Damaged (24 page)

Wednesday, May 16, 8:00 a.m.

S
trangely, she had a great morning run.

After spending most of the night awake, Kate thought she’d lose steam halfway through the park, but her body hummed with energy. Next time she saw Finn, she’d have to thank him for scaring her out of her mind. It’d given her a real adrenaline rush. When she got home, Alaska flopped on his bed and refused to move until she poured his food.

She knew she’d pay the price later but right now she was filled with a sense of purpose. She put on her favorite suit. The new cream-colored one. She remembered she had it on the day Randall had assigned her the MacAdam case. She remembered the way he’d looked at her, the speculative gleam in his eyes. How the next time she met with him the speculative gleam had changed to a look that both terrified and excited her. And then John Lyons had assigned her the TransTissue file. She’d been so eager to show him what she could do.

But John Lyons had tried to use her. He had thought that if he put her on the TransTissue file—a newly admitted lawyer, an associate on probation with a lot to prove
and
a lot to lose—she’d be more concerned about pleasing him than digging too deeply in her client’s ambiguous dealings.

It wasn’t TransTissue that concerned her right now. It was John Lyons. He was hiding something.

She was going to find it, if it was the last thing she did. And she knew it would probably be the last thing she did at LMB.

Alaska lay on his bed, already dozing after his vigorous run and filling breakfast. She patted him goodbye. He thumped his tail softly.

She locked the door carefully and drove to her office. It was foggy, but there was a brightness behind the gray. The sun would break through later.

She pulled into the parkade and walked briskly to the elevator. A thought suddenly hit her. Maybe Bob Duggan hadn’t asked her to be taken off the file. Maybe John Lyons had lied. Maybe he was trying to undermine her confidence so she wouldn’t ask any more questions.

Jesus. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. No more maybes. Whatever John was up to, she wouldn’t let him get away with it.

She’d spent the past fifteen years trying to regain her life. No one was going to screw with it.

It was time to hit the computer and see what kind of slimy trail her mentor had left behind.

Dr. Marilla Olsen shook Ethan’s hand with a grip that was warm yet unrelenting. “Detective Drake, Detective Lamond,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She led them through her office door, which looked the same as all the other doors dotting the southwest corridor of the GH2.

Ethan and Lamond sat on the green office chairs facing
her desk. Ethan glanced around. Numerous framed diplomas and awards hung on the pale green wall behind her chair. A large photo was placed on one end of the credenza. It showed two smiling little girls, one with glasses and the other whose puff of black hair was pulled to the top of her head with a red elastic. The older girl had her mother’s eyes, round and wide set.

Wouldn’t he love to have two little girls to tickle. He’d thought he’d be a father in the next couple of years, sharing the joys and sleepless nights of a little Drake with Kate.

He tore his gaze away from the photo. Dr. Olsen moved behind her desk, folding her hands in front of her. She wore no wedding band. No jewelry at all, which he supposed was due to the nature of her work. She’d need her hands free and clear to handle the drills and saws required for orthopedic surgery.

“What can I do for you, detectives?” Dr. Olsen asked. Her voice was cool, as were her eyes. The police were never welcomed with open arms at the GH2. Dr. Olsen, Division Head of Surgery, had agreed very reluctantly to meet with them. He was sure she’d been thoroughly debriefed by the hospital administration’s risk management team about what not to say. She now surveyed them with an expression that Ethan knew did not bode well for their investigation.

“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice, Dr. Olsen,” Ethan began. It was crucial to set the right tone with her. Intimidation or demands would just get her back up. Today would be about finesse; about two professions overlapping due to circumstances beyond their control; about each professional trying to do their job as best they could. “We are here regarding an investigation into the recent murders of several young girls.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you mean the judge’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

She processed that silently. She was not a woman who was easily discomfited, he could tell.

“Why does your investigation involve the hospital?” she asked finally.

“Based on certain findings that all the victims share, we have reason to believe the killer has a surgical background.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t going to wait and see if she would add anything to that noncommittal response. He knew she wouldn’t. He got straight to the point. “We would like to know if any of the surgeons operating out of the GH2 have been recently disciplined or have been behaving in a concerning manner.”

There was a slight tightening of her hands.

Bingo.

“As you know, Detective Drake, disciplinary matters are held in strictest confidence. I am not at liberty to answer your question.”

Lamond shifted in his seat. They’d expected this response, but Ethan had hoped that the brutality of the cases might loosen Dr. Olsen up a bit.

