The Missing Dead

by Karlous Naderi

  The Missing Dead

  by

  Karlous Naderi

  Text Copyright © 2019 Karlous Naderi

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or audio means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author.

  Visit karlousnaderi.com to learn more about the author and his Books In Work.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 3

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 4

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 5

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 6

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 7

  New York, America

  Chapter 8

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 9

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 10

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 11

  Bern, Switzerland

  Chapter 12

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 13

  Rapallo, Italy

  Chapter 14

  Bernese Oberland, Switzerland

  Chapter 15

  Bernese Oberland, Switzerland

  Chapter 16

  Bernese Oberland, Switzerland

  Chapter 17

  San Francisco, America

  Chapter 18

  Bern, Switzerland

  Chapter 19

  Rapallo, Italy

  Chapter 20

  San Francisco, America

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  San Francisco, America

  The emergency code broke at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital and all doctors on hand were needed. Abby left her next autopsy corpse and rushed to the screaming pain awaiting her. Amid the chaos of the emergency department, for the first time she laid eyes on the tiny, bloody victims. There had been a major traffic accident involving several cars and a school bus full of children. Every time she turned around the paramedics brought in another bloody little boy or girl on a stretcher. Some had their clothes ripped from their bodies; others were missing shoes and socks. All were under seven, and all were covered with blood.

  Through the chaos the head doctors shouted orders while the rest followed instructions. Most of the injured needed emergency surgery. It was a matter of life and death. Abby’s boss ordered her to help a little girl with a multitude of cuts and abrasions, and, without questioning, Abby sprang into action. This was much more difficult than what she did on a daily basis. All she had to do was cut open dead bodies to learn the cause of their demise. It was a piece of cake compared to staring at the bloody faces of the living little boys and girls, crying in agony.

  As the minutes ticked by, Abby progressed from attending to cuts and broken bones to helping surgeons with mangled, bruised bodies and pulling white sheets over the deceased.

  When the chaos settled, with heavy thoughts Abby returned to the corpse that was peacefully and patiently awaiting her. Today she was examining the body of Damian Andrews who, according to the paramedics, had died of natural causes. The body of the silver-haired man, contorted in his bed with a heart attack, was found in his mansion by his housekeeper of ten years. Damian Andrews looked sophisticated and wise, with the silver gray in his hair and the creases in his face. He appeared to have lived well. If he was alive he would have some fascinating stories to tell.

  Abby froze in confusion in the quiet solitude of the morgue. Either Mr. Andrews had turned into a ghost and vanished into thin air or someone had removed his frozen body. Abby frantically searched the room, and then inside the cold locker. Mr. Andrews was not among the seven stiff corpses. Heart racing, she ran to her boss, Dr. Stimson, a few rooms down. She was sitting behind her desk, filling out her daily report.

  “Hey, Margret, did you move Damian Andrews’ body from my slab?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the silver-haired man with the small mole under his left eye.”

  The curly haired blond doctor looked at Abby as if she had never heard of this person. “We don’t have a patient name Damian Andrews.”

  “Yeah we do. Remember the old billionaire from Pacific Heights? His housekeeper found him curled up in bed, dead from a heart attack.”

  Again Margret looked at Abby, slightly concerned for her well-being, not sure what to say.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? You know who I’m talking about, the older man with the silver hair.”

  “Come on, Abby, I think you need to sit down.”

  Abby sat, more confused than ever. She continued rambling about the silver-haired man until Margret finally decided to put the matter away once and for all. She opened the computer log. Just the seven stiff corpses in the freezer. There was no Damian Andrews listed anywhere. Abby sat quietly with her mouth open. A thousand and one questions cascaded over her. Margret suggested she should pack up for the day and go home. “All you need is a nice warm bath, a cup of tea and you’ll be good as new tomorrow.”

  “I’m off tomorrow and Thursday.”

  “Well, even better. Relax the next few days and I’ll see you here on Friday, bright and shiny, feeling like a brand-new person.”

  Again Abby did as she was told and quietly packed her personal belongings. She didn’t know what to make of everything. She tried to place the matter behind her and … and nothing. Her thoughts boomeranged and came right back to the subject of Damian Andrews. She hadn’t conjured up the old man out of thin air. And she certainly hadn’t been drinking on the job. So what the heck?

  Before leaving, Abby recalled the patient form she had filled out with the old man’s personal information. When she hunted for the three-page document, there was no sign of the gray folder, or even the pen she had use to fill out the form. She turned to find Margret standing not far from the doorpost, shaking her head and looking concerned.

  “Damn, Abby, you look like you’re losing your mind. Do you want me to call Jack to pick you up?”

  “No, there’s no need for that.”

