The Path of Silence (12 page)

“He was about my height, a little thinner, clean-shaven face, dark hair, brown eyes—he worked as a waiter at the Prince Excelsior Hotel, on the waterfront,” Ken said, trying to prod his memory.

“They all say they work but come month’s end, there’s never any money for rent,” the landlord murmured grievously.

I was not in the mood to discuss social injustice. I flashed him my badge again and asked him to show us to Jeffries’ apartment.

“He paid eight hundred a month for this hole?” I raised my voice when I saw the dingy cubby.

“All inclusive and it’s heated,” he answered threateningly.

“Really? Running water too?” My tone colored with sarcasm. Ken touched my arm, signaling me to stop.

Jeffries’ hotel salary wasn’t great but he should have been able to afford something better than this elevated dungeon. I looked around and found an explanation. He had a stack of racetrack forms, old lottery tickets, gambling incorporated. All the stubs represented losses of staggering proportions.

“Did you know any of Mr. Jeffries’ friends, girlfriends, or visitors?” I asked the manager, feeling he would not give me any useful information.

“I don’t bother my tenants,” he growled. “Is someone going to come and clean this up?” He motioned at the sparse furnishings and the few articles of clothing strewn around. Our district had sent a couple of uniformed officers last night. They’d told him what had happened to his tenant. He was probably still sore that they had roused him from his drunken slumber. I smelled the sour stench of fermenting whiskey on his breath.

Ken told him that social services and the police would take care of the cleanup and disposition of personal articles.

“How about Jeffries’ friend, the security guard, Mr. Amato, as our next stop?” I tipped my brows at Ken, when we drove out of the fading neighborhood.

The security guard’s parents lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood, in a neat, white-sided house with a well-trimmed lawn. I saw flowers blooming in the walkway borders.

The parents were obviously distressed by our visit—as was their son. He lay on the couch, in front of the TV, sucking on pop and munching chips. He was their only child. That explained why the twenty-eight year old sissy vegetated at home.

“Yeah, sure Pete had a part-time job,” he said. He sounded more upbeat than last night, when he had almost collapsed from trauma.

“Well, not really a part-time job,” he said, changing his mind.

I reached over and took away the chips. I told him to get rid of the pop. His mother shut off the TV and retired to the kitchen.

“You look healthy to me,” I said and sat down in front of him on the coffee table. “The shock must have worn off. Did he or didn’t have a part-time job?”

“Pete needed extra money,” he said and scratched his head. He slid his hand, heading toward his armpit. He reconsidered when he saw my frown.

“We’ve seen his apartment—and the gambling forms. Go on,” I urged.

“Yeah, Pete liked to bet on the ponies and…well, he needed money.”

“Where did he get the money for his hobby?”

“Giving blood, taking drugs…like tests, nothing illegal. You know, there are these ads in the paper, clinics and laboratories and chemical places that ask for volunteers to come in for a weekend of tests. They give you drugs, take your blood every couple of hours and ask you questions. They pay you good money for it.”

“That’s enterprising,” I murmured. I knew that pharmacological companies did testing but I’d never heard of anyone who had volunteered to spend a weekend taking remedies he didn’t need, just to earn money.

“What were the names of these places?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t bother my friends about things like that.”

We didn’t leave Mr. Spadafora our business cards. We didn’t want him to call us. But we gave them to Amato and told him to call us when his memory improved.

“That’s the medical connection,” Ken said, as we headed to grab lunch.

“A solid one. A volunteer goes for a weekend of tests. He would be fed drugs. They could knock him out for three days with a good tranquilizer. He would never know what had been done to him.”

“We’re drowning in medical quicksand,” he mumbled. I thought so too. I pointed at the Oregano Garden Restaurant. I felt like having a salad.

“Johns Hopkins is full of doctors who would fit the bill,” I said, when the waitress took our order.

“He could be anywhere except pediatrics,” Ken said. He’d ordered a fruit platter topped with yogurt and a calamari appetizer. I started to visualize duct tape over his mouth when his food came.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not Brenda’s boss. Yogurt and calamari?” I squinted.

“I’ll eat it separately,” he said, giving me an injured look.

