Wicked Release (23 page)

The silence was tense, but not altogether uncomfortable. He squeezed her hand, pulling her out into the hallway. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go find out what the hell these records say.”

37

S
am led the way down the elevator and into the back of the hospital where the morgue was. After walking down the long corridor, he opened the door to where Christine was elbows deep in Dylan's autopsy. Her lab coat was stained crimson and she had several bright lights craned over the body. She blinked, looking up at them as they entered her exam room.

“McCloskey?” she said, startled, before looking to Jess. “Jess, hi. What can I do for you?”

“We had a question. Neither of us really understands medical writing and we thought you could maybe have a look at this and tell us what it says?” Sam nodded to Jess who stepped forward, handing the medical records to the ME.

She held up her gloved hands, signaling for Jess to hold on a moment. “Unless you want Dylan's DNA all over your papers, that is.”

Jess scrunched her nose. “No, thanks.”

Christine snapped the gloves off, tossing them into a special bin beside her table, and then held out her clean palm. “Okay, let's have a look.” She took a few minutes to read, flipping carefully through the pages. “It looks like a lawyer was trying to get a malpractice suit off the ground, but he didn't have much of a case. And the medical records are old. Twelve years or so?”

Jess nodded. “Yeah.”

“Who's the lawyer?” Sam asked craning his neck to see.

“Um . . .” Christine flipped to the first page. “Burt Horowitz. Of Horowitz & Schacter law firm.” She pressed her glossy, red lips together, her black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. “Where'd you get this? They don't typically release records like this to the family.”

“Oh, um, I don't really know. It was in my sister's personal effects when I picked them up.” Jess glanced nervously at Sam, who flashed her a quick, reassuring smile. “I was young when they died and no one would really tell me anything because I was a minor.” She gave her best innocent performance. “I was just hoping to find a little closure.”

Christine smiled warmly at Jess, her brown eyes so dark, they looked nearly black. “I lost my dad a few years ago,” she said. “I know the feeling. Here,” she said, gesturing to a seat on the other side of the room. “Why don't we sit down . . . away from the corpse.” She had a dark sense of humor, but Jess kind of liked that about the medical examiner.

“That'd be nice,” Jess said, making her way around Dylan's body on the table.

Sam's phone chirped and he grabbed it from his pocket. “You good here alone, Jess? Some lab results just came in.”

She nodded. “We're fine.”

For a moment, it looked as though Sam was about to kiss her, but quickly thought better of it as he backed out the door.

From her desk, Christine grabbed a staple remover and held it up. “Do you mind if I unstaple it? Just a lot easier to read that way.” Jess nodded and Christine took the seat next to her. “This must be really hard on you. Dealing with your sister's affairs and then this popping up amidst everything else.”

Jess paused, careful not to reveal too much. “Yeah. Truth be told, it was a nice distraction.”

Christine nodded thoughtfully before placing the second page between them so they could each look. “Well, anyway, this is really just a basic medical record. It has the detailed breakdown of when your parents were brought in as well as the names of the original EMTs who were on the site of the crash. Here are the ER doctors who were on call that evening. They usually list any surgeons later—with the surgical notes.” She flipped quickly toward the back and nodded. “Yep, here they are. Anyway, it looks like your father was dead on arrival, but your mom was alive, but barely.” Christine paused, looking up just in time to see Jess wince at the information. “Oh, shit. I'm sorry . . . I get into my doctor zone and I just sort of shut myself off from what I'm explaining. Do you want me to stop?”

Jess shook her head. “No, I'm fine. She wasn't conscious, was she? My mother.”

Christine hesitated before looking back down at the papers, flipping to the next page. “No, she wasn't conscious.”

“Why did they lie? They told me that she was dead upon impact like my father.”

Wrinkles formed at Christine's pinched brow. “You were young, right?” Jess nodded. “Are you
sure
that's what they told you? Don't get me wrong, it's just . . . sometimes with trauma, especially when we're young, we mishear the information.”

“I think I would remember them telling me my parents were dead . . .”

Christine's eyebrows came together, the moment of empathy flashing quickly. “Yes, of course. She was brain-dead on the scene. That might be what you heard.”

Jess closed her eyes tightly, conjuring up the memories of that horrible night.
Could that be?
Her sister had been home for spring break from college. The call came from the hospital well after the crash. Well after the first responders had gone home. They said that they did everything they could, but her parents had passed away. At least she thought that's what they said. Then again, they were actually speaking to Cass and Jess was just eavesdropping. It's completely possible she had misheard.

“Here, this language right here describes the series of tests they gave to your mother several times at the hospital. They test these things over and over again with different doctors because they want to be certain.”

Jess scanned the notes as Christine flipped to the next page. “And here. Your mother was an organ donor. This is the paperwork and notes on her surgery as well as the information of who her organs went to.” Her brows knitted deeper together. “That's weird. It's against, like, every HIPAA law in the books for you to know who her organs went to. Where'd you say you got this again?”

