Devil's Run (14 page)

I drove out to Jasper
Creek Gorge to look at the scene of Madigan’s accident. It was a good place for
an accident like that, a winding, narrow road carved into a rocky slope. The
newly patched fencing made the spot easy to find. I parked at a turnout and
walked back to stand at the edge.

The river below looked
far away. The way time stretches in accidents it must have seemed to Madigan
like he was falling forever. If he’d been awake that is, which did not seem
likely. Madigan was Roger’s contact in Purchas, and he died soon after the
fire. Epstein had said he was losing contact with associates, plural. That
meant there had been others after Madigan.

I thought about the other
recent deaths I’d read about in the library. One involved a teenage girl in a
Fiesta that was t-boned by a drunk running a stop sign. Guess who survived? The
other was a sixty-seven year old with pancreatic cancer who shot himself with
the pistol his wife smuggled into the hospital. And the alleged illegal alien
who froze to death.

I stood staring into the
rushing waters of the distant stream, thinking about the hypothermia victim. It
didn’t fit my scenario of spoiled rich kids seeking meaning through eco-activism.
I’d dismissed the incident as just some houseboy escaping a tyrannical trophy
wife. In this country a lot of us believe that every well-to-do person has an
illegal immigrant cleaning their house or tending their garden. But could
anyone be so stupid or unaware that they would not steal a coat or blanket
before attempting such an escape? The body had been found clad only in a thin
coverall. Some of these ski mansions had more window space than the MetLife
building, so you would know it was snowy and cold outside. The more I thought
about it, the odder the whole incident seemed.

I drove back to Purchas
and made a return visit to the library. It turned out the town did not have its
own coroner; that was the county’s responsibility. The Juan Doe’s body had been
transferred to the morgue at the county seat, less than fifteen miles away.
With any luck, the body was still there. I used the computer to map the
location and I also got my new library card.

Forty-five minutes later
I was at the county coroner’s office, which, to my mild surprise, was not an
old barn, but part of a complex of modern glass and stone office buildings
arranged around a central plaza. The Sheriff’s headquarters and county
administration building were quite prominent, but someone with good sense had
tucked the morgue out of sight behind the public health building and a
strategic copse of trees.

I presented myself at
the front desk, brandishing a printout of the newspaper story and claiming that
the unidentified dead man might be a friend of mine. The bored receptionist
asked me to take a seat while she looked into it. A good half hour went by
before an equally bored fellow in a white lab coat and black rimmed spectacles
appeared. He was carrying a clipboard, which made him official.

“Mr. Somerset?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s
me.”

“I understand you think
you can identify one of our John Doe’s?”

“Yes, although I hope to
God it isn’t him.”

He folded his arms,
hugging the clipboard to his chest.

“What brings you here
now? This was nearly a month ago.”

“I’ve been out of town.
Armando, that’s my friend’s name, he had the key to my place. We were in the
Army together, you see. Afghanistan. He wasn’t quite the same when he came
back. You know, PTSD, so I try to help when I can, give him a place to stay
when he has trouble, you know, functioning.”

“I still don’t
understand.”

“He has episodes, thinks
he’s back in the sandbox. When I saw this story, Hispanic male wearing warm
weather clothes sort of wandering in the woods, well, that’s just the sort of
thing we worry about with him.”

He looked at me,
consulted the clipboard again, and then frowned. “Alright, it can’t hurt.
Follow me.”

He led me back through
double doors and down a tiled hallway through yet another set of double doors.
Cold air slapped me in the face. To the right, under stark white lights, were
five autopsy tables, each with their accompanying support tables, organ scales,
and those all important drains. Thankfully there were no corpses undergoing
dissection. The rest of the surprisingly long room was lined with about forty
stainless steel tables in four neat rows.

“Jesus,” I said, “are
you expecting a war?”

“This was built with
Homeland Security money after 9/11. We’re the local repository for mass
casualty events.”

“I’m happy for you.”

The rear wall was a sort
of corpse condo for long term storage of remains. My guide consulted the
clipboard and moved down to the correct door. When he opened it, there was a
small puff of frosty air.

“That’s odd,” he said.

“What’s odd?”

“It’s not here.” He
frowned and looked again at the clipboard.

“What’s not here?”

“The body,” he said,
without looking up. “It’s the right number, but it’s not here.”

I moved around him for a
look and the sliding metal tray inside was indeed empty.

“Would they have buried
him? You know, in Potter’s Field or something?”

He shook his head. “It’s
still an open case.” He tapped the clipboard. “And this is up to date.” He
began opening the doors around John Doe’s. Only two were occupied, and their
toe tags apparently matched the clipboard.

“What now?” I said.

“Excuse me,” he said,
brushing past me to go to the phone hanging on the tiled wall. He picked up the
receiver and punched in a number, speaking to whoever answered in low, urgent
tones. He hung up and started down the wall, opening doors and checking toe
tags on the occupied ones.

“Anything I can do to
help?” I said.

