The Last Goodbye (37 page)

“I've been over this before. If Doug's death is going to help science or research or whatever, then, fine, they can have him. Well, for the three thousand dollars, like we said.”

Three thousand dollars. Pocket money.
“Someone offered you three thousand dollars for Doug's body?”

“Look, if Doug was in any more trouble, I didn't know nothing about it. I told that boy a hundred times to stay off those damn drugs.”

“I'm not accusing you of anything, Ms. Buckner. I'm just trying to get some information about the man who paid you for Doug's body.”

“Well, like I told you. He just said medical schools would pay money for his body for science.”

“Did he say what school?”

“No. He said if I signed the papers and faxed them back, he would give me the money. I said that was fine by me, except I wasn't faxin' nothin' until
after
I had the money.”

“Did you get it?”

“Money order, three thousand dollars. Went down to Western Union and picked it up. I faxed him from there, too. I ain't got a fax.”

“Do you still have the fax number, Ms. Buckner?”

“Yep. I got it right here. It's 404.555.1610.”

I wrote down the number. “Did he leave you any other way to get in touch with him?”

“No. Doesn't surprise me there's some kind of mess, though. That boy was nothing but problems, right from the beginning.”

I clicked off without saying goodbye and dialed the fax number. I got a recording for a movie theater in Cobb County.
Seamless, as usual. Take over a number for a while. They'd never even know they were used.
I hung up and fell back into a chair, limp.
This time, it really is over.

I closed my eyes.
So close I could taste it.
I had missed getting justice for Doug Townsend and seven other victims by what—hours? Eight people were dead, their endings invisible and untraceable.

And so the world spins
, I thought. Ralston and Stephens would make their billion. The projects would lose a few more souls, which the greater city of Atlanta, never having cared much about them in the first place, wouldn't even need to forget.

Sometime deep in the night, I awoke, stark and alert. I stared at the ceiling a second, wondering if I had lost my mind. But I hadn't. There was a flaw, and it had nothing to do with cells and genes and science and other impenetrable things I could barely understand. It was beautifully human, and the fact that I was still alive meant Ralston and Stephens hadn't figured it out yet. If things stayed that way long enough, I had the bastards.

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK
the next morning, I climbed into the Buick. It was limping after the high-speed chase; the alignment had suffered, and the transmission—God knows how long it had been since the fluid had been changed—was showing signs of trauma. But it held together, and I pulled into the Atlanta morgue about an hour later. It was Saturday, but since crime never rests, neither does the facility. The morgue is conveniently attached to the police pathology lab, with which it shares an entrance.

I don't like crime labs. They remind me of hospitals, and the crime pathology lab of the Atlanta Police Department is as much like a hospital as I want to get. It's spotless, smells distinctly of chemicals, and is lit with an angry, defiant light. What it doesn't have in common with a hospital it shares with jail: it bristles with electronic security. It's located in south Atlanta, in an industrial park, far from police headquarters. There is no identifying sign on the building, and because the loading dock is in the back, I doubt that many of the other tenants in the park even know its purpose. It is kept clandestine for very good reasons: first, because the value of the immaculately pure testing materials inside it is immense, and second, because a great deal of highly sensitive evidence is stored there. Upon arrival, cameras record your every move. Before you can leave the reception area, you're issued a temporary ID, which must be worn at all times. I showed my driver's license, signed in, and told the secretary I wanted to see Dr. Raimi Hrawani, the pathologist in charge of the lab. As Doug's lawyer, I had a right to his file. I looked up at the cameras, and felt like praying.

After a few minutes, a woman in a white smock came through the large double doors opposite my chair. She was in her mid-thirties, olive-skinned, with brown hair cut short, pulled behind her ears. I'd never met her, but I had seen her name on several cases. Hrawani had a stellar reputation, and had given testimony on several high-profile murders. “Hello, Mr. Hammond,” she said in an East Indian accent. “I understand you want to talk about Doug Townsend. I don't have a lot of time. We had some unpleasantness in south Atlanta last night, so we're heavily booked.”

