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Eight people missing, gone. If there had been bodies then maybe the case wouldn't have proceeded so slowly. Instead, there had been nothing but incorrect assumptions and dead ends for months. Hopefully, agent Matt McIver would help change that. He was anxious--a trait that rarely seemed to leave him--but never in his life had he pictured himself being anything but an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. After leaving
Quantico, he was determined to prove he was as competent as his training had shown him to be, and this case would be his rite of passage.
He was standing in front of a large, Victorian house with pointed gables that, against the brooding October night, looked much like grave markers-the grave markers of its missing and presumed dead owner. He stared down at the sidewalk where spicules of blood marked where the ninth victim had disappeared and took the last drag of a cigarette before tossing it aside. He let the ghost-white plume ascend from his mouth as he slowly traced the lawn, the car-dotted street, the driveway, hoping that something out of the ordinary would catch his eye. Amongst the hurly-burly of the police, coroner's office, flashing lights, and crying children only one thing did: tore and matted grass in the space between the sidewalk and curb where the body had obviously been dragged then dropped into a trunk to be taken off somewhere. Somewhere nobody could find.
A police officer, hidden in the backwash of red and blue lights, came up to Matt as he pondered the feeble marks of blood on the cement. "We've gotten about everything we're going to get here," he said sourly.
"Find anything?" Matt asked without looking up, knowing that the answer had already been given in officer's tone.
"Nothing substantial," he affirmed. "A couple of days and we'll know more."
"Right." He finally looked up and smiled confidently. "He'll screw up, eventually. And when he does, I'll be right there waiting."
The police officer chuffed at the remark the young FBI agent had made and walked away.
"I will, damn it," he said to himself. "I will."
"You will what?" asked a towering voice from the night. It was Frank Martin, senior field agent, who had been given the task of taking Matt under his wing until he got his feet wet. He was as potent and swarthy as the coffee he was drinking, a leviathan, and his body gave no indication that he was nearing fifty. He had crept out of the multitude of shadows that lined the driveway of the victim's house.
When Matt didn't answer, he asked again. "You will what?"
"Find the person doing all of this," he replied reluctantly.
"You don't sound too convincing to me."
"Oh, I'm convinced. It's everyone else who isn't so sure."
Frank smiled, but it was lost on a face as deep and dark as the night. "You mean the blue? They're just upset that we were brought in."
"We're supposed to work together," Matt charged.
"But that doesn't always imply intent, now does it? Get used to it, my friend. More often than not, they welcome our help. But sometimes pride gets in the way of cooperation."
They started walking back to Matt's car, which was parked a half-block down the street. Matt noticed a newspaper tucked under Frank's arm. "The sports page too interesting to put down before being dragged down here?" he asked.
Frank took a sip of coffee from the lidded Styrofoam cup before answering. "Nope. It's for you. I circled an ad in the jobs classifieds that might interest you."
"I see you have about as much faith in me as everyone else does."
Frank slapped Matt in the chest with it. "Just look at it."
They stopped under a street light and, after a chilly gust of crisp, autumn air tried to pull the paper from his grip, Frank pointed out the ad. It was for a housekeeping position at Mercy Hospital, the employer of most of the victims.
"We're going to try and get you a new job," Frank said.
Matt smiled. "It's almost too good to be true." His smile quickly faded. "But you can't guarantee my getting in there."
"True," Frank said. "You'd have to compete with others applying for the job, but with a bit of luck . . ."
Matt's smile returned once again. "I'm chalk-full of luck, boss."
Frank said, "Good. I'll talk to Carcatelli tomorrow and get everything arranged.
On 12 October, Carcatelli okayed the plan.
On 16 October, Matt gave a nervous interview that was only partly an act. Apparently, it was a good enough act to land him the job.
After a few days on the job, Matt reported to Frank several suspicious people. It was a quick call with only names given-chitchat would be held until later. Of the names given, the oddest of the bunch was pathologist Dr. Walter Dougen. Matt would only say that he would expound on that later.
Frank then delegated agent Michael Anderson in the field office to do some research on these people. After a week, they narrowed the list down to one person-Dr. Dougen.
On 15 October, Matt met with Frank at a small diner and went over the investigation's progress. Frank was blowing steam from a hot cup of straight black coffee when Matt arrived. He sat in the booth across from the big man. Even from there, Matt was dwarfed by Frank's size. He was as pale and skinny as Frank was dark and muscular. And with his neatly groomed brown hair, he could easily have been mistaken for a weekend evangelist, who went door to door, smiling and preaching the Good News. But despite their physical differences, the two were fast becoming friends.
"Well, how does it feel clearing the first hurdle?" Frank asked, sipping his coffee.
"So far so good, but it wasn't without a stumble," Matt replied as he shook off the cold that followed him inside.
"So give me the scoop. And don't leave out anything."
"Well, one of my duties may include assisting Dr. Dougen with any autopsies. I had to agree to it or not get the job, but I'm telling you, Frank, if I'm made to help him gut out a body before this investigation's over . . ."
"A janitor helping with autopsies?" Frank wondered. "What the hell kind of hospital are they running there?"
"In today's world, a hospital cuts corners where it can," Matt replied. "At least that's the story given to me. I suppose a janitor makes less than a morgue assistant, and I'm right there to clean up when it's finished." He winked. "I think that's why I got the job; I was the only idiot to accept their demand."
Frank's laugh carried like thunder. "Well, I hope you develop a strong stomach soon, or you just might end up being his next post mortem."
"Lucky for me they only do about three or four a year. And from what I hear, the last few years he's preferred doing them solo. Nonetheless, I have to be available if he needs me. I think the chances are slim that I'll get one, at least that's what I'm trying to convince myself."
