“I don’t think so.”
“Could we check?”
“I. . um. . I suppose so. Let me call.”
Martha dialed Newcomber’s extension, waited a few rings, and then hung up.
Will flashed on the unbridled fear in the strange little radiologist’s eyes, on the shaking of the gun in his hand, and on the vibrant flush of red in his cheeks.
“I think we should check in there,” he said, motioning down the hallway. “Susan, I don’t like this.”
Clearly bewildered, Martha hesitated and then finally withdrew a ring of keys from her desk drawer.
Will was still ten feet away from Newcomber’s door when the air changed. It was a smell familiar to him after almost two decades of hospital work-an amalgam of feces, urine, blood, and body odor. It was the scent of death. He moved to stop Martha Medeiros, but the knob to Newcomber’s office turned in her hand. She swung the door open and stumbled backward, uttering a strangled, gurgled cry, her hand across her mouth.
The rancid odor of well-established death flooded the room.
The portly radiologist sat bolt upright in his high-backed leather chair, held in place by a band of duct tape pulled firmly across his throat. His wrists were similarly bound to the arms of the chair. His dress shirt was ripped open at the front, revealing a fleshy, hairless chest that was pocked by half a dozen or more dark, penny-size sores. Even from across the room, Will could tell they were burns. Still attached by an edge of adhesive to his glistening pate, Newcomber’s silver hairpiece flopped down over his left ear. His gray-green eyes, like a taxidermist’s marbles, stared sightlessly across the room. Dried blood cascaded around the corners of his mouth from the nostrils of a nose that was quite obviously broken.
Martha’s legs had gone out from beneath her. Will eased her gently to the floor and then stayed in the doorway as Susan hurried over to the desk. The fewer people in the room until the police arrived, the better, and this man was far beyond needing medical intervention. Susan didn’t bother confirming Will’s clinical impression.
“No obvious mortal wounds or injuries,” she said.
“A coronary?”
“Maybe. Will, I think these are electrical burns.”
“Some sort of cattle prod, maybe. It’s possible he died while he was being tortured.”
“Jesus.”
From her place on the floor, leaning against the wall, Martha tried to speak, but managed only a piteous whimper.
“Easy does it, Mrs. Medeiros,” Will said. “We’ll help you in just a minute. I’m going to call nine-one-one.”
“Wait, come in and look at this.”
Will checked to make certain Martha was secure against the wall, then crossed over to the desk. Impaled on the pen and pencil of Newcomber’s hand-tooled leather pen holder were two cards-plain white, three inches square. The letter C was printed meticulously on one, the letter M on the other.
CHAPTER 28
The Excelsius Cancer Center was set on a verdant lot in the bedroom town of Moorland, four miles west of Fredrickston. Within five minutes of Will’s 911, the first of what would be nine police cars from three jurisdictions arrived. The Cancer Center was cordoned off, and patients with appointments were told to reschedule. Seated alone in one corner of the mammography unit reception room, Will waited until a graying, pot-bellied Moorland police officer had finished taking a statement from Susan and motioned that it was his turn. On the way over, he stopped briefly to speak with her.
“Just another routine day at the office,” he whispered.
“Poor little guy. So, with those two letters, do you think it was the same person as killed the others?”
“I don’t know what to think. This isn’t the usual high-level target or even the MO of the managed-care killers, but those two alphabet letters would certainly suggest that’s who did this.”
“You still think it’s more than one.”
“I do. In fact, it’s a little hard to believe Newcomber would have allowed a single person to truss him up like that without putting up a fight. The office looked just like it did when I was here before, and you saw when I slid open his drawer that his gun was right there, so I don’t think there was a struggle.”
“I don’t know about you,” Susan said, “but I can handle this sort of thing in the hospital a lot better than I can out here in the real world.”
“I understand. Same here. You think a heart attack?”
“Torture first, then heart attack. I didn’t see any wound that looked as if it could have been mortal. I wonder if he survived long enough to tell them whatever it was they wanted to know.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to know anything. Maybe they were just doing it for the fun of it.”
“Ugh.” Susan shuddered, then put on her trench coat. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the hospital. After this little adventure, I’m really not up for doing any surgery, but my poor varicose-vein lady is already there and, believe it or not, they’re holding the OR for me.”
“Give ’em heck,” Will said wistfully.
“Listen, my friend, before you know it, you’re going to be back in the OR, beating yourself into the ground again.”
“I hope so.”
“We’re all pulling for that to happen.”
All minus one, Will thought.
“Thanks,” he said. “Any ideas what we should do about Grace’s missing X-rays?”
“Not really. I’m not certain there’s anything we can do. Let’s talk about it later.”
“Fine. Thanks again for coming here with me, Suze.”
“You’ll understand if next time I beg off, huh?”
“I won’t even bother asking.”
She motioned toward the window.
“Looks like my cab’s here.”
“I owe you one.”
“At least.”
As Susan headed off, over her shoulder Will could see the portly Moorland police officer speaking with a new arrival-a tall, angular man wearing a neatly pressed, belted tan trench coat. Moments later, the man quickly approached Will.
“Dr. Grant, Detective Court, State Police. If you’ll wait right over there, I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Court. Patty’s CO. He had to know where she was.
For fifteen minutes Will waited. The crime-scene people came and hauled their equipment down the hall. Soon after, an ambulance crew arrived and wheeled off Martha Medeiros, who was now virtually catatonic. Will recalled the pride in her expression as she boasted about her unusual skill with names and faces. He found himself wondering if the killers thought for even a moment about the spouses, friends, children, employees, and other victims of their zealous beliefs. He knew it was a stupid question.
“So, Grant, another death, and here you are.”
Court had come up from his left and now stood there, staring down at him with piercing, slate-gray eyes.
“Here I am,” Will echoed sweetly.
Court had already set the tone for their exchange, so Will felt there was nothing to be gained by trying to act as if the two of them were on the same side. The detective pulled a chair around to face him and settled in, his keen eyes still probing.
“You going to be able to shed any light on this?”
“I saw those two letters on the pen holder in there, if that’s what you mean.”
“So you think your phone pal is responsible for this murder, too?”
“It does seem like a logical conclusion.”
“For someone who drugged his way out of medicine, you are a smug son of a bitch. I can see why Brasco doesn’t believe you.”
“I couldn’t care less what Brasco thinks of me-you, either, for that matter. Where’s Detective Moriarity?”
“Where were you last night at nine?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You going to answer my question, or do you want to see how miserable I can make your life?”
“Where’s Moriarity?”