Public Anatomy (22 page)

“This makes no sense,” Eli muttered. “Virginia was an employee at Gates. I’m sure of that.”

Meg waited, impatiently. “I feel like that guy on
Star Trek
, you know, always in front of a screen punching in Captain Kirk’s orders.”

“You mean, Chekhov?”

“Yeah, Chekhov. That’s me.”

“No way, you’re much prettier.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Go to Anesthesia. Let’s look up the doctor, Singh.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Moments later, a similar profile appeared for the anesthesiologist found in the casino in Tunica.

Professor of Anesthesiology and Obstetrics/Gynecology Specialty / Research Interest: Epidural anesthesia techniques in OB/GYN

Meg turned to Eli. “So, two of the three victims were Gates Memorial employees.”

“The file on Virginia Brewer must be a mistake.”

“Then let’s say all three worked at Gates.”

“Not much to go on, is it?” Eli admitted. “We don’t know if the nurse anesthetist and the anesthesiologist even knew each other.”

“Maybe there is no connection between the victims,” Meg offered. “Maybe the killer’s just after healthcare professionals. He wants to show power over them, so he not only kills but also takes the risk of lingering at the scene and removing body parts.”

“So how does this killer select them?”

“Could be random,” Meg said. “Any doctor or nurse who presents an opportunity.”

“If it’s random,” Eli said, not wanting to accept the possibility, “there’s no way to stop him.”

Eli hoped Meg would refute this, but she didn’t.

“Even if we do find a connection between the victims,” she said, pointing at the computer screen, “there may be more deaths no matter what we do.”

Eli retrieved the copy of the morning paper from her desk. He read the headline from page one.

The Organist Claims Another Victim: Death Count Rising

Meg reached for the paper, but Eli took a step back and kept reading.

“Dr. Meg Daily performed the autopsies. During these organ recitals, she found that specific bodily organs had been removed from the victims. When asked if she believed The Organist would kill again, she answered affirmatively.”

“That son of a bitch.”

Eli lowered the paper below eye level. “The Organist?”

“I never said that.”

“But you said organ recital.”

“Well, yeah.”

Eli folded the paper and laid it on her desk.

“Organ recital. The Organist.” He smiled, raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations. You’ve given our killer a name.”

The long summer days allowed Greenway to train on weeknights. If he could leave the hospital by six thirty and get to Shelby Farms by seven, he could put in a half hour each of biking, swimming, and running and be finished by dusk at eight thirty. If he had the weekend off and started at dawn, he could train for three, maybe four hours straight before the heat became prohibitive. Even with in-hospital call every third night, he could train at least four times a week, often five. That left very little time for a social life. But the Wolfpack Triathlon was a short-term goal, held once a year in late August. After, Greenway would focus on finding a job. Who needed friends anyway?

With less than a year left of his residency, he knew the prime OB/GYN positions would fill early, especially in coveted locations like Vail and Aspen or Breckenridge, where he could ski in winter and hike and mountain bike during the warmer months.

In the park’s pavilion, he changed from hospital scrubs into a lightweight pair of drip-dry shorts. Dedicated, goal-oriented, he was right on target with his training. With just a week to go before the Wolfpack, he knew he’d have to push it during the final few days. He found the idea of a television crew stopping by at any time to film him distracting. As he stepped out of the pavilion, the distraction became reality.

“What’s your first event today?”

At least she had gotten rid of the suit and was dressed more appropriately this time. Someone had given Carol Baylor a dark orange T-shirt from The Rendezvous Restaurant. She had taken the front of the shirt and tied it in a knot just above her navel. That and a snug pair of white shorts and she didn’t look half bad.

“Event?” Greenway asked.

“You know what I mean. Biking or swimming, or—?”

“Swimming,” he said, cutting her off. “Always the lake first. Then the bike. Then running. Same order as the triathlon. Always.”

She gave him a salute. “Got it.”

He walked toward the lake.

A guy holding a heavy camera hoisted it onto his shoulder and began to film.

Greenway turned toward them. “I do some warm-ups first, stretching, stuff like that.”

“Don’t change anything for us,” Baylor said. “We want your normal routine.”

After a period of abbreviated stretching, he waded out into the cloudy lake, then cut into the water, his shoulders slicing the still surface.

They filmed until he was out of sight. Then they took a position by his bike and waited.

He emerged from the water fingering his stopwatch and he ran toward Baylor and the cameraman. He slipped on a pair of cross trainers, mounted the bike, and without a word to either of them, took off on the path, a trail of lake water dripping behind him. Over the next half hour, he passed them four times. On the last pass, he parked the bike, set his watch, and tilted a bottle of water in preparation for the day’s run. The evening temperature had dropped from 101 to 99. Baylor waited for him to swallow.

“Does training take your mind off it?”

He screwed the cap on. “Off what?”

“Work.”

He shrugged and pulled his foot behind him in a stretch to his mid-back. “I guess.”

“After what happened, I can only imagine.”

