A Caduceus is for Killing (20 page)

    "When did you get the M.D. degree?"
    "Comes from hanging around a doctor."
    "What the hell am I, dog meat?"
    "I mean a real doctor, not a scavenger that picks bones clean."
    "Okay, okay. Tell me more about this DNA."
    "Andrea, I mean, Doctor Pearson can explain it better, but I sent her home with Shimokowa."
    "Shimokowa?"
    "To keep an eye on her. Somebody out there wants to take her out. I think the last one was mistaken for Andrea. I'm sure someone's trying to kill her and I don't want that to happen."
    "I can tell."
    Krastowitcz ignored the remark. Did it show? He hadn't wanted to care about Andrea, but that was like trying to control Nebraska's weather. "Anyway, she read Grafton's research papers and came up with the idea that he was working on some kind of cell restructuring. Changing sick ones into healthy ones. Make any sense to you?"
    "It's unbelievable."
    "Yeah, but--"
    "Normally, I'd say that was a lot of crap, but after seeing the results of the Chicago tests, I don't know. Now I lean toward belief."
    "What the hell are you talking about, George?"
    "There was something different about Grafton's blood cells. When I first looked at the shape of the cells, I'd have sworn he had AIDS. But, then there were other cells. Healthy ones, yet different somehow, with a kind of capsule or shield around the outside. No one at the lab had seen anything like it before. It's an anomaly. It's almost as if this guy had AIDS and then, suddenly, he didn't."
    Krastowitcz sat down next to the bench and rested his head in his hands. "How's that?"
    "The sample contained a mixture of cells. Some with no T-cells at all. AIDS destroys T-cells. There was a preponderance of different cells, though. Those were larger with the capsule. I can't describe it. No one at Northwestern knew what it was."
    Iverson sat down and poured two cups of coffee.
    "Do you think Grafton was on to something? Like a cure?" Krastowitcz sipped his coffee. "Why would a serial murderer cure AIDS?"
    "I don't know. But if he had AIDS, it wasn't there when he died.
    He turned and gazed at Iverson. "What about Suzanne Latham?"
    "Nasty." Iverson shook his head. "I didn't do the autopsy."
    "I wish you had."
    "What'd she do to deserve evisceration?"
    "I think her biggest error was being in the wrong place. The killer must've mistaken her for Andrea."
    "Let's go over a few things, here," George said. "In Grafton, we have a clear-cut sexual mutilation."
    "Similar to the others?"
    "Yeah, except there are no signs of a struggle. Odd. I typed that wire around his wrist. Matches the wire around the end of the caduceus."
    "Good. At least there's one question answered in this mess. Then the killer grabbed the caduceus from the wall and used the hanging wire to bind his victim." Krastowitcz rubbed his burning eyes. It was late and he was tired.
    "If the victim had struggled, the wire wouldn't hold. Or, would've cut too deeply into his wrists."
    "Your paradox, again."
    "Then we have to conclude the victim was unconscious in order to withstand the insertion of the caduceus without a violent reaction. But if he was unconscious, how was it done?"
    "Lots of ways," Krastowitcz said.
    Iverson grabbed his tablet and flipped the pages. "Yeah, but he wasn't struck over the head, so he had to have been rendered unconscious by another means. A drug?"
    Krastowitcz was puzzled. "Why do you say that?"
    "A routine drug screen found minute traces of barbiturate."
    "What kind?"
    "Don't know. Sodium Pentothal, maybe, but it wears off too fast to show up in an autopsy. Maybe Curare?"
    "Curare?" Krastowitcz snorted in derision. "That's used in every TV mystery show and detective novels."
    "Precisely, but it paralyzes the musculature. A person can still see, hear, and feel, but can't move so much as an eyelid or breathe."
    "But he had to be kept alive."
    Iverson paced the floor and scratched his stubbled face. "Intubated! That's it! During surgery the patient is paralyzed, intubated, and placed on a respirator. Drugs that facilitate paralysis are administered until surgery is completed."
    Krastowitcz slammed his coffee down in disgust. "God! That's sick! What a lousy way to go. Aware of everything, including the pain." Krastowitcz shuddered and shook his head. "How can we tell if it was used?"
    "A specific drug screen looking for the properties of different barbiturates, maybe. But it's difficult. Curare is pretty clean, has about a three hour half-life. Depending upon when it was injected and when he died, it might not even show."
    Krastowitcz stood and shook his friend's hand. "We've got nothing to lose, George."
    "Just time."
