JJ08 - Blood Money (29 page)

“Calling on a different
matter.”

“
Oh yeah?
What’s
that?”

I told him.

“I’m completely out of the closet,” he said. “I’m as gay as a Christmas pageant and everybody knows it. But I truly sympathize with those who
can’t
come out––or
don’t
feel like they can.
It’s
a lot more guys than you think. Public figures. Married men. Preachers. Men who would lose their families and jobs and more if they ever dared to be truthful about who they really
are.”

“Wish we lived in a different
world,”
I said.
“We’re
making it
one,”
he said.

“Maybe.”

“Thing
is,”
he said, “guys living double
lives,
hiding so much of who they are, can be full of rage and self-hatred. That kind of compartmentalized duality . . .
Wouldn’t
surprise me if someone like that snapped.
You
know if they loathe themselves then they loathe who they’re
involved
with even
more.”

“Can you think of anyone in our area who fits the description?” I asked. “Maybe or maybe not named
Ron.
Maybe a big
guy.”

“There’s
something . .
.”
he said. “I
can’t
quite put my finger on it. No
one’s
coming to mind, but I feel like some part of me knows something and I just
can’t
remember it right
now.”

“Think of something
else,”
I said. “Call me when it comes to
you.”

“Will
do.
And
John.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for caring about us
fags.”

I had reached my car and was about to get in when Clarissa yelled to me from her
door.

She loped
over
toward me, the massive mounds of her belly and breasts bouncing about as she did.

“His
brother.”

“
Yeah?”

“Sorry,”
she said, trying to catch her breath.
“Wasn’t
gonna say anything ’cause I’m a little scared of him, but . . . his
brother’s
a crackhead meth dealer. He was always in trouble––and always tryin’ to get Andy to bail him out, help him out,
give
him
money,
let him crash here. I
wonder
if something his sketchy ass is
involved
in got Andy killed. If he got Andy killed, I’ll kill him. Swear to God.”

“Any
idea where I can find him?”

“He
works
at some shady clinic. When he
works
at all. Just does it to steal
pills.
Why does someone like him get to
live
and a sweet
boy
like Andy get murdered? The fuck is wrong with this world?”

M
errill and I were on our
way
to
Alverez’s
clinic when Lawson called.

“It’s
Inspector Lawson. They rushed the autopsy and we got a conference call goin’. Gonna patch you
in.”

“Why are you suddenly including me?” I asked.
“Want
this
job,”
he said. “Need your
help.
Warden
treated me like shit one too many times. Hold on. Here we
go.”

The line clicked and beeped and we were joined by the pathologist.

“Go ahead,
Doc,”
Lawson said.

Because it was a multi-line conference call, the connection was airy and very difficult to
hear.

“The victim was dead before he was
hung,”
the voice I
didn’t
recognize said.

Everything was being made to look like something other than what it
was.
Murders staged to look like suicides. Same thing done to Andy Bearden and Danny
Jacobs.

“Y’all were right about the
lividity,”
he continued. “He died facedown and then stayed there for several hours before he was
hung.
The bruises on his neck indicates strangulation.
We
also found bruising at the base of the skull where the murderer exerted pressure. The vessels in the neck were occluded, the face and neck were congested and dark red. There were also some abrasions and contusions on the neck from the force required to kill him. It fractured the
hyoid
bone . . . thyroid cartilage. Everything I found is consistent with manual strangulation.”

“Which is what we thought,” Lawson said.
“Any
surprises?” I asked.

“Yeah,
a big one.
It’s
not in his medical records, but this young man had one of his
kidney’s
removed.”

“Why is that a big surprise?” Lawson asked. “Because,” he said, “it was done very
recently.”

The pathologist hung
up.
Lawson searched through
Allen’s
file. I waited.

“Allen
hasn’t
been to an outside hospital the entire time
he’s
been locked
up,”
Lawson said when he came back on the line. “That mean what I think it does?”

“Either he was taken out
secretly,
unofficially . . . or it was removed inside.”

“How the hell could an inmate
have
an organ removed inside the prison?”

I told him everything I knew about Alvarez and Baldwin, their shadowy
pasts,
their suspicious behavior, their involvement with Danny and Lance and Brent, and what I had learned about hypnosis.

“She can really make ’em stop bleeding and forget they were operated on?”

“It’s
possible.”

“Why
would
they—”

“Why do people do most of the evil they do?” I said.
“Money.”

Something inside me jangled ever so
slightly.
Why?

What was it?
Money.
Life insurance
policies.
Last will and testaments. Greed. Subterfuge. Black market organs.

Blackmail. That could be it. Money motive after all. Just not through life insurance. Private coercion and humiliation, not public. Private
motives,
not political
ones.

“What about the scar?” he said.

“Baldwin probably gives them some explanation to believe while
they’re
under that she and the doc reinforce when they’re conscious again—tells them
it’s
a cut or something. I
don’t
know.
I’m just
guessing.”