“Dr. Olsen, we have three dead girls. All of them were dismembered.” She held his gaze but he thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. He leaned forward. “We need to catch this guy before he kills another girl.”

“I understand.” Her fingers tensed. “But you need to understand that I cannot disclose confidential information.” She stood and walked around her desk. “I’m sorry.”

“You must understand the gravity of the situation. This guy is on the prowl. And he knows what he is doing.”

Her expression remained stony. “I am sorry, Detective.” She walked to the door. “I wish I could be of help.”

He made one last-ditch attempt. “You are in the business of saving lives, Dr. Olsen. That’s what I try to do, too. We’re on the same team.”

She shook her head. “No, Detective, we are not. I have a duty to protect my staff.” She held open the door. “Good day.”

He glanced back at the photo of Dr. Olsen’s daughters. He waited until her gaze followed his. “And I have a duty to protect the public.” She couldn’t miss his meaning. He turned toward the door. “If you decide you can help us, here’s my card.”

She nodded brusquely. “Good luck, Detective.” She took his card and closed the door on their heels.

“Damn,” he muttered. He’d hoped he could crack her.

Lamond said softly, “She knows something.”

“Yeah. But how are we going to find out?”

They walked in silence down the long corridors, stopping to grab a coffee at the ubiquitous Tim Hortons counter in the lobby. His double-double didn’t inspire any great ideas. They rode down the elevator.

Ethan drained his cup and tossed it in the garbage. “I think we’ll have to start from the ground up and hope we hit on something.”

“I thought this was the ground up.” Lamond glanced around the underground parking.

Ethan rewarded his joke with a brief smile. He appreciated his partner’s efforts to not let their latest disappointment defeat them. “A surgeon couldn’t do a dismemberment in an O.R. suite, could he? Too many people around.”

Lamond stared at him. “Yeah. You’re right. So where do you think he’d do it? In his garage?”

“Maybe…” He waited until they were in his car. “Or
maybe he’d just go down to where the bodies were waiting for him.” He threw Lamond a sideways glance.

When Lamond gave a rueful moan, he slapped Lamond on the back. “This time, though, don’t throw up.”

Dead ends. One after another.

She had a knack for finding them.

This time, John Lyons had led her on a merry chase. And so far, he was way ahead of her.

She stared at the Registry of Joint Stock Companies Web page and jabbed the Enter key on her computer dispiritedly. She had hoped that John Lyons might have inadvertently left a paper trail that would show his business interests. And possibly illuminate his connection to TransTissue. If ever a case reeked of conflict of interest, it was this one.

But as soon as the site loaded, she saw the first wrong assumption she’d made. She couldn’t search by individual name. It had to be by business name. And she doubted that John Lyons would be listed in any official capacity with TransTissue.

The results scrolled on to her computer screen. She was right. TransTissue’s registration was free and clear. No mention of John Lyons.

So TransTissue was a dead end. And since she couldn’t search by an individual’s name, John Lyons was a dead end. She nibbled on her lower lip. The U.S. cases had found the tissue suppliers—not the processors—guilty of negligence.

She straightened. She was starting at the wrong end. She needed to track down BioMediSol, see if she could get her hands on the original reports BioMediSol sent with the tissue used to make the product in Brad Gallivant’s knee.

She typed
BioMediSol
in the Registry of Joint Stock Com
panies search engine. The results loaded on to the screen. She stared at them, puzzled. She’d expected BioMediSol to have an industrial address, a large corporate structure and company headquarters based in Toronto or the U.S.

Instead, BioMediSol was owned and operated by a man named Craig Peters. His civic address was an apartment on Church Street, Halifax. The business mailing address was a P.O. box.

She printed out the record. Church Street was in a densely populated south end neighborhood filled with old Victorian homes like hers. In fact, it wasn’t too far away from where she lived.

Was this Craig Peters actually harvesting body parts in his apartment? She pictured blood dripping through the ceiling of the tenant beneath him.

Don’t be ghoulish.
It could all be perfectly legit.

There was only one way to find out.

She grabbed her purse.

“D
etective Drake?”

The smooth tones of Dr. Olsen’s voice filled Ethan’s ear. His heart skipped, then resumed in double time. “Yes.”

“I only have a minute. Don’t ask me to repeat this.”

Fortunately, she’d gotten him at his desk. Ethan flipped open his notepad.

“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I can’t stop thinking about those girls…”

He waited.

She said softly, “We have one surgeon out on medical leave.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Mike Mazerski. M-a-z-e-r-s-k-i. He’s a neurosurgeon.”