Matt flagged down a waitress and held up his empty coffee cup to let her know he wanted some coffee of his own. "So, did they do the reference check on me yet?" he asked, trying to cover a solicitous tone in his voice.
"Same day as the interview," Frank assured him. "You got the job, didn't you? And I just want to let you know that the housekeeping supervisor at Mayfair nursing home in Auburn gave you resounding kudos."
"And who was the supervisor?"
Frank smiled. "Me."
The waitress, an older lady wearing a grease-stained shirt and perpetual frown, had nodded at Matt's gesture for coffee and filled his cup, along with topping off Frank's half-full cup. "You two gonna order anything?" she asked with a narcoleptic enthusiasm.
"Maybe later," Frank said.
"In between all the damned cleaning I've been doing," Matt began after taking a sip from his cup, "I managed to place surveillance equipment in the morgue, the histology department, and his office phone is now tapped."
"Whoa! Damned cleaning? That is your job, you know."
"I know, but in the entire time I've been there, I've barely set foot outside the morgue. I've polished bone saws, cleaned instruments, mopped the floor and disinfected the autopsy table, not once, but everyday since I've started work."
"Hey, when you're done my place could use a little sprucing."
"I've seen your place, Frank. It needs a hell of a lot more than that."
They both smiled.
Matt then pulled in closer, hovering over the tabletop so no one else could here what he had to say next. "And you know what else?"
Frank was all ears.
"Yesterday, when I went in at the beginning of my shift, the table as well as the instruments had been used. I found blood spots in a few places that hadn't been clean well, and the room reeked of bleach."
Frank shrugged. "So."
"I've cleaned every square inch of the morgue. There were no blood spots anywhere, I assure you. And I clean with a lemon-scented disinfectant, not bleach."
"So maybe he had an autopsy?" the big man suggested.
Matt shook his head. "No, when his secretary was at lunch, I checked the autopsy log she keeps on her desk. The last one was performed July twentieth."
"Did anyone see him there at an odd hour?"
"Haven't had the time to snoop yet," Matt said.
Frank scratched his head, "Well, no new missings have been reported."
"Not yet, anyway," Matt replied.
"Did the bugs pick up anything?"
"No, I've put word back that they're ready to go, but I haven't gotten the okay from Carcatelli to turn them on."
Frank rubbed his squared and whiskered chin. "I guess I'll get on Carcatelli myself, light a fire under his ass. I assume that he'd want to start the monitoring immediately, so I don't know what the hell he's waiting for."
"Bureaucracy," Matt replied dryly.
Frank nodded. "Now as far as bugging the doc's house is concerned, you only have a two hour window to get in, do the taps, and get out before he gets home."
"In broad daylight? Little risky, don't you think?"
Frank's broad face furrowed in disgust. "I know. I hate all theses damned cut backs. Never enough people to get the job done right without putting someone's ass on the line." With more than a little concern he asked, "Want me to do it for you?"
"When are you going to find the time? You're still up to your ears in paperwork from the case you just finished. You do have cases of your own you're working on."
"I can make some time."
"Thanks but no," Matt replied. "Carcatelli already informed me that this would be a one man job--at least for now. And from the sounds of it, we better get used to working short-handed."
A cold wind that could be felt through the large window they were sitting next to brushed stray leaves along the pane before whisking them off into the night. The waitress watched the brief display of runaway foliage as she wandered by their table, not giving notice to the two men sitting there. She almost looked like a mannequin on wheels.
Going on, Matt asked, "So what's been found on him, so far?"
"Not much. Some possibilities but nothing definite," said Frank. "Doc's done a remarkably thorough job of keeping his life private. No one, even what family we've managed to track down, seems to know a lot about him. He was introverted to begin with, and after his wife died having a miscarriage a few years ago, he clammed up even more."
"Children?" Matt queried.
"That would have been their first. Family members say he was devastated."
"Enough to make a marginally sane man go over the brink," Matt thought aloud.
"So how about you?" Frank volleyed. "Find anything besides vocation that'll connect Doc to the missing people?"
"I'm not a miracle worker," Matt said. "I'll need a few more days. I don't want to start nosing around too soon and ruffle any feathers. So far, the only thing I can say for sure is that he's a strange bird. I bet he comes down to the morgue two or three times a day to check and see if there are any bodies in the freezer. Every time its empty and, I swear, every time he gets this--this look . . . like he's disappointed. No, not disappointed, angry. Angry that there's no autopsies to do."
Frank's stern countenance grew even more so, and he shook one of his sausage-sized fingers at Matt. "You better watch your butt, my friend. If he's our man, he's good, and he's playing for keeps. In the mean time, I'm going to try to pawn my paperwork off one someone else so I can give you a hand. There's no way you should go a cappella with this one, no way."
Matt smiled. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm a big boy now."
"Concern hell! Who's gonna come over and clean my place if you end up on the missing list?"
"What a friend!"
"Hey, that's what I'm here for."
At 10:15 p.m., after their third cup of coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie each, the two agents parted company. Too full of caffeine to sleep, Matt decided to go up to the doctor's house and do some night watching. While there, he'd go over in his head where he'd plant the surveillance equipment and what intimations he'd look for that might link the good doctor with the other missing people--four of whom were from the medical community that he knew personally, and one was a fellow pathologist. There was just too much of a coincidence here to be overlooked.
So, against protocol, and without telling anyone what he was doing, Matt drove the lonely, dark streets that meandered up to Pinegrove Heights were Dr. Dougen lived. All the while, he wondered if it was the smartest thing to do.
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