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Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch
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“She was strangled,” Nick retorted. “I needed to be here for that?”
“Yeah, but she would've died anyway,” Ross replied.
Nick wasn't expecting this. “Died of what?” he asked.
Ross looked up. “Lymphoma,” he said.
“Cancer? You're sure?” Nick asked, staring at the young woman's face. Her features were delicate. The word that came immediately to Nick's mind was
kind
.
“I'm a pathologist,” Ross retorted, “and I know cancer of the lymph nodes when I see it. Except I've never seen it like this.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“It's everywhere, like it was devouring her. Metastasized to her brain, spleen, abdomen—even her spinal fluid. And that's not all that's wrong with this picture.”
Nick didn't need the drama. “You wanna tell me what the hell you're talking about?” he demanded.
Ross took off his mask. “She's in her twenties. I've never even heard of such an advanced case of Hodgkin's disease in anyone, male or female, under fifty. Chickie here wouldn't have been able to make it to the bathroom, let alone run around clubbing in a dress that ends just above her C level.”
“I got there around nine last night,” Nick said, “and she was already stiff as a board.”
“Factor in lividity and core body temp and I'll put actual time of death soon after eleven o'clock two nights ago.”
“You're saying Quimby murdered this one late Monday night or early Tuesday morning
before
Sharon Corbett in Central Park.”
“Glad we're speaking the same language, Nicky,” Ross said affably.
Nick wasn't satisfied. “Do me a solid,” he said to Ross. “Check her for cyanide, too, like the others. And tox screen her for everything you can.”
“Everything like what?” Ross asked.
“Everything like everything,” Nick said impatiently.
“No need to get snippy,” Ross retorted. “We aim to please.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. “Guess this one's just getting to me.”
He wasn't lying. His stomach was churning again. Something was way out of place with Tamara Sorenson.
C
HAPTER
13
“Y
ou want me to to see your patients tomorrow on morning's rounds?” Eddie Sanchez asked Claire as they exited the secure double doors of Manhattan City's psych ward. It was a muggy Thursday afternoon, and the heat hadn't dissipated over the first week of Claire's fellowship.
“Thanks, Eddie,” Claire answered as she signed out at the security desk, “but if I don't get back to some kind of normal routine, Curtin's gonna be all over me.”
“If it's any consolation, all the fellows think you rock,” Eddie said with a smile. “I don't know how any of us would've dealt with a serial killer as our first patient. If there's anything we can do ...”
The attention made Claire feel deeply uncomfortable. After the glare of interest she received when Amy was kidnapped, she spent her whole life avoiding any kind of attention, and now she was under the spotlight Todd Quimby had cast on her.
“I appreciate everyone's concern,” Claire said. “But I just want to move on.”
Eddie nodded, giving her the space she obviously wanted. Claire walked away toward the hospital exit. “See you tomorrow,” she said, without looking back at Eddie.
Quimby's name had barely passed through her mind when she felt a hand grab her so fast she didn't have time to scream in terror before she saw who it was.
Nick Lawler.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” Nick said, meaning it. “I don't want to get you in trouble.” He pulled Claire through a doorway into the staff lounge.
“Trouble's exactly what I'm going to be in if Curtin sees us talking. I thought you were out chasing Todd Quimby.”
“I was,” he replied, “until last night's murder.”
“Oh, God,” Claire muttered, feeling a mix of terror and nausea wash over her.
“You didn't know?”
“No,” she answered. Claire had avoided the newspapers and television for the last twenty-four hours for exactly this reason. She didn't want to know, but now she had no choice. “Another prostitute?”
“That would be too easy,” Nick began. “Her name's Tamara Sorenson, and I need your help on this one.”
“If Curtin even hears we spoke, I'm out the door.”
“He took her clothes,” Nick said quickly, “threw a black cocktail dress on her before he dumped her body—but that was
after
he raped and killed her. Which he did a day
before
he took Sharon Corbett for her moonlight swim in the Central Park lagoon.”
“Hold on,” Claire said. “Quimby hasn't taken any trophies that we know of. And he would have had to stash Ms. Sorenson's body somewhere for an entire day. None of this is consistent with his MO.”