“I’ve got to notify the
IG,
FDLE, the—”

“
Yes
you
do,”
I said.

“Then what?” he asked.

“Do I
try
to detain them? Hold them ’til—”

“Don’t
tip them off. Just
don’t
let them be alone with anyone. Make sure they
can’t
cut on anyone
else.”

J
uan Alvarez had arrived at the clinic he owned in
Panama
City shortly after six in the
evening.
No one had gone in or come out since then.

The front of the clinic, the waiting room and reception area, were dark, but lights burned in the back where the exam rooms were located.

Merrill and I were parked across the street in the lot of a closed insurance office.
Waiting.
Ironically,
it was my inability to wait that had us here. Soon, several agencies, including FDLE, Potter and Bay County Sheriff Offices, and the Tallahassee and
Panama
City
Police
Departments would be investigating Alvarez and Baldwin, but that kind of bureaucratic cooperation took time, moved very
slowly,
and waiting for it could get more people hurt or killed.

We
were close. I could feel it.
We
had momentum.

Waiting
would endanger more
lives,
and truthfully,
selfishly,
I wanted to see this to the end.

If the other agencies showed
up,
Merrill and I would back
away quietly.
If they
didn’t,
we’d
try
not to do anything to jeopardize the case they
would
eventually
try
to make.

“You
really think they selling inmates’ spare parts on eBay?” Merrill asked.

“I doubt they’re using
eBay.”

“
Wonder
how long they been at it?”

“Haven’t
been at PCI long,” I said.
“Couldn’t
have
done
many.
No telling what they did before they washed up there. People like them do damage everywhere they
go.”

He nodded. “Think they targeted the Kings or—”

“Probably start with inmates who spend a lot of time in Medical or Psychology, then narrow those down by blood type and ease of induction.”

“Ease of what?”

“Their ability to be hypnotized.”

Lights shone on the street, and a black Mercedes pulled in and parked near the side entrance of the clinic.

A young Hispanic man jumped out and ran inside.
“We
crash the party
now,”
Merrill said, “or wait until—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the young man rushed out of the clinic carrying an orange ice chest with red medical stickers that clashed with the cooler.

He jumped into his car and sped off.
We
followed.

He led us out of the downtown district and across town on side streets, Merrill lying back, as often as possible keeping a few cars between
us.

He was probably not expecting a tail, but even if he were, I doubt he could spot Merrill. In any event, he
didn’t
seem to notice
much
of
anything.
He was too busy trying to look cool as he nodded his head to the beat. My guess was the only time he looked in the rearview mirror was to see himself.

Eventually,
he led us to the airport.

He pulled into long-term parking and we followed.

He got a time-and-date stamped ticket and so did
we.

Merrill pulled in beside the Mercedes, putting
my
door next to the
driver’s.
I waited until he was out of his car before I shoved my door into him.

The door struck him in the back and slammed him up against his
car.
But before I could get all the
way
out the door, he swung around and drew a gun from a shoulder holster and pointed it at me.

The sound of
Merrill’s
.357 as he thumbed back the hammer and placed it just behind the
guy’s
ear got his attention.

He lowered his gun and handed it to Merrill.

I climbed out of
Merrill’s
truck and closed the
door.
“What’s
your name?”

“Justo.”

“
Justo who?”

“
Alvarez.”

“How’re
you related to Juan?”

“
He’s
my uncle. Sort
of.”

“What brings you to the airport tonight?”

“
To
visit
relatives.”

“Where?” Merrill asked.

“Miami,” he said, cutting his eyes toward Merrill
nervously,
not daring to turn his head.

“Cool-looking suitcase you got
there,”
I said, nodding toward the orange ice chest he was
holding.

“It is a present for my
mother.”

“She need a transplant?”

His mouth actually fell open. “What is it?”

He
didn’t
say
anything.

“Obvious he a brain
donor,”
Merrill said.

“You
do not understand. It is a special pie I made for
her.”

“You
made your mother a pie?” Merrill said.
“Well,
not me, but my
aunt.”

He was just saying the first thing that came to his mind, and as lame as it
was,
it was the story he was sticking
to.

“She is very ill and I bring her what she loves when I visit
her.”

“That why it has medical stickers on it?” I asked. He nodded. “
Si
.
Yes.”

“Open
it,”
Merrill said. “I like homemade
pie.”

“
It will ruin it if I open the container.”

Without moving the gun, Merrill used his other hand to grab the container and hand it to me.

I broke the medical seal with a key and opened it. Inside was a human kidney on ice.

“I am trying to
save
a
life,”
he said. “Please. I implore
you.”

“Well,
hell,”
Merrill said, “why
didn’t
you say so sooner.
We
didn’t
realize you were imploring
us.”

“Please.”

“Tell
us what the
fuck’s
going
on,”
Merrill said. He shook his head.

“You
rather tell the police?” I asked.
“Tell
us and you
walk.”

“Don’t
tell
us,”
Merrill added, “you may never walk again.”