  Abby didn’t want to make a bigger fool of herself. She forced a half smile across her face, mumbled her final goodbyes and darted towards the parking lot two steps at a time. Thoughts and questions clouded her mind.

  Once she was behind the wheel of her four-door Toyota she checked her vitals. Her eyes were dilated normally, and her pulse was fifty beats a minute, which was pretty darn good. Still not sure what she had witnessed, Abby started her car and called her fiancé. Four long rings later Jack picked up with his solid tone.

  “Sergeant Jack Peters at your service.” She had met Jack over six years ago at the hospital when he was there to receive his post-surgery therapy. He had been part of a covert government military reconnaissance unit. An injury behind enemy lines stopped his military career in its tracks. He was slowly getting back on his feet and starting life all over again. With one deep breath, Abby gushed forth, “You’re not going to believe the horrible day I had.” When she finished with Mr. Andrews’ disappearance into the thin air, she added, “I think I’m going crazy.”

  “Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

  “What do you mean am I sure!” The response annoyed her. “You think I’d just make up a man named Damian Andrews, with silver hair and a mole, who lived at Pacific Heights and died of a heart attack?”

  Jack didn’t reply to that rhetorical question. But he knew from his past military experience that shocking images can sometimes play kooky games with your head. Abby had just finished tel
ling him she’d had one of her worst days. She had witnessed the bloody, mangled bodies of innocent children. So conjuring up an imaginary person, lying dead and peaceful, was much more bearable than the images of the bloody, screaming living. Without implying anything, Jack just told her to come home in one piece so they could talk about everything in person.

  Twenty minutes later when Abby walked into the small house, Jack was on the couch, typing away on his computer.

  “Oh, baby, please help me. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jack’s firm assertion caused Abby’s eyebrows to rise. “What do you mean!”

  “Well, according to the public domain, Damian Andrews does exist. He’s the CEO of Foundation for a New America. The organization’s run by multi-national bankers and business owners. They’ve been around for decades, and apparently they have contributed to many worthy causes.”

  “Is there a picture of him?”

  “Yeah. He’s exactly as you described.”

  Abby flipped the screen with one motion and, yup, sure enough she was staring at her missing corpse. “I told you!” She smiled slightly, feeling vindicated. But that revelation didn’t put an end to her wild curiosity. It shattered her thoughts into a thousand tiny pieces. One by one the unanswered questions flooded her mind. One emerged above them all: Did Margret lie to her? That opened the floodgates, drowning her in deep thoughts until Jack’s prompting finally brought her back to shore.

  “I really don’t know what to think,” she said. “There are so many questions. I don’t know where to start.”

  “Well, the first few should be: Why did Margret lie to you, where did she hide the body, and for what purpose?”

  “That’s the crazy thing! It couldn’t have been Margret. She was with me almost the entire time during the emergency, and, after that, we were apart for only a few short minutes. There’s no way she could’ve moved the dead body and deleted the computer log all by herself.”

  Jack looked into Abby’s powdery blue eyes. They had the fiery stare she always gave him when she wanted results. Once she was on this path it was difficult to divert her from unpredictable actions. “Well, for now you should set your mind at ease and let me make a quick call.”

  “Who are you going to call? Melvin?”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just want to see if he can find Mr. Andrews’ 911 dispatch call.”

  “Do you want his address?”

  This surprised Jack. With a proud tone he said, “Are you telling me you have the old man’s address?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about all the numbers, but it’s something like 60 Broadway, Pacific Heights.”

  “Okay, this is a good start. You done great, baby!”

  “You love me, soldier?”

  “Always, my blue eyes, always.”

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco, America

  Melvin stood quietly behind the one-way glass, staring as his partner, Detective Logon, interrogated their fourth witness in the homicide case they were working on. The murder of a local panhandler that everybody referred to as “Poppa Smurf,” due to his shaggy white beard and red San Francisco beanie. So far all evidence pointed to another panhandler, also with a cartoon-character name, Boo-Boo. The street unit was already hunting for him. Hopefully they would soon have him in for questioning, and shortly after for arraignment, and then straight to prison.

  Eyes on their witness, Melvin felt the tingling vibration deep in his pocket. Once he saw the caller ID, he answered without hesitation with a mischievous smile. “What is it, Jack? Don’t tell me you’re calling again for the money you lost last week?”

  “No I’m totally over that,” Jack replied with an ear-to-ear smile of his own.

  “Ah, that’s too bad, buddy. I was starting to enjoy the sounds of you whimpering about your team.”

  “Its alright, Pig. Your Warriors are not going to be that lucky for ever.”

  “Well, buddy, we are five and zero. So there’s no luck there.”

