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He’s trying to be funny. He’s trying to cut the air and bring humor to whatever the fuck is happening between us. But Minka lived another life before we married. She went into the night and hunted killers who wouldn’t be stopped any other way. She killed the worst of society, and when she was faced with a choice to keep it from me, or risk everything and tell the truth, she put her trust in me. She confessed her secrets.
And I’ve committed fresh new crimes by not telling my superiors.
Over the last two months, talk of the vigilante has whittled away to nothing, and the fear I hold in my heart has receded each night she’s stayed in and chosen safety over the hunt for someone bigger than her, stronger, and meaner.
But now we have a doctor on the streets, cutting out organs and choosing who lives and who dies.
It’s too much. It’s too close.
In the silence that hangs across her office, Minka leans to her right and pins my partner with a glare. Then straightening out, she brings her gaze back to mine.
“I have nothing new to add at this time, Detective Malone. The victim’s death was caused by an overdose of morphine. He simply went to sleep and never woke up. The killer removed the organ in a professional, clinical manner. He would’ve needed a cooler of some sort on-hand.”
“To transport the heart?”
She nods. “No point taking it if not to transplant it into someone else. The incision site on Corrigan’s chest was not sewn back up again. That leaves us at a disadvantage.”
Frowning now, Fletch asks, “Why is that a disadvantage?
“Because over time, surgeons develop a unique style in their sutures. To the standard Joe on the street, all closures appear the same. But another surgeon could probably tell who closed someone up based on the technique used.”
“Calculated decision?” I ask. “Or just unnecessary, since the patient was already dead?”
“Probably both. No need to sew the man up if he wasn’t supposed to live. Additionally, the killer had medical grade tools on hand. Each incision was precise; no hesitation. No mis-cuts.”
“Which implies ample experience,” Fletch fills in. “Right?”
“Right. Your killer isn’t a first-year intern down at Copeland Memorial, but a skilled surgeon who is probably established in his or her field of medicine. For whatever reason, which you can discuss with the psych profiler, this doctor has killed a healthy man and harvested just one organ.”
“Is that strange to you?” Pulling out the chair in front of her desk, Fletch settles in and stares across the mahogany. “Is it weird they only took the heart?”
“It seems extremely wasteful,” she responds. “Autopsy shows Jesse Corrigan was healthy all over, which means the organs left behind could’ve fetched half a million dollars on the black market.”
“So why just the one?” I ask. “Why the heart, and not the kidneys? Why not the liver?”
“He had a recipient in mind.” Slowly, intently moving away from her emotions and settling into her clinical brain, Minka’s knuckles regain their color, and her jaw loosens from the set way she’s held it for an hour or more. “This doctor had a very specific recipient in mind. Which complicates things a little more.”
Fletch frowns. “How so?”
“Well, if this is all for money, then your killer left a lot inside Corrigan’s body. If it was personal, and the recipient has an emotional connection to the killer, then it’s possible he or she won’t do it a second time. The trail may grow cold, and it’s probable you’ll never solve your crime.”
“So… you’re saying youwantthis Doctor Frankenstein to kill again?” Fletch laughs. “Wow. This took a turn I wasn’t expecting.”
Minka scowls. “I don’twanthim to. But the fact is we were nearly two days late to the scene. By now, the heart’s already been transferred to its new host body. The recipient could already be off vents and healing up. If there are no complications, they may never have to present to a doctor, apart from the one who killed Jesse. Eventually, the scars will heal and the recipient will live their life, and the doctor…” she shrugs. “Will go back to work like none of this happened.”
“Fuck.” Setting his ankle on the opposite knee, Fletch rubs a hand across his chin. “Okay. So Frankenstein’s motive will change the course of our investigation. Personal or money, personal or money…” he quietly chants the words, as though they help him think. “If it’s money, and we have a suspect, we can subpoena bank records and find the transfers. If it’s personal, then we might be fucked, and he gets away with his crime.”
“Pretty much.” Tapping my partner on the shoulder, I turn toward the office door. “First stop is Copeland Memorial. We have a connection down there that might prove useful, and us being in-house might shake the perp up enough to make them stumble.”
“Yeah.” Dropping his foot, Fletch pushes up to stand. “That could work.”
“What does a person need post-op on a surgery like that?” Stopping at the door, I turn back to catch Minka’s eyes. “Can they heal at home? Or do theyneeda hospital?”
“With a surgeon for a dad, husband, son, or best friend…?” she shrugs. “It’s entirely possible they’re healing at home. Risky,” she adds quickly. “But with access to the right equipment and education, it’s possible. They’ll need twenty-four-hour monitoring. Blood tests. Pain relief. Immunosuppressants, so the body doesn’t reject the heart. Oh,” she perks up a little. “Whoever did this must’ve known Corrigan’s blood type, among many other factors that would determine compatibility. Unless Frankenstein was killing anyone and simply hoping for the best, I surmise Corrigan was a direct target. And for that to be true, the killer had to have access to his medical records.”
“Which brings us closer,” I murmur. “Frankenstein was Corrigan’s general doctor, or his surgeon in the past, or a lab technician. Something. There has to be a connect somewhere. If there’s not, then we’re back to harvesting organs for money, in which case, why the hell leave all the rest behind?”
“Exactly.” Minka stands and glances across as I open her office door. “I hope you find your man, Detectives. Bring him to justice before he hurts anyone else.”
