A faked California medical license, a supply of pharmaceutical drugs, and a hoard of surgical implements and supplies, also found in his apartment, made it clear that he had escalated his doctor persona. And in his garage, there was a Jaguar XJS the same color as D'Anton's – several years older, but almost identical. It was unclear whether this was another way of imitating D'Anton, or Todd had used it somehow for disguise.
A huge amount of work lay ahead for authorities – forensically, to probe the physical evidence, and psychologically, to delve into the psyche of Todd Peploe. His journal included a jumble of beliefs that he was a superior being, above any law, using medical skills to satisfy the hidden cravings of women.
But Monks had already formed his opinion. Anyone capable of doing what Todd had done was a vicious, sadistic son of a bitch whose true reason for killing was pleasure.
That made the memory of pumping five bullets into him a little easier.
Martine Rostanov had not attended the QA meeting because she was not on Mercy Hospital's staff, but she was waiting for him in the ER lobby. Monks recalled that that was the first place he had ever seen her, walking through the door with the slight limp that instantly had awakened a protective urge in him. He had the eerie sense that their relationship was unraveling literally, a step at a time, like a videotape played backward.
"I already heard the buzz," she said. "Congratulations." She was smiling, summery-looking in a long flowered dress, but her face was dark around the eyes.
"It's a relief," Monks admitted. "How's your body holding up?"
"I won't be playing rugby for a while."
"I feel like I should be nursing you, in your hour of need."
"I don't think either of us wants that," Monks said. He was surprised by the bluntness in his own voice, and he saw that she was, too. Then hurt. She lowered her eyes.
"It's terrible, what you've been through," she said. "I know I haven't helped."
"Of course you have."
"Are you all right with what you had to do? Never mind. Dumb question."
Neither of them spoke for another moment. Monks thought about asking her if she was getting involved with someone else, perhaps the owner of the black Saab he had seen in her driveway – thought about confessing his own infidelity, if that was what it had been. Thought about suggesting another try. They had talked a lot about an autumn in Donegal.
But the words were just not in him. The issues that had seemed important between them a few days ago had been swept from his consciousness. He was distant from the rest of the world right now, and she was part of that world.
"I'd better go," he said. "Thanks for coming by."
"Don't lose my phone number, okay?"
He walked her out into the parking lot. They kissed quickly, like friends. She waved from her car as she pulled away – maybe sadly, maybe not.
And that was that.
Chapter 34
The O'Malley Bros. Mortuary on west Geary was respected as one of the city's finest – a century-old, family-owned establishment that had graciously retired the mortal remains of a host of the rich and famous, from governors to rock stars. Monks guessed that he had sent them clients, from the ER, himself.
It was still before nine a.m. – early for the funeral business – but the imposing old wooden door, at least seven feet tall and arched like a church's, was unlocked. Monks stepped into the foyer. Its dark-paneled walls had several dimly lit niches, also arched, each discreetly displaying pertinent information about one of the deceased who was passing through – name, side chapel where the body could be viewed, time of the service, final resting place. It was as still a room as Monks had ever been inside. He had to resist the urge to tiptoe across the tiled floor.
He went from niche to niche until he found the name Gwendolyn Anne Bricknell. She was in the Dove Chapel. A plan showed its location.
Monks was on his way there when a man wearing formal black tails stepped into the room. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward in a partial bow.
"Can I help you, sir?" he said, in the hollow whisper of one who has learned to speak the language of mourning. He was thin, in his mid-thirties, but looked older from pallor and balding.
"I'd like to see Miss Bricknell."
"Certainly. If you'll come this way." His smooth black shiny shoes made only a whisper on the tiles. Monks felt like a mule, clopping along beside him. They crossed the mortuary's main room, as large as the naves of most churches and similar, with pews and a raised dais in front – although it was equipped with a steel track to slide coffins in and out of view. This was a full-service organization.
"Are you family, might I inquire?" the attendant asked.
"Just an acquaintance."
"The service is scheduled for four p.m."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to make that," Monks said.
"Of course." The attendant's voice dropped confidentially. "It's going to be quite an event."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. We're expecting a capacity crowd, and a lot of celebrities. She was quite famous, in her day. But I'm sure you know that."
"So I've gathered."
"Terrible tragedy, isn't it?" He gave Monks a sidelong glance that showed only one wide-open eye, a look reminiscent of a flounder's. "Whoever would have thought it?"
"Very sad," Monks agreed.
"I mean, can you imagine?" the attendant went on, warming to his subject. "A monster, posing as a surgeon? Suppose he'd had you under the knife. How would you feel?"
Monks resisted the urge to say, He did.
"I'll leave you to pay your respects, sir," the attendant murmured. He stepped aside and gestured Monks into the Dove Chapel, opening off the main room. It was a tasteful space, lush with flowers and candles. The coffin was on a bier at the far end, burnished wood that looked like mahogany, chased with brass or perhaps gold. The upper half of the lid was open.
Her still form brought to Monks's mind an image from childhood, a somber Doré engraving of the Lady of Astolat – spurned by her lover, Lancelot, floating pale and lovely down a stream, holding a lily to her breast – finally at peace from her torments. Except that Gwen was dressed in black.
And with frightening irony, a black silk scarf had been arranged carefully around her neck, to conceal her wounded throat. It brought back with force the eerie intimacy that he had shared with her.
That Gwen had murdered Eden Hale was almost certain. Among her cache of health care and beauty products, several ounces of castor beans had been found, along with instructions on how to compound them into ricin – a poison that was deadly and would not show up on an ordinary tox screen. Making ricin was not difficult, and her work at the clinic had exposed her to chemical procedures.
The black scarf she had worn that night had been found, too – in her trash, still damp, hacked to pieces.
As with the other events, it was mostly speculation from there. Monks guessed that Gwen had arranged the tryst between Eden's boyfriend and Coffee Trenette, so that Eden would be alone, and then had called Eden and arranged to stop by, on the pretext of bringing comfort. She probably had disguised the ricin in something like chicken soup, which she had deliberately let go bad, so that salmonella would cloak the poison's effects. She probably had also taken Eden's answering machine, although that had not been found.