Chapter 12
Sean McCarthy came to the crime scene because of an inquiry by Bobby Vasquez, who remembered that Cardoni had recently assaulted a nurse who had disappeared. McCarthy was forty-seven, meticulously dressed and as pale and cadaverous as the corpses that were the subject of his homicide investigations. The detective's red hair was spotted with gray, the freckles that dotted his alabaster skin were dull pink and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles.
Detective McCarthy stood inches from the open refrigerator and gazed at the severed heads thoughtfully while Vasquez and Scofield looked on. Then he took out a stack of snapshots and raised a Polaroid to eye level. He studied it, then he studied the heads. McCarthy had shown none of the revulsion or shock expressed by the other officers who viewed the remains. Instead, his lips creased, forming a smile that was as enigmatic as it was out of place. When he was satisfied he closed the refrigerator door.
Those fucking heads don't bother you? Vasquez asked.
McCarthy did not answer the question. He glanced at the forensic experts who were photographing and measuring the basement room.
Let's get out of here so these gentlemen can work undisturbed.
McCarthy led Vasquez and Scofield upstairs and onto the deck. Vasquez was exhausted and wanted only to sleep. Scofield seemed edgy. McCarthy gazed at the morning sky for a moment, then held up one of the Polaroids so that Vasquez and Scofield could see it.
One of the victims is Mary Sandowski. I don't know the identity of the other one.
McCarthy was about to continue when a deputy emerged from one of the hiking trails that led into the forest.
Sheriff, he called to Mills, who was conferring with two men at the side of the house. We found something.
Ah, McCarthy said, I've been expecting this.
Expecting what? Vasquez asked, but the homicide detective set off after Mills and the deputies without answering. Vasquez looked at Scofield, who shrugged and followed the lanky detective into the woods. The men marched silently along a narrow trail. The sound of their footsteps was dulled by the thick dark soil. A loamy scent mixed with the smell of pine. A sign announced that the men were entering national forest; a quarter of a mile later, the trail bent right and they were suddenly in a clearing. A shovel was sticking out of a pile of dirt in the middle of the field.
It looked like the earth had been turned recently, the deputy explained, so I got a shovel and came back out here.
He stepped aside so that the other men could see his discovery. Vasquez walked over to the narrow hole that the deputy had dug. At the bottom was a human arm.
Dr. Sally Grace, an assistant medical examiner, arrived shortly before the last of nine bodies was exhumed from the damp ground. All of the corpses were naked. Two were headless females. Of the remaining corpses, four were female, three were male and all but one appeared to be young. After a cursory examination, Grace informed the law enforcement officials gathered around her that, with the exception of the middle-aged male, all of the victims showed evidence of torture. Furthermore, Grace told them, one of the headless females had been ripped open from the breastbone to the abdomen and was missing her heart, and one of the males and another female had midline cuts from the area beneath the sternum to the pubic bone and were missing kidneys.
While Dr. Grace talked, Vasquez studied the corpses. All of the victims seemed pathetically frail and defenseless. Their rib cages showed. Their shoulder blades looked sharp and visible under their translucent skin, more like wire hangers than bones. Vasquez wanted to do something to comfort the dead, like brushing off the clumps of dirt that clung to their pale skin or laying a blanket over them to keep them warm, but none of that would help now.
When Dr. Grace finished her briefing, McCarthy wandered up and down the row of corpses. Vasquez watched him work. McCarthy gave eight of the bodies a cursory examination, but he squatted next to the seemingly untouched middle-aged male and withdrew another Polaroid from his jacket pocket. McCarthy glanced back and forth between the photograph and the corpse, then spent a few moments in deep thought. When he stood up he summoned the medical examiner. Vasquez could not hear what the detective said, but he watched Dr. Grace squat next to the corpse and examine the back of its neck. She beckoned McCarthy and he squatted next to her, nodding as she pointed to an area of the neck and gestured with her hands.
Thank you, Dr. Grace, McCarthy said to the medical examiner. He stood up.
Want to fill us in, Detective? Scofield asked, making it clear that he did not appreciate mysterious behavior in a fellow investigator.
McCarthy started back toward the cabin. About a month ago, a detective from Montreal contacted me with information about an ailing Canadian millionaire who was negotiating with Martin Breach to secure a heart on the black market. Do you know who Breach is?
Scofield and Vasquez nodded.
We've long suspected that Breach has a small but lucrative sideline: the sale of human organs on the black market to wealthy individuals who are unwilling to wait for a donor. We also suspected that the organs are frequently obtained from unwilling donors. The investigation in Canada included wiretaps. Dr. Clifford Grant was mentioned several times. He was a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center. McCarthy showed them the photograph he had examined earlier, then nodded back toward the bodies. He's the middle-aged victim who bore no marks of torture.
Scofield and Vasquez examined the picture, and they walked in silence for a while. When Scofield returned the photo the homicide detective continued.
We put Grant under twenty-four-hour surveillance as soon as we learned he was going to be involved in harvesting the heart. A few evenings after we received the tip, Grant was observed picking up a cooler from a locker at the bus station and placing it in the trunk of his car. If the cooler contained the heart, Grant could not have been the person who harvested it. You've only got a leeway of four to six hours between removing a heart and transplanting it into the body of the new recipient, and Grant was under constant surveillance. That meant that Grant had a partner.
Cardoni, Vasquez said.
Possibly.
Scofield lit a cigar and took a few puffs. The smoke curled up and spread out until it disappeared.
I was one of several officers who followed Grant to a private airfield. We observed Art Prochaska, Martin Breach's lieutenant, place an attachT case in Grant's car. Grant spotted us and took off before giving Prochaska the cooler. A few days later his car was discovered at the long-term parking lot at the airport.
And now we've found Grant and the operating room where the organs were harvested, Vasquez said.
And since we found Grant here, Scofield added, it's not much of a stretch to say that Grant's partner probably killed him.
They walked in silence for a few moments. As they came in sight of the cabin, Vasquez put out his hand to stop McCarthy.
I want to ask you a favor, he said. I want Breach, and I want Cardoni. I want to be part of this investigation. It was my case to begin with. I don't want to be cut out. What about it?
McCarthy nodded thoughtfully.
Let me talk to some people. I'll see what I can do.
Chapter 13
Frank Jaffe was an excellent storyteller. Amanda's favorite tale was the account of her miraculous birth, which Frank told her for the first time on her fifth birthday during a visit to Beth Israel cemetery. It was terribly cold that afternoon, but Amanda didn't notice the raw wind or the stark gray and threatening sky, so intense was her concentration on the grave of Samantha Jaffe, born September 3, 1953, died March 10, 1974. The headstone was small because Frank had not been able to afford elegance when he purchased it. The grave lay beneath the swaying leafless branches of an ancient maple tree, third in from a narrow road that roamed through the graveyard. Frank had gazed with sad eyes at the headstone. Then he had looked down on his little girl. Amanda was all that was good in the world and the reason that Frank persevered. In his mid-twenties Frank had been tall and strong, but a single father who worked all day and struggled in law school each night needed more than strength and youth to
