Devil's Cure Page 3

  Laura nodded. It was always one of the risks, the thing she’d most dreaded.

  “Must’ve mutated,” she said. The retrovirus she herself had designed had mutated inside Gillian, and it had started creating cancer faster than it killed it. It had peppered Gillian’s liver and pancreas and God only knows what else. Her miracle cure.

  “What do you want to do, Laura?” Emily asked.

  With cold fury Laura took a clean scalpel from the tray. She would not let Gillian die like this, would not let those things remain inside her. She excised another nodule, then another, her heart thundering in her ears. She would not stop cutting. She would save her, must save her. Save Gillian.

  Save Sandra.

  “Laura!”

  She turned to Emily, whose eyes were sorrowful as she shook her head. Laura looked around at the other staff, Melanie, Sam, all watching her in communal mourning. She knew Emily was right. There was no way she could remove every nodule without destroying the liver, and the pancreas.

  She looked at the young woman’s face, still at peace, oblivious.

  I’m sorry, she thought.

  Softly she said, “Let’s close.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHAT CAN I TELL YOU, KEVIN, WE’RE TREATING THIS AS A ROUTINE homicide. Banji was the victim of a mugging that went bad. He also happened to be a doctor. I see nothing to connect the two.”

  Kevin Sheldrake nodded—patiently, he hoped. Outside, it was topping a hundred, and inside Captain Paul Miceli’s office, it wasn’t much better, a single desk fan periodically blowing a humid insult across his face. Apparently the air conditioning in the whole west wing of the precinct was down in honor of his visit. Behind his desk, Miceli was sweating enthusiastically, his armpits already ringed, the air of his office soured by cologne and deodorant.

  “If Banji had been a GP,” Kevin said, “even a run-of-the-mill specialist, I’d be inclined to agree with you. But he was doing cutting-edge AIDS research. Newsweek did a story on him a couple months ago. He’s been working on a new vaccine. Very high-profile stuff.”

  “Last time I checked,” Miceli said, “doctors weren’t immune to violent crime.” He smiled gravely, his animosity hidden behind the facade of a wise and sternly benevolent patriarch. He was a big man, with a big voice and an overbearing physique he had obviously worked hard to preserve into his fifties. His burly wrists, festooned with hair, terminated with butcher block fists, whose knuckles tapped almost inaudibly against his cluttered blotter.

  Kevin smiled back amicably. He’d always been wary of big men, had noted since childhood their easy propensity to become bullies. Kevin himself was tall but slim, and to this day, he still felt diminished in the presence of slabs of meat like Miceli. Look at him, hunched over his desk, being huge, as if it were a divine right to rule instead of genetic fluke. Kevin felt his smile begin to decompose.

  He’d hardly expected a jovial greeting from Detroit Homicide. After all, a Special Agent at the doorstep was about as welcome as a Jehovah’s Witness, only less so. It meant headaches, wounded egos, possibly a turf war. Normally, he was careful to avoid stamping on anybody’s toes. But right now, he had a razor-line headache, it was hot as a kiln in here, and he wanted, desperately, to get onto this case.

  Pleasantly, he said, “I wouldn’t be sitting in this little indoor inferno of yours if I wasn’t very concerned about this.”

  Miceli chuckled. “Look, you could’ve saved yourself the trip from Chicago. I know you’re worried this is some kind of David Haines copycat. But as I recall, Haines was a sniper, right? He used a high-powered rifle, and he was a good shot. One, two bullets most, from a distance. Left the bodies as they fell. Didn’t dip in for cash. Banji was shot at close range with a semi, four shots in his chest—messy, street stuff. And his wallet’s missing. Not much of a copycat.”

  “I’m not particularly worried about a copycat.”

  Miceli’s eyes widened. “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m worried this might be the real thing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A copycat models himself after an acclaimed predecessor, like some gruesome homage. It’s an aesthetic decision, nothing more. But you may have a person who genuinely shares Haines’s beliefs. Wit were me, WI didn’t want to attract undue attention, I’d change my MO too.”