    He clasped his hands around Iverson's shoulders and shook him. "This is the only clue we've got. Doesn't leave us much choice. Maybe he was killed by the same method he used on the others? Anything else?"
    "The woman. Suzanne. From the report, it appears she was eviscerated by something extremely sharp. A surgical instrument, maybe a scalpel. Whoever sliced her knew exactly what he was doing. The cut didn't go any deeper than the first layers of skin and muscle, didn't invade her organs. A clean, surgical incision, all the way."
    "You mean someone there? In the medical profession?"
    "I'll stake my career on it."
    "Hell, a nurse? Research technician? That narrows it down to a few thousand people."
    "Narrow it down a bit more than that. Someone with the skills–"
    Krastowticz pounded his fist on the door frame. "Shit, George, with a scalpel, even I could make that incision, and I don't know squat about medicine. The instrument makes the cut. Those things are razor sharp. Now if the incision was made with a butter knife, I'd be inclined to believe you."
    "Listen, Gary. With a scalpel, even if you were doing it, you'd cut too deep, slash the organs up. According to this report, she was slit from clavicle to pubis without touching one single organ. We're talking skill. Believe me."
    He turned toward Iverson. "Okay. Say it's a doctor who's on drugs. He kills Grafton, then decides to kill Andrea. He waits for Andrea in Grafton's office and as Suzanne blunders in, he stabs her."
    "You sure this person killed Grafton, first?"
    "Yeah."
    "Why kill Grafton in such a brutal and strange manner?"
    "I don't know. Because he'd assisted Grafton with the others?"
    Iverson looked surprised. "What others?"
    "Various unidentified victims, carved up pretty much the same way. Whoever did Grafton was either sending a message or making it look like copycat style. To throw off suspicion? Hell--" He covered his face with his hands. "I don't know."
    Iverson pulled Krastowitcz's hands away from his face. "You've got someone in mind, don't you?"
    "A resident named McNaughton. Grafton suspended him for cocaine use. But what if there was more to it than cocaine?"
    "Yeah. I know him."
    "He was also involved with Dr. Pearson, but they broke up. There's the two motives. Except, how would he know about the other mutilations, unless he was involved? He didn't work with Grafton's research. That one's got me stymied."
    Iverson pulled out a schedule from his desk. "Do I have to do all your detective work for you?"
    "What the hell are you talking about?"
    He handed the schedule to Krastowitcz. "McNaughton moonlights in the Dorlynd emergency room. Everyone there knows what's going on. Dorlynd's a Knife and Gun Club, remember? Homicides are brought there, first."
    "All homicides. Right. I forgot. It's been one long bitch of a day."
    "Don't I know it." Iverson refilled the cups and Krastowitcz paced.
    "Do you think it's coincidence that McNaughton could've murdered Grafton by the same method he used on others?"
    "I don't know. It's all conjecture, anyway."
    "It's worth checking. Give me last month's ER schedule. If McNaughton's name is on it, we've got a good case."
    "I can answer that."
    "Yeah?"
    "He and most of the third year residents at Dorlynd work there. That's how they make it on their resident salaries, moonlighting."
    Krastowitcz stopped pacing long enough to drain his cup and slam it down. "But why would McNaughton work? According to Andrea, he's rich, lives high."
    "Maybe too high, eh? Cocaine is expensive. And maybe he's trying to fit in with the other residents."
    "The most promising idea we've had so far, but, I still wonder about Peter Mueller."
    "Who?"
    "Mueller. Grafton's laboratory assistant. According to Andrea, he's a little on the crazy side. We also confirmed that he was one of Grafton's lovers. Plus he hates Andrea."
    "Jeez, Gary. Sounds like everyone hates Andrea. Maybe you should check her out."
    "I did. She's okay."
    "Oh, yeah. How'd you do it? Drinks? Dinner? Sleep over?" Iverson's smile angered Krastowitcz.
    "C'mon George, I'm not in the mood for jokes tonight. Just take my word for it. She's clean."
    He marched toward the door.
    "Any other suspects?" Iverson called to him.
    He was tired of the conversation and wanted to leave. "One. But I haven't made up my mind yet."
    "Who?"
    "A priest. Father Frederick Jamison. Friend of Grafton's and Suzanne's teacher. In fact, I saw her with him this morning."
    "Jeez! They all sound solid."
    He stopped at the doorway as though an invisible barrier kept him inside and turned. "It's not conspiracy if that's what you're thinking. But one of them did it. I'd bet the mortgage on it. I just have to find out which one. Before he strikes again."