Ethan paused. The way the limbs had been removed from the victims, he’d been expecting an orthopedic surgeon. “Why is he on medical leave?”

“He’d been behaving erratically in the O.R. We put him on leave for psychiatric assessment on Friday.”

Ethan’s pulse accelerated. “We need to interview him and the O.R. team.”

“I’ve done more than I should. I can’t do any more than that, Detective.”

The phone clicked in his ear.

The apartment buildings on Church Street were vintage south end Victorian. Sprawling and wood shingled, with attractive trims and balconies, some were nicely kept town-homes. Others were well past middle age and leaned wearily against one another.

Kate paused on the sidewalk and studied Craig Peters’ building. It was smaller, more like a large house divided into flats. Run-down. In fact, typical student digs. She double-checked the number. She had the right place. But it seemed bizarre that this was the official domicile of the CEO of a tissue brokering company. Something was not adding up.

She walked up the stairs to the front door. Several apartment numbers were nailed to the wall. But not number four, Craig Peters’ listed address.

She backed down the stairs. She double-checked the registry record she’d printed out. It clearly said apartment four.

She scanned the house again. On the far corner of the building by the driveway was a small four nailed to the wall. An arrow under it pointed to the back.

She stuffed the record in her purse and hurried down the driveway. It was narrow, probably an old carriage lane, but wide enough to squeeze a car through. When she reached the back, she saw there was a small paved parking lot. It was empty.

Three second-story balconies hung over the parking lot, jammed with the usual student accessories: empty beer cartons, barbecues and cheap plastic lawn furniture. A tattered Nova Scotia flag hung forlornly over the railing of one.

At the far end of the house she spotted a nondescript door. It sat in the shadow of the flag-draped balcony. She walked toward it. A small number four marked it as the final apartment of the building.

Taking a deep breath, she mentally ran through her story one more time. Posing as a features reporter was flimsy and completely unoriginal, but it was the best she could come up with on the seven-minute drive between Lower Water Street and Church. Her stomach churned. If the bar society found out what she was doing, she’d be screwed.

Remember why you are doing this, she told herself. If TransTissue or its supplier is using tainted tissue, more people’s lives could be ruined.

She raised her fist and knocked on the door.

There was silence.

She knocked again, louder.

No reply.

Curtains were drawn across the small window by the door. It was impossible to tell if anyone was home.

She stepped back and gazed up at the other apartments. They, too, seemed empty. Unnaturally quiet for a building housing students.

It was as if everyone had fled.

A chill raised the flesh on her arms. She turned and walked quickly through the parking lot.

You are being ridiculous. You’ve come in the middle of the morning. Everyone’s at work, or in classes. That’s why there are no cars here. Or people.

She slowed down when she reached the street. A car drove past her, the driver mouthing the words to a song on his stereo. A cat ran lightly across the front porch of the house and disappeared into the loamy darkness under the stairs.

She climbed into her car and started the engine. With
the wheel under her hands, she relaxed. She drove down South Street toward the old train station and pulled over.

Chasing after BioMediSol wasn’t the right way to get to them.

She’d have to get them to chase
her
.

She sat for ten minutes, thinking. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called directory assistance. Within minutes, she had reserved two meeting rooms at the Marley Hotel for the next evening. She’d stumbled a bit when they asked for the contact name, coming up with the orthopedic surgeon who was being sued by Brad Gallivant in the TransTissue file.
The bar society will really love this one—using the name of a co-defendant to cover up fraud.

She knew she was taking a risk holding the rooms on her credit card, but all she could hope for was that no one at BioMediSol would think to ask.

Then she dialed the business number listed on BioMediSol’s joint stock companies record.

She cursed herself for being a chicken and fleeing Craig Peters’ front doorstep. If she’d stayed here, she might have heard the phone ring.

The line was picked up. She tensed.

“Good morning, BioMediSol, Inc.,” a woman’s voice said.

Kate cleared her throat. “Hello. I am calling from the Surgical Teaching Institute.”

“Yes?” There was a polite hesitation. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that organization.”

So BioMediSol had a keeper at the gate.

“We operate a mobile teaching unit under the auspices of the College of Physicians and Surgeons,” Kate said coolly, grateful for the research she’d done on tissue products to prepare the TransTissue defense. Hopefully it
was enough to let her bluff her way through this. “We rotate between all the major teaching hospitals in North America.”

“We’ve never had the College of Physicians and Surgeons request tissue from us before.” The woman sounded both suspicious and yet pleased at the same time.