  “Well, that’s very imaginative. But most perps, fortunately, aren’t. After twenty-five years working the streets, you learn that.”

  Kevin didn’t miss the subtext. Cops thought the Feds were wet-behind-the-ears college boys with no field experience. They might be skilled looking at computer screens and tax ledgers, they might have an impeccable telephone manner, but when it came to flat-on-your-ass detective work, they were Feebs—a favorite nickname.

  “The timing troubles me too,” Kevin said, ignoring Miceli’s slight.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Haines’s execution is in three weeks. I need to be sure this isn’t some kind of protest. Or the beginning of one.”

  With the big date approaching, Haines was enjoying a modest revival in the media—a mere dribble compared to the tidal wave of ink and air time he’d commanded four years ago, when he was still an anonymous killer on the loose.

  In his day-planner, Kevin had marked the execution date. He’d kept track of it with the vigilance of a child opening windows on an advent calendar. Unlike Christmas day, however, the date, over the years, kept getting pushed back. There were maybe ten appellate steps between the death sentence and actual execution; Haines had taken them all now. A former medical student, he had killed seven doctors in four states, and maimed three others. He’d targeted only leading researchers in oncology, immunology, hematology. He’d planned his murders carefully, and executed his victims with the precision of a CIA assassin. It had taken Kevin and his task force three years to track him down. The Illinois state attorneys had insisted unflinchingly on the death penalty.

  Haines had helped them. He’d confessed to all his murders and insisted on a guilty plea. When his lawyers had tried to plead not guilty by reason of insanity, he’d fired them and submitted to testing by psychiatrists. He was found sane.

  Kevin could have saved them the time. Haines’s murders had not been committed in fits of insanity or passion; he knew well the difference between right and wrong, and he would pay the ultimate price at the hands of the people.

  Miceli was shaking his head regretfully, as if forced to reprimand a promising but overexcited student. Kevin had to look away, feeling his face begin to flinch with irritation.

  “Listen, I followed the Haines case too, like most people. Damn impressive work on the Bureau’s part, even if you did have a small army of people working with you. I lift my hat to you for taking him down. But trust me, Haines is the kind of case that comes along once in a career. You’ve had your David Haines. I’m sorry, but what we’ve got here is plain boring. A guy shot in an underground parking lot. What happened to Banji is tragic, but nothing special. A reasonable man would assume it was a sad coincidence.”

  “What makes you think I’m a reasonable man?” Kevin said soberly, and when he refused to return Miceli’s smile, he saw the captain’s eyes lose their composure for the first time. Only then did he allow a conciliatory grin to cross his face.

  “I’m not a reasonable man, and I didn’t catch David Haines by being one. What he believes, the things he did, are not reasonable by most people’s standards. Twenty years working cults and religious fanatics, I can tell you all about unreasonable, and you know what? It’s stopped seeming unreasonable to me. What happened to Banji doesn’t surprise me. What surprises me is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

  Since the day they’d locked Haines up, Kevin had never been free of the persistent anxiety that something like this might happen. And as David’s execution drew nearer, his fear had intensified—to such an extent that for the past two weeks he’d been having nightmares again, shouting himself awake from the reruns of th
e Haines case his unconscious had been broadcasting. Like Charles Manson and Ted Bundy, David Haines had seared himself into the nation’s consciousness. After hunting him for three years, Kevin felt personally branded, and he didn’t expect the scar tissue on his own soul to heal. As far as he was concerned, the terrible power David had defined would never go away; it just lay dormant, waiting for another able host.

  But Miceli, he saw, was looking dubious. “With respect, maybe this is just a case of reading too much into things.”

  “Oh,” said Kevin, “you think maybe I’m obsessing—”

  “Look, I didn’t say that—”

  “Maybe too much time on my hands over at the Bureau. Well, I sincerely hope you’re right. And I’ll be more than happy to assist in any way. Prove myself wrong.”

  He watched Miceli’s face. This was a local matter, and the FBI had no jurisdiction. Kevin needed to be invited onto this case.

