide investigation, and how I would very much like to avoid something like that. If you can only imagine the amount of paperwork involved, it’s horrible. That said, I was wondering if I could meet with you sometime this morning so we could talk.” I was disgustingly charismatic.
“Well, I suppose I could give you half an hour during lunchtime.” His voice softened considerably. “But you’d have to meet me here, in Cleveland. I can’t possibly take the time to drive down there today. I have a full schedule.”
Mission accomplished. We arranged to meet at his office at noon. I went even further and asked if it was possible that Dr. Schmidt could join us. He didn’t think it would be a problem but couldn’t guarantee anything.
Since my trip to Cleveland was several hours away, I utilized the remaining time to catch a few hours of sleep. Naomi was still out on the homicide scene, so leaving a message on her voice mail informing her of my impending interview would have to suffice. Michael was already awake and ready to leave when I got home, a quick opportunity to suggest a lunch date later.
“I can’t, Cee. I’m busy all day and probably won’t even eat lunch.”
“I just thought, since I would be up there, it would be nice to see you, is all.” I sighed. “I feel like we hardly see each other anymore.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” He put his strong, muscular arms around me. “I promise again, this will all be over soon. In fact, I think a trip to Aruba might be just around the corner.” He pulled away smiling.
“You promise?” The thought of Aruba sent me into immediate euphoria.
“Yes, I promise.”
After kissing my forehead and squeezing me one last time, Michael was out the door. It took a while for me to fall back asleep, and it was only for an hour. Later, standing at my bedroom window, I thought about questions to ask Dr. Esposito. They would have to be direct, as it had become quite clear the doctor would see through any type of sugarcoating. It was also clear that he certainly wouldn’t tolerate being jerked around. After watching a jogger stop in front of my house and tie his shoe, I started to get myself cleaned up and ready to go.
The drive took less than an hour. Esposito’s office was on the south side, near Strongsville. Pulling into the parking lot of his building, I wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the architectural-award-winning edifice looming before me. Twelve stories high, it had an old Spanish-style design, with light pink ceramic tiles and a deep peach stucco exterior—a building more suited for South Beach, Miami, than Strongsville, Ohio. It looked odd among the other, standard glass-and-brick buildings.
The physicians list inside the lobby told me one thing: only the crème de la crème of Cleveland physicians had their offices here. They were the plastic surgeons, the neurosurgeons, the oncologists, and the cardiologists. Looking at the list reminded me that I hadn’t even determined what type of doctor Esposito was. I couldn’t imagine any doctor this high on the food chain would need a side job with a tissue-donor company.
Scanning the doctors’ names on each floor, I found DR. DONOVAN ESPOSITO, MD, PLASTIC SURGERY, in suite 6-A. After a brief elevator ride, I stopped in the ladies’ room on the sixth floor to make sure everything was in order, appearance-wise. I had to be at the top of my game. My previous experience interviewing doctors had educated me to the fact that although they vary in their expertise, a great number of them are arrogant.
Some border on blatant narcissism, especially if they are called onto the carpet. They d
on’t believe laws apply to them. They expect to be admired for their godlike talents. How dare anyone question a man who had just performed an eight-hour, lifesaving surgery on a five-year-old car-accident victim? Even if he did just break his wife’s nose the day before. Most are the same, and I didn’t expect Donovan Esposito to be any different.
No surprise, the waiting area of his office was professionally—and tastefully—decorated. Contemporary paintings on the walls were paired with a modern vase full of fresh roses that adorned each corner table. The three taupe leather couches looked so inviting, they would have made any patient want to run and dive on them. At the far end of the room was the receptionist’s window. Behind it (again, no surprise) sat a twentysomething blonde who appeared to have been nipped and tucked to death. Her chest was so large on her small frame, it looked uncomfortable, and as I got closer, the earlier notion that she was in her twenties faded. This woman was clearly in her forties and had made multiple attempts to maintain her youth. Her face had taken on the shiny, plastic, cat look that most people associated with too much tweaking. I stood and listened while she was on the phone, instantly recognizing her voice.
“Mrs. Esposito, I presume?” I asked as she put the phone on its cradle.
“Yes. Do you have an appointment?” Her smile seemed permanently fixed on her face.
“Yes, I do. I’m Sergeant CeeCee Gallagher with the Richland Metropolitan Police Department. I’m here for my noon appointment with Dr. Esposito.” I smiled back.
Her smile faded. “Oh, yes…I’m not quite sure he has enough time blocked off for the amount of Botox injections that you’ll need.”
“If you could let him know I’m here, that would be fine.” I turned, still smiling, to walk away but couldn’t resist a retort to her comment. I faced her again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Esposito, but if you don’t mind me asking, does that hurt?”
“Does what hurt?” She looked confused.
“Your face, when you talk, smile, blink, and breathe? I couldn’t help but ask…It just looks excruciatingly painful.” I walked away and grabbed a magazine before sitting on the large, comfy couch.
Her face turned ten different shades of red before she stood up and walked out of the reception area, going to her husband, no doubt. He was standing in front of me in less than five minutes.
“Sergeant, if you would like a statement from me, I expect from you a little professionalism when you’re in my office.” He glared.
Even seated on the couch, I could still determine he was only a few inches taller than I was. Donovan Esposito might have been attractive, if not for the sizeable nose that took up the majority of his face. Being a plastic surgeon, one might think he would’ve liked to take care of it. However, he probably thought it was sexy.