“Detective Little says his body was released.”

“That's right. All the papers were filled out correctly.”

“When was this?”

“About four-thirty yesterday afternoon.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

She shook her head. “We were basically just a holding place.”

“So there are no tissues or blood samples?”

“A Valtox test was administered on the scene, but the test consumes the sample. I believe a photograph was taken, however.”

“Can I see the photograph?”

She handed me a plastic badge. “Clip this on your shirt and follow me.”

“To where the dead people are?”

“That's right.” I followed Hrawani through heavy metal doors into the secure part of the Altanta P.D. crime lab. The tone is industrial, a place for work and nothing else. There isn't a single image in the place to soften the view. The lab is built in a square, with a large, open work area in the center, with four autopsy tables. The tables are perforated, stainless steel, and they shine spotless in the harsh hospital light. Surrounding the tables are some medieval-looking tools, including saws, drills, and pliers. This central work area is ringed by offices along the sides. I followed Hrawani into her office, a square, spartan space with gunmetal-gray metal filing cabinets, metal desk, and a padded chair on wheels. There was a faded picture of a man and a woman arm in arm, in front of an ornate, colorful building. She noticed me looking and said, “My parents, forty years ago. Before I was born.”

“Where was the picture taken?”

“Pakistan. Islamabad. They say it was beautiful then.” She motioned for me to take a seat, and she did the same. She pulled out a large manila folder. “So. Do you use drugs, Mr. Hammond?”

“No.”

“If you ever feel like starting, just give me a call. I can provide a marvelous bit of perspective.”

“Hell on the body?”

“If people saw it from my point of view, they'd do nothing but eat Grape-Nuts.” She took a seat, motioning for me to do the same. Then she reached under her desk, grabbed a metal trash can, and kicked it over beside me. It was lined with a plastic bag. “Just in case,” she said.

“I'll be fine.”

She shrugged. “It's usually the men who lose it.” She reached into the folder and pulled out two photographs, spreading them across her desk. I spent the next several seconds swallowing back bile, trying to acclimate to the stark, relentless images of a naked, merciless death. Doug was lying on a metal table, his shirt off, his body obviously lifeless.

“Your client was somewhat emaciated, which is fairly normal with extended drug use. They get appetite suppression and can't keep weight on. You see the sunken cheekbones, the dark, hollow eyes? There are the discolored burn marks on the fingertips. Although your friend was more careful than most.” She looked at me. “But there aren't any track marks, so it's also clear he wasn't an IV drug abuser.”

“Doug told me several times he was terrified of needles.”

Hrawani flipped over another picture which showed a close-up of Doug's left shoulder. I stared, disbelieving: the words
Pikovaya Dama
were tattooed in the same style of lettering I had seen on Michele, although the image was less exquisitely made. The letters on Michele's thigh were delicate, obviously made by an artist. Doug's had a crudeness of execution, lacking finesse. But there was no doubt about it. He had a copy of her tattoo cut into his skin.

“So the hepatitis was from the tattoo,” I whispered.

“It certainly could be. Do you know what the writing means?” Hrawani asked.

“It's Russian,” I said. “‘The Queen of Spades.'”

Hrawani raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, your client overcame his needle phobia.”

Ralston's words came back to me:
I have no doubt that for five minutes with my wife he would have cut off one of his own fingers.
“He had a powerful motivation.”

Hrawani gathered the photographs together and replaced them in the folder. “That's all I have,” she said. “It's not much, unfortunately.”

“This Ron Evans, the one who picked up the body. Did you personally see him?”

“No. But we can ask Charlie, the deinur.”

“Deinur?”

“The man who handles the bodies.”

I nodded. “Thanks, I'd appreciate it.”

I followed Hrawani out of her office into the work area. She called out to a large, muscular black man in his late thirties. His shoulders and arms were massive, like a weightlifter's. “Charlie, can you come here for a second?”