  “I appreciate your generosity, Agent Sheldrake, really. And I’ll certainly keep you up to date, but I’ve got a feeling we’ll wrap this one pretty soon.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got a witness. The parking attendant. He heard shots, got a good look at the shooter as he ran for the east exit. He’s the one who called it in. From his description we’ve got a pretty good guess who it is. My boys tracked him down just before you showed up. Lots of cash on him. They’re bringing him in now.” Miceli grinned, obviously feeling generous. “You’re welcome to stick around for the lineup, if you like.”

  In the darkened viewing room, Kevin waited with Miceli and his two homicide detectives, Lowen and Valgardson. Judging from the looks they gave Kevin, they seemed to share their boss’s less than kindly view of the Bureau. Behind the glass, the six suspects filed in.

  “Okay, Will, take your time with this,” said Miceli.

  Kevin turned his attention to Will Andrews, the parking attendant who’d called in the shooting. He was a mild, weedy-looking man who seemed faintly repelled by his surroundings. Kevin didn’t blame him. There was no fan here, and a pall of stale coffee and nicotine seemed permanently suspended in the air. Andrews stood, slightly stooped, his arms folded across his chest, as if trying to minimize his body’s contact with the malodorous room.

  Andrews pointed. “That’s him.”

  “Number four?”

  “Yes.”

  Kevin would have been hard pressed to conjure up a more volatile-looking specimen. He had long, stringy hair, a ratty mustache, and small close-set eyes that radiated ignorance and rage. Above his waist he wore nothing but a sleeveless jean jacket revealing wiry arms, twined with tattoos. Almost all his knuckles were scabbed over. A textbook offender.

  “You want a few more minutes with this, Will?”

  “No, I’m sure. That’s definitely him.”

  As if on cue, the man exploded. Even through the glass his voice was alarmingly loud.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted, jabbing with his finger. “You fuckin’ cunts! You want to see me, get on in here. I’ll fuck with you myself!”

  “Deal with him,” Miceli snapped into the intercom. As Kevin watched, two officers hurried over and tried to take hold of the man, who was still shouting furiously. He lashed out, holding the cops at bay for a moment before they slammed him face-first against the wall, cuffed him, and marched him off.

  Kevin sighed inwardly. Imagining this man committing murder wasn’t difficult. Maybe he did kill Banji—just another senseless act of violence for a few bucks. It was depressingly common. A sudden weariness drifted through him. Maybe Miceli was right. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  Instinct had brought him here to Detroit, but was his instinct any good anymore? Maybe, as he sometimes feared, it had been blunted and deformed by his three years on the Haines case. Maybe. But no way was he ready to give up yet. If Banji was the work of a doctor-killer, he wanted onto the case. He could do this. And he needed it. He needed to prove to Hugh back in Chicago that he could handle more than the chickenshit cases he’d been given over the past couple of years. And he needed to prove it to himself, too.

  He caught Miceli sending him a smarmy grin and raising his eyebrows. Obviously Andrews had selected the right man, their prime suspect. But Kevin still didn’t buy it—the whole thing was way too easy.

  “Quite a show for you, Mr. Andrews,” Miceli said to the parking attendant.

  “Yeah, well. Do you need me for anything else?”

  “Just to sign a few papers for Detective Lowen.” Miceli offered his hand. “Thank you very much for coming in.”

  Andrews, Kevin noted, was less than eager to shake Miceli’s hand. He did it quickly, afterwards discreetly wiping his hand on his pants. Interesting little compulsive disorder, Kevin thought. Shaking off the dust of the world?

  “Do you need a lift anywhere?” Detective Lowen asked Andrews.

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Detective Lowen opened the door and Miceli walked out ahead. Kevin was bringing up the rear when Andrews stopped short, as if he’d forgotten something. Before Andrews could raise his fingers to pinch his nose, three fat drops of his blood splattered quietly on the linoleum.

  “Ah, geez, it’s this damn heat,” said Lowen. “You want an ice pack? We’ve got an ice pack somewhere I think.”

  Kevin watched as Andrews faltered at the doorway, looking down at his blood on the floor. The expression on his face was one of great concern, bordering on horror. Kevin’s heart shifted into high gear, waiting to see what would happen.