“Please wait. Dr.
Clifford will be here soon.”

I hopped up on one of
the empty tables and lay on my back to watch him work. He was almost done when
the doors behind me opened. The man who entered wore a white lab coat over a
business suit. His blandly handsome politician’s face wore an expression of
deep concern he had no doubt practiced in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?”

“We seem to be missing a
body, Doctor.”

“That’s impossible.
Bodies just don’t get up and wander out.”

“They do in zombie
movies,” I said.

Clifford turned to me.
“Who are you?”

“This is Mr. Somerset.
He thought he could identify our John Doe.”

I sat up, swung my feet
over, and hopped off the table.

“Which one?” said
Clifford, giving me an uneasy look.

“Automobile accident.
The OTM,” said the attendant.

“Why do you think you
know him?” Clifford said to me.

“He thinks he might
be-.”

Clifford whirled on him.
“I’m asking him,” he said, sharply.

“I think he’s an old
Army buddy I loaned my place to.” I said.

“Really?” His expression
told me he did not believe me.

“Yes, really.”

“I doubt it was your
friend.”

“Why?”

“There is no way this
man was in the United States Army.”

“Why?”

“Because he was clearly
an illegal immigrant recently arrived in this country.”

“How can you be so
sure?”

“The general condition
of the body. He was a farmer, or possibly a miner, who worked under primitive
conditions with few safety precautions. There is no way he was ever under the
sort of care he would have gotten in the U.S. military.”

 “You’d be
surprised. My friend was in combat in Afghanistan. Talk about primitive
conditions and irregular safety precautions.”

“I was a surgeon in the
first Gulf War, Mr. Somerset, and I know what I am talking about. This man was
a laborer.” Clifford held out his big, well-manicured hands and turned them
over. “His hands were heavily callused and covered with badly healed scars. The
skin was discolored, as if he regularly handled fertilizer or some caustic
chemical with his bare hands.”

“Recently?”

“I would say so.”

“Where would he be doing
that here at this time of year?”

“I have no idea, but I
can surmise that people don’t smuggle in foreign laborers for easy work. And why
do you care? This clearly wasn’t your friend.” He looked dramatically at his
oversized gold wristwatch. “I’m a busy man, so if we’re finished here.”

“One more question. Your
man here said he wasn’t Mexican, but he was Hispanic, correct?”

Clifford turned to the
attendant. The man looked bewildered. “I never…”

“You called him an OTM,”
I said. “That’s Border Patrol lingo. It means other than Mexican, right?”

The attendant looked at
Clifford for direction.

“That’s correct,” said
Clifford, suddenly wary, his narrowed eyes reappraising me. “The man was not a
Mexican.”

“How can you be so
sure?”

He folded his arms. “I’m
good at what I do, Mr. Somerset. The man is from the Andes region of South
America, most likely Columbia or Peru.”

“Why the Andes?’

“The condition of his
teeth and gums suggested he was a long term user of coca leaf, which, as I am
sure you know, is chewed by the locals to combat altitude sickness.” He
unfolded his arms and gestured towards the door. “Whoever he might have been,
this man was not who you think he was.”

I started for the exit,
but stopped and turned back after a few feet. “So where is his body?”

“That is our concern,
not yours. Good day.”

As I went through the
double doors I looked back. Clifford was staring at me, arms still folded. I
turned away and let the doors swing closed behind me.

I drove back to Purchas
and went to the police station, a squat, bunker-like building that could
probably survive an H-bomb and possibly a fraternity party. Just inside the
door was a narrow lobby where I came face to face with two wide bullet proof
windows, separated by a wall of plaques. Behind the right one was a well lit
office and five desks, three of them occupied by young women in civilian
clothes. In contrast the other window guarded a dimly lit room full of radio
equipment and computers. Behind the console, facing a microphone on an
articulating arm, was a uniformed officer the size and shape of a manatee. He
glared at me with that weird combination of suspicion and disinterest only cops
can manage.

“Hi,” I said, assuming
he had some means of hearing me through the inch thick glass.

“May I help you, sir?”
he said, through some hidden speaker.

“I’d like to speak to the
Chief, please.” I glanced at one of the plaques on the dividing wall, which
said the present chief was a C. Masterson. “Chief Masterson.”

“What is the nature of
your business?”

“It’s a private matter.”

“The Chief will want to
know the reason, sir, before she’ll agree to meet with you.”

Since I hoped to get a
little official cooperation, I was going to have to take a chance and use my
real identity. No sense getting on the wrong side of the police. I took out a
business card and slid it through the tiny opening at the base of the window.
He picked it up and looked at it.

“I’m a private
investigator,” I said, “here from New York. I felt it best to check in with the
Chief before I did anything.”

I heard a loud click and
a door at the other end of the lobby opened. It was one of the clerical staff,
leaving for the day; behind her was a uniformed officer.

“Chief’s not here right
now,” said the man behind the window, after a fleeting glance at my card.
“Won’t be back until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Nine,” said the woman
in the lobby. I turned to look at her, but she was looking at the cop. “She’s
got her skating lesson tomorrow, remember?”