The man looked over, nodded, and walked toward us. Hrawani introduced us and I asked him if he remembered anything unusual about how Doug's body was picked up.

He paused, thinking. “Not what you'd call weird,” he said. “But I expected a service, like a funeral home. I see the same six, seven companies in here all the time. But this was different.”

“Was it an ambulance or a hearse?”

“Hearse, I think. But no markings on it. No company.”

“Did he sign for the body?”

“It would be in the log, up at the front desk.”

Hrawani, Charlie, and I went back to the reception area. While Charlie was rummaging for the logbook, I pointed to a closed-circuit TV monitor showing the rear exterior of the building. “Is this always recording?” I asked.

Charlie nodded. “Runs twenty-four-seven. Inside and outside.”

“So you would have a tape of the man picking up the body.”

“Not tapes. We're on hard drives, now. But yeah, we would have a record.”

“Can I see it?”

Hrawani glanced at me doubtfully. “We're getting into an iffy area here, Mr. Hammond,” she said.

“What the man did outside the building is public,” I said. “That's all I'm asking about.”

Hrawani considered a moment, then nodded to the deinur. He shrugged, found the time in the log, and punched some numbers on a nearby terminal. The screen showed a Ford Econoline van parked in the loading area. “That's it,” he said. “That's the truck.”

“Can you move ahead to show Evans?”

Charlie punched an arrow on the terminal, advancing the picture in one-minute increments. After several punches, the screen showed Charlie and another man wheeling a body on a gurney through the back doors. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a slight build, and balding. When it came time to transfer the body into the truck, he let Charlie do most of the work. So far, there hadn't been a clear picture of his face. But just before he pulled out, he gave Charlie a perfunctory handshake. That was the single moment he faced the camera head on. “Can you freeze that?”

“Sure.”

“Is there any way you can print out that frame?”

Charlie gave Hrawani another look, and she paused again. “My client's off the police radar screen,” I said quietly. “Before he slips away entirely, I'd like to run down some things. It would mean a lot to me.” Hrawani nodded to the deinur, and Charlie punched a couple of buttons. A nearby laser printer whirred into life. After a few minutes, he pulled out an enlarged, fairly pixelated photograph of the man's face. “Not perfect, but you can definitely make out the features,” he said. “Best I can do.”

I carefully put the picture in my coat pocket. “Thanks, it's fine.”

I turned to Hrawani. “I appreciate your help. I'll be in touch.”

I turned in my badge, walked out to the car, and got inside. I felt the picture in my pocket. Now, all I needed was Nightmare.

This time I didn't even bother phoning. I headed directly to the West End, where Nightmare lived. By now it was after ten, the city traffic finally light. The West End is a low-rent area, working-class, full of older apartments with low ceilings and iffy maintenance. I parked and walked up to his door. I could hear dark, brooding rock music emanating from the apartment. I knocked; there was no answer. I knocked again, louder. The music abated; I caught a shadow of someone passing across some closed blinds. “It's Jack. We need to talk.” Nothing. “I'm not leaving, Michael. Come out of the cave.” There was the sound of opening locks, and the door opened. Nightmare peered out of his apartment.

“I'd invite you in, but the place is kind of a mess.” He stood in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He looked frayed, as though he hadn't slept in a couple of days.

“You okay? You don't look too hot.”

“Unless you wanna ask me for a date, I don't see what difference it makes.”

“That won't be a problem,” I said, pushing past him. “This won't take long.” I walked into Nightmare's apartment. It smelled like laundry hadn't been on Nightmare's agenda for at least a month. There was some nondescript furniture, and a small stereo, the cheap, all-in-one kind with attached speakers. Beside it was strewn a collection of hand-labeled CDs. But no computers. “Where's all the gear?” I asked.

“In the back,” he said. “I keep stuff away from the windows. Bad neighborhood.”

“Go put on some pants, Michael.”