  “Come on out and sit down,” Lowen was saying. “I’ll go grab that ice pack.”

  “Yeah, okay,” muttered Andrews. But still he did not move forward. Kevin saw his Adam’s apple bob anxiously, once, twice. Then with his free hand Andrews hurriedly extracted a tissue from his pocket and bent down to wipe his blood carefully from the tile.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Lowen, beginning to sound impatient.

  Finally Andrews straightened up, his eyes lingering for another moment on the floor before leaving the room.

  Kevin looked down to the tile. Every last drop of blood was gone. Andrews hadn’t left a trace.

  “I think you’re about to arrest the wrong man,” Kevin told Miceli back in his office.

  “We just got a perfect ID. His name’s Chris Washington. He’s well known to us, believe me. He spends a lot of time in the area of that parking lot. He’s working on page two of his rap sheet—assault, mugging, illegal possession of a handgun. He’s just crossed into the big time. When Andrews gave his description, we had a pretty good idea who he was talking about.”

  “All the same, you should put Andrews under surveillance.”

  He looked with loathing at the fin on Miceli’s desk, still performing its futile little rotations and managing to blast sour air into his face at every turn. He shifted his chair.

  “Come on,” said Miceli, “you think we didn’t check him first thing? He’s clean. He’s not even in the system. Not so much as a speeding ticket.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Then what makes you think he’s the killer?”

  “His nosebleed.”

  All during the lineup, he’d felt that something was wrong—Washington wasn’t their man. But it wasn’t until Andrews’s blood hit the floor that he’d understood. Thank God for that nosebleed. Now he knew his instincts hadn’t been wrong about the Banji killing, and he felt a swell of pleasure and relief—not a total burnout after all. Still, he knew how hard it was going to be to explain this to Miceli.

  The captain looked at him, then laughed. “His nosebleed? What about it?”

  “The way he wiped it up, as if his blood was something precious, and he couldn’t bear to—”

  But Miceli cut him off with a snort, his patience beginning to splinter. “So he’s considerate. My wife would’ve done the same. Doesn’t like messing up someone’s floor.”

  “Look,” he said, “are you Catholic?”
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  “Used to be, why?”

  “A priest drops a Communion wafer by accident. Does he just sweep it into the garbage, or wait for mice to eat it? He blesses it and takes it himself.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. That’s different.”

  “Not for someone like Haines,” Kevin pressed on. “His blood carries his soul, and he doesn’t leave it on the floor to be stepped on. A doctor like Banji would’ve been a prime target for Haines. AIDS research. First, you’ve got the associations with homosexuality, which he views as a sinful plague. More important, you’ve got a doctor trying to find a cure for a God-sent scourge.”

  “Okay, I think I’ve heard enough of this.”

  “What, doesn’t sound reasonable to you? Doesn’t it seem odd that Andrews has only been on the job five weeks?”

  “No. It’s the night shift. The pay sucks. The hours suck. There’s a fast turnover.”

  “How do you know he didn’t take the job to watch Banji? Maybe it was the only way to get close enough to kill him. He knows his car, knows his hours. Plus he gave himself a decent alibi. It worked on you, didn’t it?”

  Miceli’s voice had the leaden calm of someone trying hard to control his temper. “I admire the Bureau, and the work you’ve done for it. But I’m telling you, this is a good old boring murder. And we’ve got our man.”

  A blast from Miceli’s desk fan hit Kevin in the face again, and without hesitation he leaned forward and slammed his hand down on the power button. The fan swirled to a standstill.

  “You arrest Washington, and a few weeks down the road, maybe a few months, there’s going to be another dead doctor. And another. Think about how that’s going to look for you and your squad. Washington’s not your man. He’s too obvious. Andrews set him up.”

  “Too obvious? I’m sorry it’s not imaginative enough for you, my friend, but usually the most obvious answer is the right one. I don’t have the luxury of formulating lavish motivations and plots. I see what I see and I make decisions.”

  “And this is the wrong one.”