“Yeah, right.” It was
clear what he thought about skating lessons.

“Ice skating?” I said.

“Of course.”

“Nancy,” said the cop
behind her, his tone sharp, “no need to be giving out personal information.”

“Sorry, Myron,” she
said, sheepishly, before turning back to the cop in the glass booth and saying,
“Good night, Terry.” She shouldered her bag and left quickly.

The cop stayed to size
me up, hitching his belt in his best lawman fashion. I recognized him from the
photo in the newspaper article. It was Schecter, the cop at the Madigan
accident scene.

“Who are you?” he said.

“He’s a private
investigator from New York,” said Terry.

This state appeared to
be full of people wanting to answer questions for me.

“What do you want?” said
Schecter.

“I want to see the
Chief.”

“About what?”

“A private matter.”

“You can tell me.”

“Only if the Chief gives
me permission to,” I said.

He glared at me for
several seconds. “Give me your card. I’ll tell the Chief.”

I wasn’t going to put
money on it, but I smiled and gave him another one of my cards. “Thanks,
officer. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“No, you wait until you
hear from us.”

“Sure thing.”

I waved to the cop
behind the glass and went back outside, where I spent ten minutes doing some
window shopping to see if anyone followed me. Apparently I was not worth the
effort. I walked a couple of blocks away from the town center and called Carl on
one of the disposable cell phones. He answered on the fourth ring.

 “Nice to know
you’re alive,” he said, without preamble.

 “Nice to know
someone cares. What kept you?”

“Just closing up and I
wanted to get outside before I answered.” I could hear the swishing sounds of
passing cars. “Your friends were here.”

“FBI?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Names make you think of
a lawnmower engine?”

“The very ones.”

“Did you get any answers
on Cynthia Simmons?”

“Yes, but we should go
with breaking news first. They found Raviv’s driver.”

“Is he talking?”

“Only to Sponge Bob.
They found him and the SUV submerged in the Hudson just off Jeffries Hook. He
was strapped in the passenger seat with a bullet in his head.”

“Well, that’s a dead
end.”

“Funny. The Simmons
woman, not so much of a dead end.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. You’ve caused
quite the little stir in Homicide.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say. They dug up
the ME’s report, and guess what? She was strangled and her throat crushed by
what appears to be the same weapon used on Raviv.”

“Why am I not
surprised?”

“You might be surprised
at the weird part.”

“What’s the weird part?”

“There were traces of
gold in the wound.”

“So what,” I said,
“women wear jewelry. And she was strangled.”

“Raviv had them, too.”

“He wore a Star of David
on a gold chain.”

“They tested for that.
Different alloy. The metal in the wounds had a much lower gold content than
Raviv’s necklace.”

“And the Simmons woman?”

“Identical.”

I digested that one for
a few moments. “So they think it came off the weapon?”

“It’s one of the theories.”

“Is this weapon a known
M.O.?”

“They don’t know, yet.
Inquiries are out to the FBI and Interpol to see if it rings any bells.”

I was quiet for a few
minutes, thinking.

“You still there?” said
Carl.

“Yeah. Suggest they look
into the background of his secretary, name of Isabella Ricasso.”

“Why her?”

“She took over for the
Simmons woman. Boyd was having a serious affair with Simmons, and the boy, Ken,
seemed to think he’d found a new mom. My hunch is someone doing business with
Boyd wanted to get an operative close enough to Boyd to keep an eye on him and
Ms. Simmons had to go so they could get Ricasso in.”

“Pretty cold.”

“It’s shaping up to be a
pretty cold bunch. They should check with Immigration; from her accent I don’t
think she’s from around here.”

“Someone with an accent
in New York? Stop the presses.”

“Go fuck yourself. She
might be Swiss or from the north of Italy.”

“Okay,” said Carl. “The
brass hats were never pleased with the terrorist angle. They’d be happier if
Raviv is just a plain vanilla murder.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Another one?”

“Come on, you love it,
getting back in the game. Can you find out what the story is on Boyd?”

“Way ahead of you.
Well-connected, big charity guy, as you know, but he has some shady family
ties. Nothing specific. Rumors of mob connections, odd golf partners, suspicion
he might have laundered money through a hedge fund he used to run, but so far,
if he’s dirty, he hasn’t slipped up. By the way, I have to register that truck
soon.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be
okay.”

“You sure about that?”

“No, but you be
careful,” I said. “Don’t push too hard.”

There was silence for a
moment at the other end. “What’s the current score?”

“Ten that I’m sure of,
including the two that are mine.”

“Nick. From what I hear,
you didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a
choice.”

I broke the connection,
put the phone on the ground and stomped on it. When I looked up, an older
couple was staring at me from the sidewalk, shock and confusion on their faces.
I picked up the pieces and carried them to a nearby trash can.

 “This phone just
sucked,” I said.

The woman nodded.
“Mister, I know how you feel.”