The Path of Silence (32 page)

“I spoke with Mattis and Bourke while you were in the shower,” he said, turning his profile to me. “Your colleagues are still at Mongrove, collecting evidence but they already found several scraps of paper filled with chemical formulae. It seems Dr. Patterson was a ‘bright boy’ who liked to scribble down the results of his brainstorms while enjoying his fast-food lunches and dinners.”

“What kind of formulae?” I asked.

“Mattis is not an expert on chemical and biological warfare. He showed it to one of the Mongrove resident doctors with background in microbiology. He thought it looked like some kind of new synthetic virus, something along the lines of instant Ebola in terms of liquefying internal organs, hemorrhage and death. That would be consistent with the kind of toxin we think figured in the pacemakers—a two-tiered virus. Tier one results in instant death, while tier two is something that renders tier one virus flat in seconds. We’ll be sending those scraps of notes to Atlanta’s Centre for Disease Control and Prevention.” He turned and shook his head at me, smiling, “Relax, Meg, Patterson was our man.”

I tried hard to smile back at him but something kept tightening my throat.

“But Dr. Patterson was an impostor, Field. I doubt he’d have the knowledge to scribble down a complex chemical formula,” I said, dry-voiced. “The real Dr. Patterson is buried in Peru.”

For a moment his eyes flickered with uncertainty then he said, “Meg, Patterson functioned as a doctor at Mongrove for four years. He had to have some medical background. He could have been an expelled medical student, even a bona fide doctor who, for whatever reasons, lost his medical license. You know, a brilliant ‘hacker’ of medicine.”

I didn’t think so.

“I’m going to take a look around at Mongrove but I have to pick up my partner. Would you mind giving me a lift to our headquarters?” I asked.

“If I finish our meeting with the Chairman early I’ll join you,” he said. “Meanwhile, if you need to convince yourself that Patterson was the mastermind, why don’t you go and talk to Smeddin? Your medical examiner is another fan of popular mechanics—and research journals. Besides, you can check if he’s already finished Patterson’s autopsy.”

“Why would Joe have to autopsy Patterson’s body? He was shot. What’s there to…” my voice trailed off when I saw his pushed up brows. “Oh, come on, Field, get real!” I moaned. “You don’t think Patterson would have tried out his deadly pacemaker product on himself?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “You believe that Patterson was just an accomplice so…his overseer might have implanted him with the pacemaker device, to assure eternal cooperation, something like Brick’s case.”

My mouth crept open. I hadn’t considered this angle yet. Then I caught Field’s grin.

“You’re laughing at me,” I said, grimacing. He came over and put his hand around my shoulders.

“Sorry, Meg. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

When I entered our headquarters I met with an almost eerie silence.

“Mary Lou,” I asked our dispatcher when I stopped at her desk to see whether Ken was in. “Why is it so quiet? Aren’t Baltimore citizens worried anymore that they’ve been implanted with a chest-bomb?”

“We couldn’t cope anymore. Bourke appealed to Commissioner Walton and got a permission to implement a temporary sanity-saving solution. All the phone lines save 9-1-1 have been routed to electronic message screens,” she said.

It may have been a sanity-saving measure but electronic messaging didn’t reflect very well on BPD. Mary Lou must have seen what flashed on my face.

“Walton is giving a press conference as we speak,” she said. “The criminal who was exploding Baltimore citizens has been shot dead. Everyone should calm down and make a regular appointment for a medical check-up with their doctor to put their mind at ease. Walton is stressing the fact that the victims lived for years with the bomb in their chest—normally. You look tired, Meggie. You should take time off once all the reporting and news conference shit dies down.”

In a couple of weeks Jazz would be out of school and summer would be upon us. Vacation sounded ideal. The mere thought of being able to take time off should have at least cheered me up. It didn’t but I didn’t want to worry Mary Lou for too long.

“Is Ken in yet?”

She made a face. “He came in with Brenda. She gave her statement and then he drove her home. Do you want me to get a hold of him for you?”