  Once the laughter and the back-and-forth banter subsided between the two good friends, Jack finally told the tall black man the purpose for his call. “I don’t know exactly what Abby saw, but just try to find Mr. Andrews’ 911 dispatch call. Abby thinks his address might be something like 60 Broadway, Pacific Heights.”

  “Oh, billionaires row. What was he, a politician?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He was the CEO of Foundation for a New America.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not sure, but they’ve been around for decades. Something about them making US relationships better with other countries around the globe through their charity work.”

  “Hmm,” Melvin muttered under his breath.

  Before either could speak again, Melvin’s partner, Detective Logon, finish his interrogation and rose to his feet. This was Melvin’s cue to hang up with Jack. He would call him later in the day when he had an answer to his inquiry.

  With thoughts of the missing dead and their own murder case flooding his mind, Melvin helped his partner escort their witness to the elevator. On the way back they talked about their murder case.

  “Well,” his partner said, “this is the fourth witness pointing to Boo-Boo as the suspect. And for a panhandler to leave all his belongings behind and disappear into thin air, that tells me he was nervous about something and took off in a hurry.”

  “I agree.” Melvin nodded.

  “I’m going to file my report and see if there’s anything else we missed and wait for the street unit to come through with Boo-Boo.”

  “Me too.”

  Once Melvin was left alone, he got to work. He called head dispatch and told him what he was looking for in regards to Mr. Andrews. Ten minutes later, while he was well into writing his report, he received a call back from dispatch. There were no 911 calls.

  “Are you sure, Roger?”

  “According to our records nothing from that area.”

  “Is there anything you can give me on my victim?”

  “Yeah, your Mr. Andrews’ correct address is 260 East Broadway.”

  “How about a phone number?”

  “415-247-4856.”

  “Okay. Who was working dispatch last night?”

  “Mrs. Rose and Miss Davis.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Anything else, Detective?”

  Melvin hmmm-ed loudly. “Are they working tonight?”

  “Only Mrs. Rose.”

  “Okay, perfect. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Melvin kicked his long legs down to ground level, tossing a few hellos, sharing a couple of head nods, and raising a few high fives. After a brief pow wow with the head dispatch, Roger, he caught up with Mrs. Rose who was getting ready for her fifteen-minute break. She quickly confirmed that she didn’t receive any calls for Mr. Andrews and added, “Maybe it was Barbra. Come back tomorrow.”

  Six hours later, four hours past Melvin’s regular clock-out time, the street unit had Boo-Boo in custody and he was confessing to the murder. Two hours after that, feeling tired, Melvin finally pulled up in front of his modest house with phone in hand and made his final call for the day before going in to his wife’s good lovin’.

  “What is it, Pig!” Jack answered immediately after the first ring as if he was waiting for his call.

  “I’m sorry, buddy, I couldn’t get anything for you other than Mr. Andrews’ correct address and his phone number.” He gave Jack the address.

  “What happened with his 911 call?”

  “Negative. There wasn’t one, at least according to one of the dispatchers who was on duty. But don’t worry, tomorrow I’m going to speak to the second dispatcher who was working last night. She might remember something. Meanwhile, if I were you I’d just hang tight and take a chill pill until I call you back.”

  “I’m not sure if I can do that, buddy,
” Jack said with a wry smile. “I have the internal jitters, and Abby has the fires burning in her eyes. Now that you have the correct address I’m sure she’s going to want me to take her there early tomorrow morning to get to the bottom of what she saw, and I’m kind of curious myself.”

  “I know, Jack. There’s no point asking you not to go, because you guys are going to go any way. But just make sure you don’t get yourselves arrested; and if you do, please don’t freaking call me this time, do you hear me?”

  Chapter 3

  San Francisco, America

  “Let’s go,” Abby barked out anxiously from the top of her lungs. She had been waiting all night on pins and needles for morning so they could scoot over to Pacific Heights. It was 0900 hours and time to get a march on.

  “I have to tell you, Abby, you are much more persistent than my old military field instructor,’ Jack confessed with a smile.

  “Yeah, I’m also much more prettier, so hurry up and get a move on, soldier.”

  After driving through San Francisco streets for less than forty minutes, and after a short stop at the nearest florist, they were at Pacific Heights, staring at the giant privet property crowning the peak of the East Broadway hill.

  “Now what?” Abby stared at the closed metal gates with a single cement guard post positioned outside.

  “Now as we discussed. You’ll wait patiently in the car like a good little girl, and I’ll be back in a few.”

  Jack grabbed the large bouquet of flowers from the back seat and quietly approached the guard post as a deliveryman. Two armed men in black uniforms walked out to face him with their hands on their weapons.

  “Hello, gentlemen. I have some condolence flowers for the Andrews family.”