“We usually get our supply from the medical school inventories. However, in this instance, we had a problem with the refrigeration…” She cleared her throat delicately. “And now we have a session scheduled for the day after tomorrow and we don’t have any—” She was just about to say
props
.
Jesus.
That one deserved a smack in the forehead.
Think
. What did a doctor call them? Arms? Legs? Body parts? “—limbs. Your company was recommended to us by the orthopedic division of the GH2.”

“I see.” The woman’s voice was definitely warmer. “And how can we help you, Dr….?”

“Dr. Tupper.” Kate paused. Sir Charles Tupper was a great man in Nova Scotia’s history. She prayed he wouldn’t mind her invocation of his name. “I require eight pairs of arms by tomorrow evening so we can set them up for the following day.”

“Tomorrow night?” The woman sounded dismayed. “I’m sorry, Dr. Tupper, but that would be very difficult.”

“Don’t you have any inventory you can draw on? I assure you that you will be well reimbursed for responding on such short notice.”

The woman hesitated. “I’ll do what I can. I think I have seven pairs I can send for sure. I’ll see what I can do about the final pair.”

Kate stared at her hand resting on the steering wheel. How exactly was BioMediSol planning to acquire the final pair?

“Where shall we have these delivered?” the woman asked briskly.

“We have a conference room booked at the Marley.”

“Right. The delivery should arrive by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow evening. You will need to pay in full by certified check at that time.”

“And what is your rate?”

“Fifteen hundred per pair.”

“Fine. Who will be delivering it?” She held her breath.

“Our usual courier. InstantExpress.”

She breathed out slowly. “Thank you. I’ll keep a look out for him.”

“It is a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Tupper.”

Ethan slowed his car down. Lamond let out a low whistle. “Nice digs.”

“What did you expect? He’s a neurosurgeon.” Ethan climbed out of the unmarked car and studied the house. Dr. Mazerski lived on a beautiful street. One of his favorite streets in the city.

The long avenue followed the curve of the Northwest Arm. Deep blue water danced behind the large, gracious homes. But what really got his attention was the fact that there was a boat ramp just around the corner. The boat ramp that Krissie Burns’s body had been left on.

Built in a nouveau Cape Cod style with pale blue shingles and cream trim, Dr. Mazerski’s house was both elegant and homey. They strode up the long walkway, bordered on each side by masses of yellow and orange tulips. The exuberant display unsettled Ethan. Tulips were Kate’s favorite flowers. She had told him she loved them because every time they bloomed it gave her hope. He’d never really understood what she meant by that.

Lamond pushed the doorbell. A deep chime reverberated through the house. After a moment, the door opened. A woman gazed at them expressionlessly, a young baby sleeping on her shoulder. The baby was so new it was still curled up like a flower bud. The woman’s eyes were deep blue, her skin clear. Clad as she was in lululemon, she would ordinarily fall into the yummy-mummy category. Not today. Her blond hair was lank and carelessly pulled into a ponytail, her eyes puffy and red. A bit of spit-up trailed down her sleeve.

“Mrs. Mazerski?” Ethan asked.

“Dr. Clare. His wife.” She spoke softly but directly. “Who are you?”

“I am Detective Drake from the Halifax Police Department. This is Detective Lamond.”

The sound of running feet caught his ear. He tensed, his eyes searching past her shoulder into the depths of the hall. A little boy darted toward his mother, toy train firmly in hand. He stood next to her. Her sentinel. His brown eyes fixed on Ethan’s.

“We would like to speak to Dr. Mike Mazerski, please.”

She stiffened and put a hand on her son’s tousled head. “He’s not here.”

“Could you tell us where we can find him?” Ethan’s gaze was drawn like a magnet to the little boy. The train had found its way to the child’s mouth. He sucked it softly as he returned Ethan’s look.

“Is my husband in trouble?” Dr. Clare’s gaze swung from his face to Lamond’s. “What happened in the O.R. wasn’t his fault.”

“We have some questions for him,” Ethan said.

“You’re too late, Detective.” The muscles in her face tightened until her lips quivered. “He was admitted to
hospital this morning.” The little boy threw his mother an alarmed look. He leaned against her leg.

Pain. Grief. Despair. They were written plainly all over Dr. Clare’s face. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and straightened. “I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this.” She nodded toward the baby. “It’s the hormones…”

The baby shifted slightly, as if it had a bit of gas, burrowing its downy head into her shoulder.

“Why is your husband in the hospital?”

Her hand gently cupped the translucent skin of the baby’s neck. Anguish roughened her voice. “He’s losing his mind.”

The baby let out a sudden high-pitched wail.