I told her to give Ken a message that I was going to Mongrove and asked her to get me a car since my Acura was sitting under my carport.

There was still a marked police presence at Mongrove. I saw half a dozen police cruisers haphazardly parked around the entrance and there would be more unmarked sedans sitting in the parking lot. The receptionist raised her head when I knocked on her window, waiting without saying anything.

I took out my badge and she nodded to go inside.

I flipped my badge to show my shield and fitted it inside my jacket breast pocket so the officers I met en route to Patterson’s office wouldn’t stop me.

“Are you back or you’ve never left?” I asked Sven when he came toward me as I walked into the office that didn’t look much different from how I saw it looking last night. Other than a few plastic baskets filled with paper and files, the officers conducted their search neatly.

“My washroom break counted as a nap,” he said, chuckling. “The FBI contingent left. It’s just the BPD now.”

“Inspector Weston told me that you found scraps of paper with chemical formulae,” I said, waiting.

“Agent Mattis took most of them with him but I knew you’d want to go have a chat with Joe, pick his brain, so I ‘put aside’ a couple for you,” Sven winked at me.

“Withholding evidence?” I murmured. “What about greasy fingerprints?”

He made a face. “We’re all one big happy team, Meg and we’ve already checked for prints. None. Doctors wear latex gloves, especially when jotting down notes. And these days, staff at fast-food joints wear plastic gloves too so food paper bags are print-free.”

He gave me two palm-sized scraps of brown utility paper, scribbled with formulae. Other than chemical symbols for carbon, oxygen and nitrogen, nothing else made sense. I turned them over but the reverse side didn’t have any notes, just half of what looked like a fast-food place logo.

“Do we know where Patterson ordered his meals from?” I asked.

Sven motioned at one of the large, black plastic garbage containers. “We cleaned out his desk—and even some of his files. He was a real junk-food freak. Salerno’s Pizza, A&W, Pete’s Chilli Grill, Denny’s, Mamma Dimitri’s, McDonald’s, Nando’s Chicken, Mikes Tacos—food bags from what seems like every other fast foot outfit within greater Baltimore area.”

“A&W, McDonald’s and Nando’s Chicken don’t deliver,” I mumbled.

Sven gave me an injured look. “He was the Chief Resident honcho, Meg. He’d send out his underlings to fetch his chow.”

“All the way downtown Baltimore? We’re in Brooklyn,” I said, for some reason uneasy.

“Franchise, Meg. There’s McDonald’s and A&W just up the street,” Sven said.

He was right. Most franchised fast food had outlets all over Baltimore—but not Nando’s Chicken.

“I talked to Brenda’s friend, Valerie,” Sven said. “Her statement supports what Brenda told us. Valerie was late coming to meet her because she was helping settle down the agitated patient who broke his stitches. The piles of junk-food wrappings bothered me too so I asked Valerie about her boss. She said Patterson frequently accompanied his patients to Hopkins, when they had to have surgery or other medical procedure that couldn’t be done here. He’d bring back tons of junk food from uptown and downtown and share it with his staff. He could not only fly a chopper but small aircraft.”

“Didn’t Valerie think it strange that a Chief Resident would accompany patients to Hopkins?” I asked.

Sven smiled. “No. She thought he was just a dedicated doctor. Most of his female staff loved him.”

“Why?” I was taken aback.

Sven shrugged. “From what they told us, he flirted with them but never hit on them, if you know what I mean.”

“You did make sure that all this glowing character reference for Dr. Patterson got to our Commissioner in time for him to include it in his press statement,” I said, grimacing.

He laughed and waved me on. “Walk around, Meg. See for yourself. Other than the futuristic formulae that might turn out to be a recipe for chicken soup, there’s not much in this office to incriminate the suspect…I shot,” he finished with a lot less bluster than before.

