Cruz agreed. “Local police could be in on this. We don’t know how wide Anson Stark’s ring of corruption reaches.”
She hadn’t gotten a good look at the intruder who shot Cole, but Cruz guessed by the fact the man ran off that he was a gang banger, some punk-ass member of the Lords of Death sent to frighten or kill Frankie. Or Cole, who certainly had a target on his back by now.
“What?” Frankie repeated.
“A gun. You need protection.”
“Don’t worry, I have several guns.”
That surprised him. Most doctors he knew were anti-gun people. “Know how to use them?”
She laughed, as if he’d said something amusing. “Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “My father taught me. I could shoot cans off a fence when I was barely able to steady a pistol. Dad took me hunting every year – deer, elk, bear in season, here and in Utah and Idaho.” She sounded nostalgic, and a little proud.
“Where is Dad now?”
Her face shut down fast, a smooth-as-glass calmness that made her look like she was made of crystal. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
More secrets, but concern for the immediate dilemma made Cruz decide to let the subject drop. “Show me the guns.”
Upstairs in a smaller bedroom, clearly used as an office now, was a locked gun cabinet. Not only did Frankie have a .22 rifle, but a 12-gauge shotgun, and two hand guns – a .40-caliber Beretta and a larger, heavier Glock. Cruz was impressed. Anyone with this kind of small arsenal definitely knew how to handle a loaded weapon.
“Cartridges?”
She opened a locked drawer on the side of a wide mahogany desk where rows of magazines, cartridges, and bullets filled the inside.
He smiled. “Guess I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone.”
He gently put one hand on her shoulder. “It’d still be a mistake to underestimate these guys. They caught you off guard once. They can do it again.”
“I thought I was safe here,” she admitted, “that no one knew about this house. That won’t happen again.” Her stormy gray eyes darkened like a thunder cloud rolling across a heavy sky. “I’ll have more than a baseball bat next time.”
“Let’s hope there won’t be a next time.”
From his car Cruz listened to Slater’s message again and called him. The Sheriff picked up right away.
“Slater, what’s going on?”
“You won’t believe it,” the Sheriff answered. “Meet me at the morgue in twenty minutes.”
“Wait!” Cruz shouted. “A lot has happened since I talked to you – a hell of a lot of messed-up shit.”
“Same here. Make it quick. Best not to talk over the phone.”
“Aw, hell!” Cruz hung up, thinking what Slater had to say couldn’t possibly be worse that what he had to tell the Sheriff.
Chapter 47
Cruz, Slater, and Dr. Wilson gathered around the autopsied body of Dickey Hinchey, where it had been pulled from its drawer in the morgue. The former parolee looked more peaceful than he ever had in life. Cleaned up and the incision sewn closed, he seemed almost normal.
Cruz didn’t have time to fill Slater in before Patch began the particular details of the two post-mortems he’d done. After they viewed Dickey’s body, the medical examiner pulled out the drawer containing the Hightower girl’s body.
“I don’t get it,” Cruz said, stepping closer. “You’re saying the girl’s organs were removed, but Dickey’s weren’t? Why?”
Dr. Wilson shrugged elegantly.
Slater wore a puzzled look.
“Should we talk to Flood?” Cruz asked.
“Hell, no. Let the little weasel squirm.” Slater flashed a small grin, then quickly sobered as he turned to the medical examiner. “Have you sent the autopsy reports to Detective Flood yet?”
When Wilson shook his head, Slater asked, “Can you do me a favor and hold up for a few hours until we can figure this out?”
Wilson answered calmly, “As you wish.” He paused, touching the girl’s long hair. “It’s a bit of a puzzle, these two murders. The blows indicate different kinds of weapons caused the blunt force trauma – one was hard and wide like a baseball bat, the other narrow and heavier. A different size of blade also was used on the two victims.” He paused, looking perplexed. “And, of course, the victims themselves vary greatly as to age, gender, and general health.”
“And there’s the missing – or not missing – organs,” Slater added.
Both men followed the coroner into his office where he handed them a copy of the pathology report. “Mr. Hinchey’s liver was riddled from years of alcohol abuse,” Wilson informed them. “He wouldn’t have lived much longer on the street. His heart and lungs were compromised.”
“And the girl?” Slater asked.
“I can’t be sure, but her age alone suggests healthy organs were removed. Everything remaining was in excellent condition.”
“And Hinchey’s organs wouldn’t be worth pennies,” Cruz said.