The Conspiracy Club

53

At midnight, as he drove to the police station in an unmarked sedan that smelled of potato chips, Bob Doresh said, “I’m a pretty good shot, huh? Told you military service was useful.”

“Where’s Angela?” said Jeremy.

“Still,” said Doresh, “you never know how you’re going to react when it’s real. Twenty-three years I’ve been on the job, and it’s the first time I had to fire the damn thing. They say killing someone, even when it’s righteous, can be traumatic. I’d have to say I feel pretty good, right now. Think I’ll need help later, Doc?”

“Where’s Angela?”

Doresh had one hand on the wheel. The other rested on the back of the seat. He drove slowly, with skill. During the onslaught of officers, crime-scene techs and coroner’s examiners, he’d kept Jeremy under wraps in the Tivoli Arms rest room. A uniformed cop had stood watch, mute as Renfrew.

No one had talked to him.

“I asked you something, Detective.”

Doresh said, “Okay, here’s the situation with Dr. Rios. First things first: She’s safe, been sitting in her own apartment with my partner Steve Hoker watching over her. Protective custody, if you will.”

“You called her off the ward?” said Jeremy.

“That’s the second thing, Doc. My motivation. Steve’s and mine. We pulled her out of the hospital because we wanted to talk to her about you. We thought you were dangerous- okay, we were wrong, but with the way you’ve been acting- especially yesterday, in the chapel.” He shrugged. “Sitting in a motel room by yourself. That’s a little… different, wouldn’t you say? I mean I understand now, you were watching that other guy, but see it from my perspective.”

“You told her I was a murderous psychopath.”

Doresh touched his temple, kept his foot light on the accelerator. The night was crisp and bright, and the unmarked car’s heater was surprisingly efficient. “We were looking out for her best interest.”

“Thanks.”

Doresh gave him a sidelong glance. “You being sarcastic?”

“No, I mean it. Thanks. You had her safety in mind. Thanks for protecting her.”

“Okay… you’re welcome. And excuse me for wondering about the sarcasm, but let’s face it, you can get pretty sarcastic.”

“I’ve had my moments.”

“You have,” said Doresh. “But no harm, no foul. It was never personal, right? In the end we were both on the same side.”

“True.”

Doresh smiled, and his big chin jutted. “The difference being that I was doing my job and you were… improvising.”

“Am I supposed to apologize for that?”

“Here we go again, butting heads. Must be some sort of… personality clash. Nah, no apologies necessary. You got a little carried away. In the end it worked out fine. Better than fine- hey, Doc, your hands are shaking pretty bad. When we get there, let me fix you some coffee- mine’s a helluva lot better than yours. My partner Steve Hoker’s driving Dr. Rios over to meet you. I told him the situation. She won’t be scared of you.”

“She was scared, huh?”

“The things I told her, you kidding? She was terrified. And I make no apologies for that. I had the game pretty well mapped out, I just didn’t know the players.”

“Live and learn,” said Jeremy.

“You got it, Doc,” said Doresh. “Stop learning, you might as well curl up and die.”

54

Visiting Doctor Tagged

As Serial Killer

Exclusive to the Clarion:

Police have identified a Seattle-based surgeon and medical researcher working at City Central Hospital on a one-year fellowship, as a serial murderer believed responsible for the deaths of at least five local women, and a possible suspect in as many as three dozen other unsolved murders around the world.

Augusto Omar Graves, 40, holder of both a medical degree and a Ph.D. in biomedical engineering and an acknowledged expert on laser technology and surgery, was shot dead by police Thursday evening in the subterranean storage locker of his luxurious Hale Boulevard condominium. Graves, believed to have been born in Syria and raised in Brazil and the United States, was found in the company of his fifth victim’s corpse. According to the coroner, that woman, Kristina Schnurr, a recent immigrant from Poland who’d worked as a housekeeper at the hospital, had been strangled.

Schnurr, 29, and Graves had been seen talking the day of the murder, and it is believed Graves lured Schnurr on a date, strangled her in his car, and hid her body in the condominium’s parking garage. He then drove the car back to the building’s entrance so that a doorman would see him enter alone. Graves managed to transport Schnurr’s corpse two floors down, to the storage locker, a dank, cellarlike space that he had converted into a dissection chamber.

Graves’s other local victims include a nurse from City Central, Jocelyn Lee Banks, 27, murdered six months ago and formerly thought to have been carjacked from a hospital parking lot. Police now believe Graves convinced her to go with him willingly, under false pretenses. In addition, Graves is the prime suspect in the deaths of three recently murdered prostitutes, Tyrene Mazursky, 45, Odelia Tat, 38, and Maisie Donovan, 25. Given the time span between the Banks killing and those of the other victims, as well as Graves’s frequent business trips, there is reason to believe that he will be tied into murders in other cities.

Graves has also been implicated in the mutilation slayings of at least two women murdered in Kent, England, during periods when he was conducting research at a London think tank and writing about science for The Guardian newspaper. Investigators from Spain, Italy, France, and Norway are reexamining unsolved murders involving surgical dissection that may have links to Graves’s methodology.

Police Chief Arlo Simmons cited “numerous man-hours and first-rate detective work” as the factors that led to the discovery of Graves’s lair.

“We’ve been interested in this individual for some time,” said Chief Simmons. “I regret that we weren’t able to save Kristina Schnurr. However, the death of this man can be truly said to have brought an end to a reign of terror.”

55

Three days after the death of Augusto Graves, during one of several attempts to steal a moment with Angela, Jeremy’s beeper went off.

Seconds later, so did hers.

They were in his office, sitting on the floor, greasy napkins in their laps, takeout burgers in their hands.

A duet of squawks. They cracked up. First time they’d laughed since that night.

“You first,” he said.

She called in. Diabetic coma on Four East, and another patient had reacted adversely to prednisone withdrawal. She was needed stat.

She got to her feet, gobbled a pickle slice, wrapped her quarter-eaten lunch in its wax-paper jacket, placed it on his desk.

He said, “Take it with you.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve noticed. I think you’ve lost weight.”

“You haven’t exactly been gorging.”

“I’m fine.”

“So am I. Dude.”

She slung her white coat over her shoulders. Placed her hands on Jeremy’s wrists. “We will talk, right?”

“Not up to me,” he said, smiling. “The schedule.” His beeper went off again.

She laughed and kissed him and was gone.

The call was from Bill Ramirez.

“I’m hearing rumors, my friend.”

“About what?”

“Your being involved, somehow, with capturing that lunatic Graves.”

“Pretty crazy rumors,” said Jeremy. “And he wasn’t captured, he was killed.”

“True,” said Ramirez. “It didn’t sound logical. A quiet guy like you being involved in heroics.”