In his late forties, he had a ruddy complexion that set off his dark brown, hard, and unfriendly eyes. His professionally groomed hair was significantly gelled. His blue designer shirt, tie, and black slacks bore not a hint of a wrinkle. Shining prominently from his left wrist was a two-tone platinum and gold Baume & Mercier Swiss watch with small diamonds surrounding the dial, worth, at a minimum, ten thousand dollars. Donovan Esposito was a walking bank.
“I extend my apologies to you and your wife, Doctor. I was merely responding to the rude comments made by your wife regarding my need for extensive Botox injections.” I stood up.
Dr. Esposito glared toward the reception window where his wife stood. Receiving the silent message, she looked down at the desk in shame before walking away.
“I guess I’ll have to apologize for Mrs. Esposito as well, Sergeant. We certainly don’t need to start this off on the wrong foot, do we?” He stood back and looked me up and down. “Well, you certainly are attractive, aren’t you? I see no need for Botox! And I have to say, whoever did your breast augmentation did a fabulous job. Someone local?”
My face burned. “No one you know.”
He had succeeded in degrading me, a strategic step in his attempts to dominate the interview. It took a conscious effort on my part to gather my wits as he led me into his office. Now it was game time.
“Please, have a seat, Sergeant. I have just a few minutes before my next patient is due.” He sat behind his impressive oak desk while motioning for me to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of it.
I sat down. “Doctor, as I explained to you on the phone earlier, I’m investigating two homicides in the Mansfield area. Each of the victims had major organs removed surgically, and I believe you can assist me in filling in some gaps.”
“Whatever I can do to help, Sergeant.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling and clasping his hands together.
I grabbed my pen, notebook, and file out of my briefcase, covertly pushing the record button of the tape recorder that sat inside.
“Doctor, this is protocol, so bear with me. Are you speaking to me voluntarily? Have you been coerced, threatened, or intimidated into giving me this statement? Do you understand that you are free to cease this conversation at any time?” I hated having to say this. It merely reminded someone that they could tell me to get the hell out of here.
“Yes, I understand all of that.”
“Great. Now, if you would, please explain to me your position at LifeTech Industries and the Quinn-Herstin Funeral Home.”
“I’d be happy to, but first, Sergeant, can you explain to me again why you need to know all of this? I was a little tired this morning when I spoke with you on the phone. What does this have to do with your murders?” His position and facial expression remained unchanged.
“I was unaware a corporation such as LifeTech operated out of my city. So it was a little odd to receive a phone call from Steven Snyder requesting one of the homicide victims for tissue donation. Especially since the victim was missing his liver.”
He leaned forward. “Sergeant, you seem to be coming very close to insinuating that I am a suspect in this case.”
“Not at all, Doctor. If you can just explain the inner workings of LifeTech and your duties there, I’ll be on my way.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine, but any more hints at suspicion and I will phone my attorney.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Now,” he began, “I will try and explain this in laymen’s terms, without all of the medical terminology, so you can understand it.” This was another attempt to belittle me. “LifeTech Industries is a corporation that was formed in 1999 by a group of prominent physicians from all over the country. It had become increasingly frustrating for us, as doctors, to see the countless number of patients suffering from a variety of physical impairments. Even though the donors needed were only for tissue, there was still a significant wait for these patients. LifeTech formed and set up offices throughout the state to have immediate access to bodies that are left unclaimed. You see, if they didn’t have the offices spread out, a dead homeless man in Cincinnati would go unnoticed. He would be buried in a potter’s field, or cremated and thrown somewhere, when all the while, his skin or bones could have been used by someone in dire need. This way, each LifeTech office is notified by numerous agencies when a body is left unclaimed. We have contracts with city homeless shelters, Salvation Army housing, state prisons, and county human services all over Ohio.”
He cleared his throat and continued. “I don’t have the numbers right this second, Sergeant, but I can assure you, LifeTech has dramatically alleviated the wait for patients in need and has also aided the less fortunate, who don’t have the resources to obtain their needed tissue.”
“And you do only tissue? What about organs? If these people are being given to you, why not take their heart and other organs?”
He laughed, wittingly insulting me. “Oh, Sergeant! Come on! You can’t be that ignorant concerning organ transplantation, can you? Do you realize there are over ninety thousand people waiting for an organ transplant? And only roughly twenty thousand transplants are performed each year. Every day, sixteen to seventeen people die waiting for an organ.
Every day! Don’t you think if we could just pull a heart from a homeless man who’s been dead for three days, that the numbers I cited would be obsolete? Need a liver? Go on down to the county morgue! There’s a construction worker that fell off a high-rise last week—take his!” he mocked.
I bit my tongue. “Why don’t you enlighten me, Doctor, since I’m so ignorant, on how harvesting organs works?”
He looked at his watch. “Our time is coming to an end, so I’ll make this brief and use an example. Essentially, if you have an organ donor that was just involved in a fatal car crash and is flatlining in the emergency room, the staff will keep him on life support. They’ll take his eyes out right there, if that’s the organ needed, throw ‘em in a nice little cooler, and hand them over to LifeFlight, who flies them to where they need to go. With organs, time is the key. Once the body dies, the organs die and very quickly become unsuitable for transplant. Tissue—things like skin, bones, and heart valves—is different. There’s a wider window of opportunity with tissue. You have more time. It’s pretty simple, but you get the gist.”
“It sounds like a very lucrative business,” I said flatly.
“Let me put it this way: a man once put his kidney up for auction on the Internet, and the bid was up to five million dollars before it was shut down by the Web site.” He stood up.
“One more question, Doctor. How long have you been employed by LifeTech, and what is the last procedure you performed in Mansfield?”
“I have been employed by them for five years, and the last procedure I performed was back in March. It was a dental removal from an inmate who hanged himself in his cell. He was thirty-five.”
The Body Mafia Page 4