“Okay.”
“And here is the assassin from Wisconsin,” Smith informed him, handing off a five-by-seven from his stash.
Same face, without the bruises. Blood flecked at one nostril and the corners of his mouth. The eyes were open, fixed in death. It was impossible to tell if they were blue or gray. A dusty-looking film obscured the irises.
“Twin hit men,” Remo mused. “I guess they like to keep it in the family.”
“It’s more than that,” said Smith. “They’re not just lookalikes. In fact, they seem to be, well, the same man.”
Remo’s gaze was level. “What do you mean?”
“The DNA and tissue types are problematical, of course. Identical twins can produce readings so similar as to be practically indistinguishable in that regard.”
“So, what’s the problem?”.
“Fingerprints. No two sets are identical. However, for these two, they are.”
“Identical? How?”
“I do not know,” Smith admitted.
“All ten fingers, straight across with no deviation whatsoever. That is with the sole exception of a small scar on Miami’s left ring finger.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I felt the same way.”
“Which means no ID from Wisconsin, either.”
“It gets worse,” Smith said. “An FBI technician was doing some recreational digging last night and tapped into data banks they had not checked before.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Smith said somberly, “the subjects of those files are physically unable to participate in current crimes. They are dead.”
Remo frowned. “Check me if I’m wrong, Smitty, but doesn’t that usually slow them up a little?”
“I always thought so. Until the FBI man came up with a match.”
“You’re losing me again.”
Smith took a final photo from the file. This one was black-and-white, a prison mug shot, numbers racked below a glaring face. The same face, once again, but appearing older than the first two. lines around the mouth and eyes the others didn’t have, even in death.
“This is Thomas Allen Hardy,” Smith went on. “A freelance contract killer for the syndicate—or anybody else who could afford his price. Five thousand dollars was his base rate, I believe. The FBI suspected him of twenty-seven murders at the time of his arrest. He was convicted on two counts.”
“Good. At least he’s off the street,” Remo said.
“Most definitely.”
“What’s he have to say about these other killings?”
“Not a word,” Smith replied. “Hardy went to the Nevada gas chamber in 1965. I have reviewed his death certificate.”
“That’s thirty years ago.”
“Correct.”
“But these two—” Remo poked the photographs “—both had his face and fingerprints.”
Smith seemed visibly shaken. “It is a baffling genetic impossibility. Basically we stand confronted with a physical anomaly. Three men identical in all respects—except, apparently, for age. One of them dead for more than thirty years, the other two…more recently.”
“That’s something, anyway. I mean, at least they’re dead.”
“Perhaps.”
“You have some doubts?” Remo tossed the color photos of the two dead hit men back to Smith. “They both look pretty cold to me.”
“Those two are dead,” Smith said. “My concern is that there may be … others.”
“Others? What is this, The Twilight Zone meets Candid Camera?”
“This is deadly serious,” Smith answered. “Until we are certain where these two came from, we cannot rule out the possibility of others like them, still at large.”
“Assume that’s true,” said Remo. “Where do we come in?”
“Agents for the FBI are already at their wits’ end over this,” said Smith.
“From the way those clowns have been running things lately. I’d say that’s one mighty short trip.”
“Be that as it may, the FBI director mentioned his agency’s problem to the President during a White House briefing. We have been asked to sort it out,” the head of CURE said.
“Exactly what does that mean?” Remo asked him.
“Do our best to find out what has gone on with Thomas Allen Hardy in the past three decades—”
“Gee whiz, Smitty, he’s a corpse already,” Remo interrupted. The guy isn’t getting up at night to do the Monster Mash.”
“—and find out how his fingerprints and DNA wound up in two dead hit men young enough to be the sons he never had,” Smith concluded.
Remo sighed. “Is there any chance this Hardy wasn’t really dead?” he asked.
“I have never heard of a survivor from the gas chamber,” Smith said gravely.
“Maybe. But you are familiar with someone who managed to survive a date with the electric chair.”
Smith frowned. “Yes. Let us hope we are not dealing with a similar situation.”
In the ancient past, CURE, had arranged for Remo—then a lowly Newark cop—to be arrested, framed, convicted and condemned on murder charges. The agency had staged an execution that effectively eliminated any risk that he would be identified on future missions for the government. Remo wondered if some other party might have had a similar idea.
“If Hardy is still alive,” Smith continued, “he would be nearly seventy today. It is obvious that neither of the dead shooters is the man executed in Nevada in 1965. Even given the latest breakthroughs with those sheep in Scotland, we are still light-years away from duplicating fingerprints and bodies.”
“Plastic surgery?” suggested Remo.
“On the faces it’s feasible. But not on fingerprints. You know as well as I that erasing prints— or changing them—has been a top priority with criminals for close to eighty years. Some have experimented with acid, others even whittle down their fingertips like pencils, but the prints grow back. It is the same thing with skin grafts, Remo. While it is possible to transplant fingerprints, when the epidermis sheds, the old prints resurface.”
Besides, thought Remo, what would be the point? A Thomas Allen Hardy fan club? It was laughable.
“Okay,” said Remo, “let’s assume we have a problem. here. It doesn’t tell me where to start or what I should be looking for.”
“The first part is relatively simple,” Smith replied. “Start with Thomas Hardy.”
“So I guess I should pack a shovel with my clean underwear,” Remo said dryly.
“Obviously I am not referring to the man himself,” Smith replied aridly. “He had no relatives that anyone could find, between the time of his arrest and execution. However, Hardy had at least one friend: A woman cared enough to claim his body from the state for burial. Her name was…let. me see…” Smith checked the file. “Devona Price.”
“You’ve checked her out?”
Smith nodded. “A quick preliminary. Ex-nurse, retired, age sixty-two. She is a registered Democrat but hasn’t voted since the Vietnam era. Apolitical these days, from all appearances.”
“Whereabouts?”
“She lives on Greenbriar Drive, in Burbank.”
“Sunny California.” Remo cracked a smile.
“Illinois, actually. It is a Chicago suburb.”
“Oh, that Burbank.”
“This is not a vacation, Remo,” Smith said, annoyed.
“Not in Chicago it ain’t,” Remo replied.
“Please.” Smith brought the conversation back to business. “I have not found a connection between Devona Price and Hardy. It is another point you will need to clarify.”
“Nobody checked it out back then?”