But Jess barely heard the question. They had had her mom in surgery. Her mom was alive—maybe not functional, but her heart was beating, her blood was rushing, her lungs working. “You mean—I-I could have said good-bye?” The words choked Jess, locking up high in her throat.

“I don't know. According to the notes, she started crashing almost immediately on being brought in and they began harvesting the organs very quickly. There may not have been any time. I don't know if this helps at all, but it looks like your mom's donation saved a lot of lives. Her heart, her kidneys, her liver, bone marrow . . .”

Jess took a deep breath, calming her rush of sorrow. Putting it back deep inside her gut in a box that was tightly shut and locked. “It does help. A little. And just knowing exactly what happened to them will be good for me, I think.”

“Good.” As Christine handed the stack of papers back over to Jess, she dropped them and they fluttered to the floor. “Oh, jeez.” They both dropped to their knees as they gathered the papers together. “Sorry . . . I'm such a klutz.”

“You're preaching to the choir there,” Jess said. Though she attempted to smile, it was halfhearted, the sorrow still taking up so much space in her body. Once they'd finished gathering the fallen papers, they each stood and Jess turned, finding herself looking into Dylan's dead, cold eyes.

“Such a shame. Found anything notable yet in him?”

“Other than a cocktail of drugs in his tox screen? No.”

Jess froze. “What drugs?” She knew she had seen something shoved into his nasal cavity, but Dylan had specifically said in his interview with Sam that he didn't do any drugs other than O. He didn't do anything that would permanently harm his brain. It was Sam who told him that Biophuterol was dangerous.

Christine went back to her clipboard. “The usual. Heroin, cocaine, meth, O. I don't know when these kids are gonna learn.”

“Yeah, right.” On the other side of the table, a cooler of ice sat half-hidden from view. The sort of container that people bring to football games or carry their lunches in, only slightly bigger. It was white with a red top and some sort of sticky residue on the side, as though there had been a sticker there and the adhesive never washed off. Jess recognized a couple of bright red organs sitting on top of the ice and her mind went directly back to the reading she did the night before about Biophuterol's effects. “I didn't realize you iced the organs during the exams.”

Christine sighed, pulling her gloves back into place. Her patience with Jess being in her exam room had apparently worn off. “It's precautionary. Just in case someone decides they want to run a second tissue sample, I prefer to keep the organs as preserved as I can until we're ready to dispose of them.”

Christine reached into Dylan's chest cavity, pulling out his heart. It was bloody and cherry red, just like in the picture Jess had seen the other night. Christine held the heart up like some kind of ancient relic. “I'm impressed,” she said. “Even some of the detectives here get squeamish at seeing a human heart so up close.”

Jess remained calm even though her belly roiled at the sight. “Guess I'm desensitized. Is that normal for a heart, postmortem? To be so bright . . . so, I don't know . . . oxygenated?”

Christine nodded, putting the heart on a scale. “Sure. Pretty normal. This one's in pretty good shape for a drug user.”

The effects of Biophuterol weren't exactly common knowledge yet. Jess wanted to blurt out that was because the sole purpose of Dylan's drug of choice was to keep organs preserved, but she kept quiet. Instead, she backed up to the door. “Well, I'll leave you to it. Thanks again for this.”

But she still had so many questions. Why would someone go to such great lengths to get her parents' death records? And why was Dr. Brown so nervous that he had to secretly snail-mail it to Cass?

Nothing was adding up.

38

A
fter Sam left Jess with Christine in the morgue, he rushed upstairs just in time to bump into his partner.

“Hey,” Matt said. “You look weird. What's going on?”

“Nothing, I'm fine. Lab results are in.” Sam thrust the information into Matt's hands and he skimmed it quickly.

“They found chloroform on his clothes?” asked Matt.

“Yeah and Jess was right. The drugs were impacted so deep in his nose, it looked like they were forced. This wasn't a simple overdose. He was given something to pass out and killed while he slept,” said Sam.

“Well that explains the lack of defensive wounds. Still no cause of death from Christine?”

Sam shook his head. “She's down there working on it.”

“It's still most likely an overdose.”

“Yeah, a forced overdose.” Sam said.

“Should we go interview his mom? She may know if he was going out to meet someone.”

Sam's attention was only half on Matt and what he was saying as he searched for the Law Offices of Horowitz and Schacter on his phone. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Sure.”
Bingo.
Their practice moved out of Portland to Brunswick eleven years ago. “Why don't you take Rodriguez and go interview the mom without me? I've got something to check up on.”

“What's up? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, everything's good,” he said. But if Matt's frown was any indication, he didn't believe him. He wouldn't have believed himself if he were in Matt's shoes.

Sam dialed Jess, even though she was just downstairs. She answered on the first ring.

“I have to go check on some things for a couple of hours. Are you going to be okay here?” he asked.

“I'll be fine,” she said. To her credit, she didn't sound afraid.

“You sure? I could bring you with me—”

“I'll be fine. I'm just going to finish up the files from the crime scene and take a nap.”

He didn't love leaving her alone, but he was done trying to control his friends and loved ones. “Okay. Matt's around. If you need anything give him a call.”