“I hope so.”

He grinned. “But it’ll end up in the same place.”

Chapter 14

T
wo days later we sat in the small office, behind the morgue, while Joe paced and mused out loud. I kept a hand in front of my mouth, to hide a smirk.

Joe had visited Brenda at work, in the hospital garden patio restaurant, over lunch. The medical examiner thought she was a charming and delightful colleague.

“She said she was unattached, that you and she are just friends, Ken,” Joe said, smiling at my partner who for once looked like most people who find themselves in proximity of the morgue—gloomy and apprehensive.

Joe continued when Ken remained silent. “So, you don’t mind… I mean, it’s okay if we have lunch again, maybe dinner…” his voice trailed off.

I could just imagine Joe’s delight when Brenda confessed that she wasn’t married. Ken was just an old friend. Joe probably clapped his hands and exclaimed, “What a coincidence! I’m not attached either.” At this point Brenda probably turned the conversation to business because she just wanted to nudge Ken into opening his eyes to see that what he had others found desirable too. Brenda had contacted friends at Maryland Shock Trauma and the Greater Baltimore Medical Center. They gave her a lot of interesting information and she shared it with Joe.

A research group at Shock Trauma was doing computer modeling of design and fabrication of cranial implants. Three doctors, two specialists and a supervisor, were involved with the project. There were a lot of problems with the surgical fitting of implants. The traditional methods involved surgical procedures. These depended entirely on the surgeon’s skill. They were close to designing—in virtual state—a near-perfect fit. It would be customized for each patient. The implantation, however, still posed problems. One problem was material, another, the surgeon’s courage.

“I’m talking about cranium, bony defects,” Joe said, gesticulating. “There’s still a great deal of doubt and hesitation when it comes to stereolithography approach. They can produce a decent three-dimensional model of the defect site but we’re talking about the head here. These devices were implanted in the chest. There’s nothing to scan but tissues and organs.”

“That would be challenging,” I commented, glancing at Ken. He looked gloomy.

“Damn right! Brenda got the doctors’ names on the project…”

“Any of them named Martin?” I interjected.

He shook his head. “Jones, Difulho and Bahrain are the project team. But there are ton of Martins at Hopkins. Why Martin?”

I told him what we had found out at the IMF.

“So you figure this Martin guy was behind it?” he asked, scratching his head.

“You keep saying that guessing is not a part of your job. Coincidence is not a part of policeman’s job.”

“I don’t know of any doctor who would dare to do that in an accredited medical institution, certainly not at Hopkins,” he declared. “If it was sanctioned research, yes but not clandestine. They sure as hell didn’t reach this stage of excellence after a brief field trial. They had to experiment on many subjects, possibly hundreds. There’s no doctor who would be able to do that sort of thing, without someone noticing. You can’t experiment on your patients—not unless you’re comfortable with a high mortality rate. If that were the case, you’d end up before a review board. The hospital administration keeps success and failure statistics. They’d check. Then there is the patient’s family. They would ask questions. You’d get a reputation as a Grim Reaper. Who would come to you? There’s no way a doctor would be able to do these implants in a regular hospital.”

“If you’re having a pacemaker installed, how many doctors are there in the OR?” I asked.

“A team. There’s usually one in charge, an assistant, an anesthesiologist, a head nurse and a couple more—there’s no way that a doctor could sneak that kind of shit into a patient’s chest.”

“How about private medical institutions?”

“That’s possible but you’re still talking about a team effort.”

“Would a medical practitioner be able to perform that kind of operation in his private room, in his office?”

He shook his head. “That would be risky. The patient is out. You need someone to monitor him. Hell, he can swallow his tongue and choke or go into cardiac arrest. You’re shooting a device into his chest. You may get excessive bleeding or infection. It would be terribly risky but I suppose it’s possible.”

“What if it’s something so small that you only need a thumbnail device. You can shoot it into the chest—through a tube. How large is this micro-shock trigger?” I asked.

“Quigley showed me on video one of the designs they’re experimenting with. It’s about thumbnail size but that’s the trigger. You’d still need the device filled with a toxin.”

“Maybe someone had figured out how to combine the two,” I suggested.