He was surprised she knew, but he kept stretching.

“What is it like to lose a patient?”

Looking directly at her, he said, “It sucks.”

She had no response to that.

Greenway walked toward the race path.

Baylor and her cameraman followed. “The newspapers report that an investigation at the hospital is underway. Are the doctors at fault?”

“As opposed to whom, Ms. Baylor? The patient?”

She waited a moment. “Tell me about Liza French.”

He turned around. “What about her?”

“The newspapers are not very complimentary to her.”

“She can take care of herself.”

Baylor nodded. “Do you take care of her?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Seems your relationship with her goes beyond the professional.”

“I thought this was about my training for a triathlon?”

“This is about you, Thomas. And it appears that ‘you,’” she mimed quotation marks with her fingers, “include Dr. Liza French.”

Thomas Greenway pressed the tiny buttons on his stopwatch.

“She is quite attractive,” Baylor continued. “You two would make a spectacular couple.”

He glared at her. “We’re through for today.” He took off in a dead sprint.

Baylor and the cameraman were gone when he finished the route. Greenway entered the pavilion to change clothes. The park closed at dusk and with only a faint orange horizon remaining, he was pushing it. The parking lot was empty except for his Jeep Cherokee.

Just as he entered the changing room, the flash of a camera surprised him. Someone ran past him and out the door. He ran after the photographer, yelling for them to stop. But outside, he saw no one.

No fingerprints were identified on any of the pieces of canvas found at each crime scene. The Organist obviously wanted the anatomical sketches to be found, but not traced. Basetti had taken them to the forensics lab. He told Lipsky and Eli that he had a series of sophisticated tests to perform. Basetti was able to identify the type of ink and the canvas structure. But neither the ink nor the type of canvas were unique, both commonly used by artists in a variety of settings, from introductory college courses to sophisticated galleries in New York and Paris.

Eli hoped that Basetti’s work might lead them to a particular artist, or at least narrow the field down from any artist proficient at sketching on canvas. This dead end prompted Eli to delve into highly sophisticated research and investigative work.

In the phone book, Eli found three art supply businesses. He hoped that one of the stores sold the type of canvas found at the crime scenes. Of the three, Dekko’s Art Emporium on South Main caught his attention. The store was in the heart of the Arts District, where aspiring artists were buying up loft space at semiaffordable prices above art galleries that might eventually display their work.

The Memphis Arts District is a trendy new development south of Beale Street, with boutique shops, coffee houses, and apartments. A historic district once home to depots and tracks for the city’s train station, the Arts District represents nouveau chic juxtaposed with the leading edge of urban decay.

Eli passed the Lorraine Hotel on Mulberry Street, now home to the National Civil Rights Museum. He crossed over to South Main and parked in front of Dekko’s. Neon tube lighting adorned the entrance.
Two large murals hung on either side of the door, a profile of a young Elvis in a leather jacket on one side, BB King embracing Lucille on the other. Wind chimes sang as Eli entered. A middle-aged woman with gray hair stood behind the counter.

“I’m looking for canvas cloth,” Eli told her, wondering if that was correct artistic terminology.

The woman nodded. “What size and weight do you need?”

Eli showed her the piece of canvas that Lipsky had reluctantly let him keep. He flipped it over so the sketch of the navicular bone faced down. The woman pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, rubbed the canvas between her fingers.

“This is high quality canvas. I do believe we carry it.”

Eli followed her down an aisle lined by shelves filled with easels, canvasses, and large tablets of specialized art paper specifically for charcoal or watercolor. They passed a stack of bristol board. Eli had no idea what that was.

“Let me see the paper again.”

Eli gave it to her. But this time while examining it, the woman flipped the paper over. She stared at the illustration. Kept staring.

“What’s wrong?” Eli asked.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just—Did you draw this?”

“No,” Eli told her. “I found it.”

She admired the sketch again. “There was an artist who came into the store a couple of times. She did sketches like this.”

“What do you mean, like this?”

“Detailed anatomical drawings. Skeletons, bones. Her work was beautiful, but sort of odd.” She handed the canvas back to Eli and asked, “Do you know the artist?”

The question surprised Eli. “No, I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Where did you find the sketch?”

“I bought it, actually. At an estate sale. Sold for five dollars. Can you imagine that?” Eli couldn’t believe how easily he had taken up lying.

The woman began to search through her stack of canvas again.

“But I’m trying to find the artist. I want to buy more of her work.”

That statement seemed to grab the woman’s starving-artist sensibility.

“She orders a lot of canvas from us. Has it delivered directly to her place.” The saleswoman hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to divulge any more information.

“I’m a collector of sorts,” Eli added, hoping to up the ante. “I’d be willing to pay her good money if only I could contact her.”

This was enough.

“Let me see what I can find.”

Back at the counter, the woman began thumbing through a thick register. “Here it is. She has a loft studio just down the street.”

Eli leaned over to see the address.

The woman turned the register toward him.

This allowed Eli to read the artist’s name.

Helen Claire.