No, the drugs hadn't been touched. Spritz's pockets hadn't been turned out.
Another likely given was that Spritz wasn't your usual street peddler whose supply was limited at any one time, who maintained enough for, say, a few days' distribution and no more. On the other hand, a mid-level dealer would 'connect' with such a person to dole out specified quantities, to monitor use, to retrieve cash payments, to exert control. No doubt, then: Spritz was either a mid-leveler or someone higher in the hierarchy-perhaps part of a far-reaching operation run by Bugles. Hell, they could have been on equal footing. After all: Colombia and Turkey.
David rotated in the van like a hawk in a canary cage, and was about to exit when he spied three oxygen cylinders on a shelf behind him. Below, an open bin contained three additional cylinders piled in a pyramid. He turned, yanked open the bin on the opposite side and found three more. Nine green cylinders, each the length of his lower leg and about as wide as his calf.
He stared at the shelf until he finally understood what had seemed so odd: the top portion of one cylinder had been unscrewed and several rows of threads were visible. He picked it up. In his medical career, he had often requested oxygen for patients but he had never handled a cylinder before. It felt cold against his palm and heavier than he had expected. David unscrewed and removed the top. The cylinder was packed with four-by-four bags similar to those in the silver canisters, so packed that none fell out as he tipped it over.. He ran his finger over a film of white powder that coated the inside rim of the cylinder, but, again, he chose not to taste it. But why beat around the bush? Cocaine. Hurriedly, he checked the other cylinders, and discovered they contained either four-by-fours or 'HORNET' heroin bags.
Six canisters full and nine cylinders full. All in all, a respectable supply for a mid-leveler undoubtedly receiving regular replenishments from Mr. Big. Or Dr. Big. A mid-leveler dealing from a medical emergency vehicle, one that David realized only Victor Spritz drove because all the other ambulances had their own crash carts and cardiac defibrillators. He also realized that way back when-early in private practice, or even early in low-level sleuthing-he could never have predicted that on a Saturday morning in January, he'd be pretzeled in a van once dedicated to restoring hearts to normal beats but now converted to a stage for illegal drug transactions and grisly murder.
And he reconciled himself to the fact that given the new circumstances, the official investigative team would be expanded to include the Narcotics Task Force.
David scrambled out to give the exterior surroundings a once-over before making his phone calls. But he returned to retrieve the Minx which he inserted into its shoulder rig, and his attache case which he placed on a step and opened. He removed the Polaroid and took four shots of the van's interior and one of its exterior after he had circled to face it from the exit to the main parking lot. The grey sky conveyed its dullness to the last photo.
He was about to phone Security and request them to notify Alton Foster before they came to investigate. Then he would call Kathy at his home. It was only eight forty-five. As he raised his cellular, he glanced behind the dividing wall and his attention was drawn to the corner marking the end of the main lot. A red motorcycle stood out against a shallow bed of snow. It was parked obliquely and David estimated two inches of white crust covered its uppermost parts.
He sauntered over as he drew up a three-day-old image of the motorcycle-off in the distance, fleeing Cannon Cemetery. At the cycle, he copied down the designation CB750 which was part of the Honda logo on the fuel tank. He kicked snow away from the rear tire to measure its accumulation and uncovered a splotch of thick black oil. David made a mental note that the oil was beneath the snow, not mixed with it. Another image: the scene was Spritz's garage. And he thus eliminated the Toyota automobile as the source of the oil spot there.
He took a rear view Polaroid of the cycle before racing back to the interior of the van to search Spritz's pockets for keys. There were none.
Within minutes of his calls, hospital security personnel, uniformed police, plainclothes officers and administrative types arrived, followed closely by a contingent from the medical examiner's office. And within minutes of that, the usual Major Crime Scene Unit of Nick, Kathy and Sparky. Foster was the last to arrive and immediately took turns with the others, voicing dismay, proclaiming the curse of Saturday mornings, or getting David's 'take' on the killing. By nine-twenty, conversations strained above pandemonium as scores of additional people flooded the area. Screaming news reporters and neighborhood gawkers pressed against yellow cordoning tape. A light snow was turning the grey sky to silver.
David leaned back against the dividing wall, watching individuals scurrying in and out of Spritz's back room and around and about the van. Flashbulbs flashed, walkie-talkies talked, television cameras televised, and radio reporters reported. Several writers from the Hollings Herald wrote in their notepads, prompting David to ask himself whatever happened to his own note taking? He would catch up later. He doubted that an action movie set of actors, directors and crew looked as confusing as this one.
Kathy and Sparky entered the van, replacing the medical examiner and his associates who had been inside, David estimated, a mere thirty seconds. Not much difficulty pronouncing Spritz dead. At the wall, he found himself hemmed in by Nick, Foster, a man he recognized from the Narcotics Task Force, and a young woman he had never seen before. She had a plain face, plain clothes and wore a badge on a beige hooded pullover.
'Why so brutal?' Foster asked. He posed the question as if the brutality mattered more than the death itself, as if he had become hardened to expect murders on hospital grounds.
'It looks like the perp had more than a simple score to settle,' Nick said, not giving David a chance to respond. 'Dr. David Brooks,' he added, 'meet Sally Schmidt. She's assisting in Narcotics for the time being.' Sally smiled and nodded.
'Nice to meet you,' David said nonchalantly. He turned to Nick and asked, 'Who's heading up the Task Force?'
'I am,' Nick responded.
David's head jerked back. 'You?' he said. 'That's some division of labor you've got down there.'
Nick's eyes skimmed over David's. 'Well,' he said, 'when you're shorthanded, you take shortcuts.'
David chuckled internally over the malapropos remark but had to give him credit for trying to be cute. He wondered, though, what Nick knew about narcotics investigations. Or-now-about narcotics in general.
Nick signaled to his assistants that they should head toward the van, then said to David, 'I should ask you what you found in more detail, but I'll check myself. Nothing's been disturbed?'
'Nothing's been disturbed. Aside from the body, you'll find a horde of drugs in there.'
Nick turned to leave, stopped, and added, 'I assume you have all the details down?'
David didn't like the comment nor the answer he was about to give, but he gave it anyway. 'You assume right, as usual.'
Nick stormed away with his two assistants and entered the van just as Kathy emerged. She walked over to David and pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her fleece-lined jacket.
'Not at all pleasant in there,' she said. She blew her nose without regard to daintiness.
David bent over and kissed her on the lips. 'Happy birthday,' he whispered.
'What? Oh, that? Isn't this a nice way to spend it?'
'We still have tonight. Dinner out, okay? Olivio's? Let's not break the string.' They had celebrated their birthdays in elegant style for the past five years.
'Of course, where else? Pick me up at six.' She pointed to the EMS entrance. 'That's where Spritz hung out, you say?'
'That's the place.'
'You hanging around or what?'
'No, I'd better scram before your boss and I tangle out loud. I'll interrogate some people later.' He lowered his voice as if he were speaking decisions. 'Like Foster … and Bernie … and Robert. Maybe even Dr. Corliss'
'Corless, the psychiatrist? You suspect the psychiatrist?'
'At this point, I don't know who to suspect.' He rubbed his decision scar. 'And even whether Spritz killed the others. And, if you want to know the truth, whether those stupid drugs in there have anything to do with them.'
Kathy appeared disappointed. 'Really?' she said. 'Let's talk about it tonight.'
'On your birthday!' David said in disgust, not as a question.
'David, my beloved, if I were you about to phrase this, I'd say, `Bleep my birthday, we've got trouble, big trouble, and I don't mean in River City.'
Kathy barely enunciated the last word before David shot back, 'I don't say `bleep.'