         KRASTOWITCZ ARRIVED at Andrea's apartment, and knocked softly on the door. No doubt Shimokowa was stretched out on the sofa and snoring loudly. Krastowitcz knocked again and the door opened slightly.
    "Thanks buddy. Go get some shut eye." Krastowitcz looked at his friend who'd obviously awakened with a start.
    Jimmy unhooked the chain and opened the door.
    He rubbed his eyes, grabbed his sport coat, and walked back toward the door. "Hey, I was almost inside the prettiest little geisha you've ever seen."
    "Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you."
    "You better believe it. I'm taking this one out in installments." He nodded toward Andrea's room. "She's asleep. Took a sedative. Probably'll be out till morning." Shimokowa yawned, and let himself out.
    Krastowitcz shuffled softly to Andrea's room and pushed the door open. Books piled high were about the only furnishings in her austere bedroom. She hadn't done much in her life but read. Though sleeping, she tossed and twisted on the bed. He needed rest tonight, too. A passing thought latched on to him. Whoever was out there wanted her, too. He was as sure of that fact as he was of his own age. He headed to the couch. Maybe if he pretended to sleep, it would come.
    His mind raced over the facts of the case. No fingerprints. No real clues. No real suspects. Whoever did this was real smart. Too smart.
    He turned on his side. Down the hall, Andrea screamed. Krastowitcz raced to her side. "Sarah. . . no. . . Oh, no.. .please don't. . . don't die." Hand on her throat, she gasped. Krastowitcz dived on the bed and shook her. "Andrea? Andrea? Wake up. You're dreaming."
    "Wha. . . Wh. . . What?" Her eyes rolled up into her head and she blinked several times before squinting at him. "Gary? She clung to him and buried her head against his chest. "My God, I can't stand it."
    He pulled her close, stroking the long slender length of her arm. "It's okay, Andrea. I'm here. I won't leave you. Do you need your inhaler?"
    She shook her head.
    The scent of her hair wrapped him in a sensual cocoon. With her in his arms he was strangely alive. He continued to stroke her body, liking her slight weight against him.
    She turned her head up. "I'm glad you're here with me," she whispered. "Thanks."
    He'd only meant to offer her comfort. Somewhere along the line, his intent changed. Without premeditation, comfort edged into passion and the search for consummation. His hands moved up and down her sleek back, enthralling him with the contours of her body. Within minutes, touching wasn't enough. He knew the touch and scent of her; he wanted to know the taste of her as well. Temptation became need; need became hot desire. He leaned over and cupped her cheek with his hand and brought her mouth to his. Her lips parted slightly and for a brief, sweet second his tongue mated with hers. Hot electric charges surged and spread at the base of his spine.
    He pulled back abruptly as if shocked. This was against regulations. Unprofessional. Uncalled for. But, it wasn't as if he forced himself on her. She wanted it as much as he.
    Unable to stop himself, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, and her lips. Again. And Again. Her breath rasped out and spurred him on. He slipped his hand beneath her nightgown touching her, tracing the swell of her breast above the breast bone. She answered his caress, squeezing the muscles bunched beneath his shirt. Each of her fingers sent tiny spasmodic charges through his feverish skin.
    He was hard.
    She shivered.
    He sensed her excitement and thrust his tongue deeper. Her breath whispered in small gasps.
    "Are you all right?"
    "Never better." Andrea pulled him to her lips again. The thrill of anticipation sent quivers rolling through her. She fumbled with his buttons. She wound her arms around his neck and they slid down on the bed. She kissed him hard, her lips becoming one with his, her tongue danced an age-old rhythm with his. His breathing increased, a harsh rasp in the quiet.
    A sudden remembrance, the reason they were brought together, reminded her of Suzanne. Her roommate was brutally butchered, lying cold and pale on a slab in the morgue. It was heartless and selfish to forget. And yet, Andrea needed to forget, to bury her guilt. Where better than in the arms of the man who would bring the killer to justice. He kissed her hungrily and an odd sensation of irony convinced Andrea it was all right. Of anyone, Suzanne would've wanted her to love this man. Making love with him wouldn't be a sacrilege. It would celebrate life. Their lives.
    With determined hands, she removed his clothing, and pulled him to her. She explored his shape. He charted her curves and valleys. He felt so good. She needed to devour him and if his movements were anything to go by, he needed to do the same with her. If she could crawl inside him he'd protect her. Passion exploded and her desire erupted in seizures of ecstasy.