“That's not even the half of it,” Nick continued. “Tamara Sorenson had terminal cancer. Hodgkin's lymphoma. ME said she had tumors the size of lemons in her spleen, liver, and brain.”
“This woman was how old?” Claire asked as she sifted through her mind all the symptoms and treatments for the disease.
“Twenty-eight.”
Claire's mind was already racing.
Tamara Sorenson was so young to have such advanced disease. Someone must have been treating her. But who? Or was she in complete denial about it, pretending it wasn't happening?
The saga of Todd Quimby had just become more than the hunt for a serial killer. He was now part of a bona fide medical mystery, something Claire could really sink her teeth into. But she had to be careful not to let Curtin, the five-hundred-pound gorilla, land on her head.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked Nick.
“For starters, I have to tell the victim's parents. I was hoping you'd come with me.”
“To make a death notification?”
“You're a doctor. I want to know more about Tamara's condition, and you know what questions to ask.”
Claire hesitated, Curtin's admonition looming large. She knew she was playing with fire, but this was worth a little heat.
“I just have some charts to sign and then I'm off shift,” she said.
“But we can't be seen anywhere around the hospital together, including outside, or I'm toast with Curtin.”
“Maggie's in on this,” Nick answered, referring to her bodyguard, Detective Stolls. “Just get in the car with her and she'll bring you to me.”
 
The Sorenson home was a huge, stately colonial in the super-upscale Westchester County suburb of Bedford, about thirty miles from Manhattan. Claire stood uncomfortably beside Nick as he rang the doorbell.
“How are you going to explain bringing a doctor with you?” she asked.
Nick hadn't thought about that. “Just go with the flow,” he said as the dead bolt turned and the door opened. A trim, toned, casually dressed woman stood before them.
“Mrs. Sorenson?” asked Nick.
“Yes, Gloria Sorenson,” she answered. “Can I help you?”
Nick displayed his shield and ID card. “I'm Detective Lawler from the New York City Police Department, and this is Claire Waters,” he said.
He wants her to think I'm his partner
, Claire realized, even more uncomfortable about the charade.
“Police?” Gloria said. “Is something wrong?”
“May we come in?” Claire asked gently.
“Oh, of course,” said Gloria, standing aside and allowing them to enter. The house was gorgeous, immaculate, beautifully furnished with large canvases of color-drenched abstract art.
“Michael!” Gloria shouted upstairs as she closed the door. “I need you, now. The police are here.”
“What happened?” exclaimed Michael Sorenson as he hurried down the stairs. He was a handsome, fit fiftysomething.
They're the perfect couple,
Claire thought,
and we're about to shatter their world.
“We're here about your daughter, Tamara,” said Nick.
“What about Tammy?” Michael asked, concerned.
Nick had done this many times, and it never got any easier.
“There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to tell you. We found your daughter in a park on the west side of Manhattan. Unfortunately, she's deceased.”
The Sorensons exchanged looks. Not of horror, but of confusion. “There must be some mistake,” Gloria said. “Tammy's on vacation in Hawaii.”
Now it was Nick's and Claire's turn to be confused.
“The woman we found had a driver's license in her purse identifying her as Tamara Sorenson at this address,” Nick said. He handed the license to Tammy's father, who showed it to his wife.
“That's Tammy,” Michael Sorensen replied. “But she never even goes to Manhattan. And she's five thousand miles away... .”
His voice trailed off, fearing the worst. Nick took out a photo from his coat pocket.
“This was taken by the medical examiner. We need you to make a positive identification.”
Gloria grabbed Michael's arm as Nick showed them the picture of their lifeless daughter's face.
“Yes, that's her. Oh, God. Oh, God,” cried Gloria, falling into Michael's arms. Michael looked around in shock, as if someone else would walk in and tell them it was all a horrible mistake.
“We're terribly sorry for your loss,” Nick said.
“How did she die?” Michael asked, tears in his eyes.
“I'm afraid she was murdered,” Nick said.
“That's just too horrible!” Gloria exclaimed.
“Do you know who killed her?” Michael asked, barely getting out the words.
