The master bedroom had the same unlived-in feel. Vasquez saw an empty bookcase, a wooden straight-back chair and a cheap mattress that rested on the floor. There were no sheets on the mattress, but there were several dried brown spots that looked like blood. Vasquez searched the closets and the connecting bathroom. Then he moved on to the other rooms on the main floor. The more Vasquez searched, the more uneasy he felt. He had never seen such a tidily desolate home. Aside from the coffee cup and the coffeepot, there were no signs of life anywhere.
When Vasquez finished with the main floor he headed downstairs to the basement. There were four rooms, one of which was padlocked. Vasquez searched the other rooms. All were empty and devoid of dust or dirt.
Vasquez returned to the padlocked door. He had a set of lock picks with him and was soon inside a long and narrow room with walls and floor of unpainted gray concrete. A faint unpleasant odor permeated the air. Vasquez looked around. A sink was in one corner and a refrigerator in another. Between them, in the center of the room, was an operating table. Hanging from the padded tabletop were leather straps that could be used to secure a person's arms, legs and head. A metal tray that would hold surgical implements during an operation was completely empty.
The detective studied the floor around the operating table more closely and spotted several bloodstains. Vasquez knelt to get a better look at the blood and caught sight of something under the table. It was a scalpel. Vasquez picked it up gingerly and examined it closely. Flecks of dried blood covered the blade and the handle. He laid it carefully on the tray, then turned his attention to the refrigerator.
Vasquez grasped the handle. The door caught briefly, then popped free. The detective blinked hard, then released the handle as if his fingers had been burned. The refrigerator door slammed shut, and Vasquez fought the urge to bolt from the room. He took a deep breath and opened the door again. On the top shelf were two glass jars with screw-on tops labeled viaspan. The jars were full of a clear liquid with a faint yellow tinge. Vasquez spotted a plastic bag filled with a white powder on the bottom shelf. Not two kilos' worth. Nowhere near that amount. Days later the state crime lab would report that the powder was indeed cocaine. By that time, Vasquez would have trouble remembering that cocaine was even involved in the case against Dr. Vincent Cardoni. What Bobby Vasquez would remember for the rest of his life were the dead eyes that stared at him from the two severed heads that sat on the middle shelf.
Chapter 11
Milton County sheriff Clark Mills, a sleepy-eyed man with shaggy brown hair and a thick mustache, struggled valiantly to maintain his composure when Vasquez showed him the severed heads. Both belonged to white women. One head was oval in shape and covered with blond hair that was stiff and stringy from the extreme cold. It leaned against the interior wall of the refrigerator like a prop in a horror film. The second head was covered with brunette hair and leaned against the first. The eyes in both skulls had rolled back so far that the pupils had almost disappeared. The skin looked like a pale rubber compound created by a special-effects wizard and was ragged and uneven where the neck had been severed from the body.
Jake Mullins, Mills's deputy, had blinked furiously for a few seconds before backing out of the room. The person who seemed the least affected by the horror in the refrigerator was Fred Scofield, the Milton County district attorney. Scofield, a heavy man tottering on the brink of obesity, had been in Vietnam and was a big-city DA before burning out and moving to the peace and seclusion of the mountain community of Cedar City.
What should we do, Fred? the sheriff asked.
Scofield was chewing on an unlit cigar and staring dispassionately at the heads. He turned his back to the refrigerator and addressed the shaken lawman.
I think we should clear out of here so we don't mess up the crime scene. Then you should get on the horn and have the state police send a forensic team up here ASAP.
They collected the deputy, whose complexion was as pale as the heads in the refrigerator. While Sheriff Mills phoned the state police and the deputy collapsed on the living room couch, Scofield led Bobby Vasquez outside onto the deck and lit up his cigar. The temperature was in the low thirties, but the cold country air was a welcome relief after the close, fetid smell in the makeshift operating room.
What brought you to this house of horrors, Detective?
Vasquez had worked on his story while waiting for the police, and he had it down pat. He figured he could get it past anyone if he could get it by the flinty district attorney.
I've been investigating an anonymous tip that a doctor named Vincent Cardoni was planning to sell two kilos of cocaine he had purchased from Martin Breach, a major narcotics dealer.
I know who Breach is, Scofield said.
The cocaine was supposed to be hidden in this house.
I assume you corroborated this tip before barging into Dr. Cardoni's domicile?
There was not much of a moon, but Scofield could see Vasquez's eyes in the light from the living room. He watched them carefully while Vasquez answered his question. The vice cop's gaze never wavered.
Art Prochaska, Breach's lieutenant, was arrested recently by the DEA. I leaned on him, and he agreed to talk about Cardoni if I helped him with his federal case and kept him out of this one.
But you're not keeping him out of it.
No, sir. Not now. We're talking serial murders. That changes a lot of things.
Scofield nodded, but Vasquez thought he saw a glimmer of skepticism in the older man's features.
Prochaska confirmed that Cardoni had been buying small, personal-use quantities from one of Breach's dealers until a few weeks ago, when he suddenly asked for two kilos. Cardoni checked out, so Breach sold him the dope. Prochaska told me that the doctor had a buyer and the sale was going down today.
Scofield's jaw dropped and he almost lost his cigar.
You mean Cardoni and his buyer could be on their way here right now?
I don't think so. I think we missed the sale. I searched everywhere. The only cocaine I found was the small amount in the refrigerator.
Scofield puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. We just met, Detective. The only thing I know about you is that you're a sworn officer of the law. But I do know a thing or two about Martin Breach and Art Prochaska. Frankly, I am having a hard time believing that Prochaska would give any police officer the time of day, much less discuss Martin Breach's business.
That's what happened, Mr. Scofield.
Prochaska is going to deny everything.
Probably, but it will be my word against his.
The word of an experienced police officer against that of a scumbag dope dealer, Scofield reflected, nodding thoughtfully.
Exactly.
Scofield did not look like he was buying anything Vasquez was selling.
Why didn't you put all of this information in an affidavit and present it to a judge, who could give you a warrant to search Dr. Cardoni's home?
There wasn't time. Besides, I didn't need a warrant. I had exigent circumstances here, Vasquez said, naming one of the exceptions to the rule that searches must be conducted with a warrant. Prochaska said that the sale was going down today, but he didn't know when it was going down. I figured that I might miss the sale if I took the time to get a warrant. As it turned out, I missed it anyway.
Why didn't you bring backup or call ahead to Sheriff Mills or the state police?
I should have done all those things, Vasquez said, looking properly chagrined. It was bad judgment on my part to handle this alone.
Scofield looked off into the forest. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. He puffed on his cigar. Then he broke the silence.
I guess you know that I'll be prosecuting this mess right here in Cedar City and you're gonna be my star witness.
Vasquez nodded.
Do you want to add to anything you've told me or correct anything you've said?
No, sir.
All right, then, that's it. And I hope it is what happened, because this whole case will go down the toilet if I can't convince Judge Brody that he can rely on your word.