“I will. I promise.”

The drive to Brunswick was tense. Sam pulled into the sleepy Maine town within forty minutes of leaving the precinct. A white wooden sign creaked in the wind, swinging from a pole outside of the small brick-and-mortar office building.

He pushed through the office door and was met by an older but friendly looking receptionist. She had cotton-colored curly hair and glasses that hung off her neck on one of those beaded attachment things that people buy at Walgreens.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile, her speech slow, but friendly. “Do you have an appointment?”

Despite his nervous energy, Sam returned her smile. “I don't. But I need to see Burt Horowitz. It's very important.”

“Oh, okay. Let me see if he has an opening.” Pulling her glasses high onto the bridge of her nose, she leaned over the computer screen. After several minutes and the slowest typing known to man, she looked up to Sam. “He can see you now.”
Well, I should hope so,
Sam thought.
The place is completely empty
.

She hobbled to her feet and led him through a door into a back area that broke off into four different offices. Sam never liked lawyers. In his line of work, they were the bane of his existence, even when they were on his side. But even more so when they weren't.

The door at the end of the small hallway was open. There was a copper engraved nameplate adhered to the wall outside of it that said
Burt Horowitz
.

“Burt,” the elderly receptionist said, “this gentleman is here to see you.”

“Thank you,” Sam said to her with a nod.

Sam entered the office behind her as a man in his midsixties stood to greet him. He was tall and lean like a beanpole. The man must have been six foot four at least. His hair was mostly silver, with just a hint of dark brown at his temples as a reminder of the color he used to sport. His face creased with a friendly smile, lines that were evidence of decades of happiness and laughter. Sam caught his own reflection in a mirror hanging behind Burt's desk, noting that the only lines creasing his own face were at his brow and eyes. Unlike the lawyer before him, Sam had zero smile wrinkles.
Until Jess reenters the picture,
he thought to himself.

“Thank you, Sylvie,” Burt said, quickly shutting the door behind her. He gave Sam a wide-eyed look before taking his seat back behind his desk. “She can't type worth crap, has no idea how to use the Internet, and I swear that she was there for the birth of Christ.”

Sam cracked a smile. “But?”

“But nothing.” Burt grinned, throwing his hands in the air. “She's the worst receptionist in the world! She's been here since we opened our offices. There's a loyalty there.”

“That's big of you.”

“So, what can I do for you, Mr.—”

“Actually, it's Detective McCloskey.” Sam reached across the desk, exchanging a firm handshake with the lawyer. He could almost get behind this guy. A man who valued loyalty and watched out for one of his own? He liked that. “Call me Sam.”

“Burt Horowitz. But you knew that, already. So, what brings you in, Sam?”

“I'm here about a case you worked a long time ago. More than a decade ago, actually. But, it didn't seem like anything was pursued outside of a quick glance into some medical records. I was curious what made you initially look into it and why you ultimately dropped it.”

“I'm happy to help. I just need some ID, Detective.”

Sam nodded, pulling out his badge and identification card.

Burt glanced at his badge, directing his attention back to the computer. “What was the case? If you have the names of the people attached, I can likely search for it.” He typed something into his computer. “I mean, I can't guarantee that I'll remember, but years ago Sylvie transcribed all our case files into this database. Not that that means anything. That woman's even worse with filing than she is with typing.”

“Nicholas and Renee Walters.” As soon as Sam said the names, Burt's entire demeanor changed. His friendly, welcoming smile dipped into a frown and those bright brown eyes sparked with fear.

He pulled his hands away from the keyboard and stared directly at Sam. “You need to leave,” he said, and pointed to the door. “Out. Now.”

“You look scared, Mr. Horowitz.” Sam asked.

“Please, just go.”

“Did someone chase you off of the case?”

“You could say that. I was hired to look into their deaths as a potential malpractice suit. I barely got the papers filed and medical records released to me before the threats began.”

“What threats?”

“Our cat was left mutilated on our doorstep. Terrifying notes were left for us—at my office, at my wife's office. Our kids would come home with the notes in their backpacks.”

“Did you report it?”

“No, and I've always felt horrible about that. And about what I had to do.”

“What? What did you have to do?” Sam asked, the edge of the desk biting into his arm. But the pain felt good. The pain kept him alert. Present.

“For the first and only time in my life, I had to lie to my client. I told him that I looked into it and that there was no foul play. Everything was on the up and up.”

“But it wasn't?”

“No, God no. Nicholas's records were fine. They all matched up.”

“But Renee's?”

Burt shook his head. “I really shouldn't say any more. I can't risk it. I moved our practice out here to get away from Portland. To start fresh. Uprooted my family, my partner. Thank God he was willing to make the move, too.”

Burt stood, opening his office door and holding it for Sam. “I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything else.”

Sam stood and pushed the chair in. “Thank you for your time, Burt. Just one more question—who hired you to investigate? Who was your client?”

Burt's grip on the door tightened. Giving a quick look around, he dropped his voice as though someone may be listening in on them. “A detective on your force. A Detective Straimer.”