“We think we do. And every cop in New York is looking for him right now,” Nick assured them.
Gloria turned to Michael. “Why did she tell us she was in Hawaii?”
Claire was wondering the same thing. “Was your daughter well enough to travel?” she asked them.
“Of course,” Michael said. “What kind of a question is that?”
The realization hit Nick and Claire at the same time
.
They didn't know.
Nick nodded to Claire. “Mr. and Mrs. Sorensen,” she said carefully. “The medical examiner performed an autopsy on your daughter. He found she had terminal cancer.”
“Impossible,” Michael said. “We're her parents, for Christ's sake. How would we not know something like that? If that were true, why wouldn't she tell us?”
“Frankly, we'd like to know that too,” replied Claire.
“When was the last time you heard from Tammy?” Nick asked.
“I spoke to her two days ago,” Gloria replied. “She sounded perfectly okay to me.”
“And you're sure she was calling from Hawaii,” said Nick.
“She couldn't have been,” Claire said, before the Sorensons could answer. “Tammy's cancer was advanced to the point where there's no way she could have made that kind of trip.”
“I don't understand,” Michael said. “You're saying she was so sick, but we saw her just a few weeks ago and she looked absolutely fine.”
Claire said what came next as gently as she could. “Your daughter had stage-five metastatic disease. Her cancer originated in her immune system and had infiltrated every major organ. I don't mean to be crass, Mr. and Mrs. Sorenson, but it's a wonder Tammy could even talk two days ago.”
Michael Sorenson eyed Claire. “You don't talk like any police officer I've ever spoken to,” he observed, “but you sound exactly like every doctor I know.”
Claire wasn't about to lie to these people. “I am a doctor,” she said, covering for Nick. “Detective Lawler asked me to come here tonight to help make sense of all this, and none of it makes any sense at all. Tammy couldn't have been cancer-free three weeks ago when you saw her, or even mobile, with the severity of cancer the medical examiner found in her.”
Michael was clearly getting irritated. “My daughter had a life-insurance physical two months ago,” he said, “and she was approved for the policy last week. We both know that never would've happened if even a trace of cancer had been found. How do you explain that, Doctor?”
Claire was absolutely flummoxed by this. “Scientifically, I can't,” she answered. “I've never heard of a tumor that grew so fast.” Then she had a thought. “Can you tell me what your daughter did for a living?”
“Tammy had a PhD in molecular biology,” Gloria said, starting to cry again. “She worked for a firm called Biopharix up in Cold Spring.”
“I haven't heard of them,” Claire replied, “but I'm sure Detective Lawler will be checking them out.”
“First, though, I'd like to check out your daughter's bedroom if that's okay with you,” Nick said.
“Oh, Tammy never changed the address on her license,” said Michael. “She hasn't lived here since she left for graduate school.”
“She has an apartment in White Plains,” Gloria added.
“Can I have your permission to search the apartment?” asked Nick.
“I'll get you the key,” Michael said. “Anything to help you find the person who killed our daughter.”
He left the room. Gloria's eyes, though, were on Claire. There was something about her, Gloria thought, something more than just curiosity about Tammy's cancer. She cared.
“Please,” Gloria now said to Claire, “when you find something out, you'll tell us, won't you? We have to know. She was my little girl.”
She was my little girl.
How many times did Amy's mother say that?
“I promise that you'll be kept apprised of every development,” Claire said to her, looking right at Nick to make sure he got the message.
“When can we get her?” Gloria asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“You can see her now,” Nick said, “and we'll release her body as soon as all the toxicology labs come back.”
Gloria closed her eyes. Just as Amy's mother had when she saw Claire for the first time after Amy was kidnapped.
 
Twenty minutes later, Nick's gloved hand turned the key in the lock of Tammy Sorenson's front door. She lived in a pleasant, newly renovated apartment complex just outside downtown White Plains, Westchester County's seat.
The conversation during the short ride had been one of stark confusion. Nick and Claire both thought that Tammy Sorenson was the piece of the Todd Quimby puzzle that didn't fit: She had a PhD, didn't live in the city, and was terminally ill. Why would Quimby have chosen her?

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