“He was a suspect and definitely implicated in the scheme, Sven,” I said, trying to ease his conscience. “He was…” I stopped before the rest came out—an accomplice. Sharing information with a colleague about the case was one thing. But what I had were only feelings and doubts, not information that could be substantiated with evidence—facts.

Sven left to oversee collection of whatever could be considered evidence and I walked around Patterson’s spacious but drafty office. Now that all technology has been either dismantled or shut off, the air grew stale and officers opened windows. The iron bars driven into the old masonry were rust-free. They must have been a relatively new addition. Patterson’s constant hints about the underfunded state of his facility were just like the rest of him—lies, illusions.

I walked between the steel grey filing cabinets but even though our people would have finished dusting for fingerprints, I didn’t get an urge to open the drawers. I didn’t doubt that if I did all I’d see would be patients’ files.

After about ten minutes, when I saw that my presence was surplus and inspiration didn’t visit me as I walked around, I headed for the door. Two officers squeezed by me, carrying a large plastic garbage bin filled with balled and crumpled paper food bags.

“Evidence?” I asked.

“Nah,” one of them said. “Just garbage.”

“Mind if I take this?” I pointed at a fist-sized ball of brown utility paper with a few red and green specks visible in the folds. He shook his head, his eyes narrowing with amusement.

“Thanks,” I said, picking it out and putting it in my purse.

“We went through his garbage pretty thoroughly, fingerprint guys too,” the cop said.

“I know,” I said, turning my back to them.

“A souvenir, Sergeant?” I heard him snicker. “Too bad the evil mastermind’s dead. Otherwise you could have asked him to autograph it.”

“I’ll hold a séance,” I said over my shoulder and increased my stride.

Chapter 42

I
called Ken. His cell phone went into messaging. That was unusual but not worrisome. Bourke could have asked him to stand by while Walton was giving a press conference, to provide details if required. Or he could be fussing over Brenda, sputtering platitudes but still not staying the words Brenda wanted to hear, “Will you marry me?”

I called Field and the messaging situation repeated itself. I wanted to talk to him, not leave a sterile report. I hung up and decided to call Joe.

“We missed you last night,” I said.

“The victim didn’t die of an exploded chest. These days I don’t make field trips for mere bullets,” he said, sounding tired.

“Brenda was the hostage, Joe,” I said, waiting.

He was silent for a long time then said, “I know. I wanted to come when forensics called but I figured Ken would be there. I’d have been surplus.”

“A hostage victim can always use another comforting pair of hands,” I said.

“I already talked to her. It’s not like we can develop any kind of relationship other than professional. Brenda was just using me to get to Ken. She said as much. I didn’t mind. She’s a very nice woman, charming and warm-hearted.”

His casual confession surprised me but I believed him. Brenda’s campaign, initially subtle, wasn’t working so she went for the sledgehammer.

“That’s very sporting of you, Joe. But not even a courtesy trip? He was your colleague.”

“What are you talking about? That’s not what the paperwork that came with him says.”

“He was a doctor, Joe.”

He laughed. “He was a shrink. I’m a mortician. At least that’s what Quigley calls me.”

“When are you going to make peace with Dr. Quigley?” I sighed.

“Never,” he said crisply. “I’m retiring so I won’t have to deal with assholes like him any longer.”

“Retiring?” I held the phone away from my ear. “Joe! You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, waiting for something—someone—to push me off my stool. At least Quigley was useful for something other than being a bureaucratic prick.”

“What are you going to do, Joe? You’re too young to retire.” I wasn’t considering what he said seriously. In the eight years I’d known him, he’d threatened to retire at least once a month. This sounded a little more serious than all those other retirements but was probably in the same category.

“Quigley thinks I would double my salary as a mortician,” he said, snorting so loudly I held the cell phone away from my ear.

“Quigley is just another excellent doctor with an ego as robust as yours,” I said, when I heard his voice again.

“He’s an arrogant asshole, myopic too. Anyway, like I said I’m busy, drafting my letter of resignation. If this is a social call and you’re just concerned about my health and welfare—”