“Meg, if they did, why wouldn’t they come out with it? Hell, they could harvest all the best grants at Hopkins. What am I saying? They could damn well run Hopkins if they’re that good.”

“Maybe they hope to harvest something larger, greater rewards than pure medical applications and beneficial miracles.”

“I suppose they could always sell it to the military,” he murmured.

I looked at Ken. His eyes were tracking the floor. He didn’t want to participate in this discussion.

“Our military pledges its allegiance to the US. It strives to protect its citizens, not execute them with micro bombs in their chests,” I said.

“Foreign interests,” he offered another suggestion.

“How about terrorists, Joe?”

He shrugged. “You could sell that kind of medical expertise damn well anywhere.”

“But why would you—if you can use it to control, anyone, anywhere?” I persisted.

“A God-complex?” Joe snickered.

“No. Just overwhelming greed and selfishness.”

“I’ll ask around. I’ll check on any Martins in the medical facilities.” He looked at Ken. “What’s the matter with you? You have a toothache or something?”

Ken raised his head and was about to reply, when his cell phone pinged.

I smiled at Joe, thanked him and dragged my partner outside.

“Do you think Amato’s memory has improved? We could drop by,” I suggested, when we were in the parking lot. “We could also go visit a couple of pharmacological outfits that ask for volunteers…”

“Not today.” He shut off his phone after listening to his message.

“Not another one?” My breath stuck somewhere inside my throat.

He shook his head. “Bourke wants us back in the office. The Feds have arrived from Washington. Tavistock called them. National security is threatened. Clouds are gathering over the green fields of banking finance.”

He sounded surprised by such a reactionary move. I wasn’t.

In my third year of law school, I’d done a class presentation about real-life cases of “gatekeepers”, lawyers and accountants who had acted as primary facilitators in money laundering schemes. The Longford Trust and Savings, a Tavistock Florida subsidiary, had waved a red flag at its parent, when a bright young assistant manager examined several newly opened accounts with corporate status. He’d wanted to establish personal contact with each corporation. However, he wasn’t able to meet his company’s obligation of “knowing your customer”. Tavistock’s experts determined that fourteen corporate accounts set up by lawyers and accountants, couldn’t be traced to their owners and beneficiaries. The corporations appeared to have been established in Florida but their headquarters kept changing. Finally, they were traced to the Bahamas. The accounts had been opened to gain access to the US financial system.

If not for the manager who had wanted to know his customers, shake their hands and leave them his business card, the laundering scheme would have gone unnoticed. Banking institutions needed a new kind of vigilance. And when the Chairman of the third largest US banking institution received a nasty message in the middle of the night—a waiter dropping dead right in front of him—the FBI involvement was not just warranted but mandated.

Chapter 15

K
en called Bourke to tell him that we were on our way. Bourke informed him that he would start the meeting without us. It was going to be a long session, exploratory and informal. Clint Hume, Jasper Resling and Sven Olsen were already there. Our FBI guests wouldn’t be lonely. There were three of them. We would meet them when we arrived.

“Do you know how much the room rates are at the Harbor Court Hotel?” Ken held the phone away, staring at me.

“Why?”

“Bourke says that they want to stay in an English country house environment. I think someone in Washington had recommended it to them. They came straight to the office. Adele is going to look after their accommodations.”

“Best Western Baltimore is not good enough for them?” I asked.

He gave me a reproachful look. Bourke probably heard my caustic comment.

He covered the receiver and explained. “It’s a multiple murder. They’ll be staying for a while. They’ll need decent accommodations.”

“Tell them to ask Mr. Tavistock to negotiate a corporate rate,” I said.

“Bourke just wants to give them a ballpark figure.”

“It’s a grand place. Loads of atmosphere. It’ll be at least a couple of hundred bucks a night.”

He passed it on to our boss and hung up.

The office coffee club used a drip-grind brand called Mount Helen Pure Volcanic Ash. The price was purely organic too—indecent. We stopped to pick up coffee at the Urban Bean. The manger’s handsome Mediterranean features darkened when he saw Ken. I introduced him. He smiled and gave me a chocolate biscuit.