“Dickey Hinchey didn’t have any of his organs taken,” Slater argued.
“There’s no way someone could know if the organs were viable or not,” Frankie said, “just by looking at the person. There would have to be medical files to confirm a diseased liver, a damaged heart.”
“You think the Lords of Death’s involvement in removing organs from inmates is tied to our murders,” Slater concluded.
“Maybe,” Cruz said, handing Slater the kite Cole Hansen had retrieved while in the SHU. He explained what they thought the codes meant as Slater stared at the succession of letters and numbers on the paper.
Slater’s face took on a grayish pallor. “Holy hell, it looks like an order-on-demand for black market organs.” Still clutching Cole’s note, he shook his head. “I can buy the allegiance theory, donating an organ to show loyalty to the prison gang, but this other thing – ” He waved the note. “An enterprise like this? Using homeless people to fill orders for body parts? How?”
Cruz answered slowly, suddenly feeling the final pieces of the puzzle click into place. “Corruption,” he murmured. “It occurs at every level – at Pelican Bay and here in Rosedale. At least one local cop has to be involved.”
“You think a cop is killing homeless people,” Slater scoffed. “One of our own is doing this – this thing? That’s impossible.”
But Slater’s words rang hollow in the large room.
Angie Hunt woke up in hell. She knew this because the world around her was a swirl of colors – blacks and grays and reds. Flames and wickedness, she thought groggily, payback for all the evil she’d committed during her long years of using and hooking. All the people she’d hurt and betrayed.
Her body throbbed as if the Devil himself had punched her with giant fists.
She heard a distant groan, didn’t realize for a long moment that the sound came from her own swollen, dry throat. Her slender fingers fluttered like palsied digits on the ground beside her, but her body wouldn’t respond to her brain’s command to move.
Battling her way through a deep fog of hurt, she tried opening her eyes. One was swollen completely shut, but the other offered a narrow line of vision. Not hell, then, because she saw the rock ceiling of the cave around her.
But she was on her way to dying, she thought.
Chapter 55
Cruz sat back in the arm chair, one leg crossed at the knee. “Who better to target than the homeless? They’re virtually faceless unknowns. Nobody misses them when they disappear. We assume they’ve moved on to another place, another county, even another state.”
“And who better to facilitate than cops?” Frankie added. “Local cops know who the homeless are, and where they congregate.”
“But Hinchey’s organs weren’t taken,” Slater said again, this time without conviction.
“A mistake?” Frankie answered. “The killer didn’t think about the quality of the organs? And that’s why the last victim was young and presumably healthy? She was homeless, but specifically targeted because of her youth.”
“Shit,” Slater said, “I’m having a hard time believing a cop is involved in this.”
Mind working furiously, Cruz said, “It wouldn’t work otherwise. An organization large enough to execute the harvesting, the packing and transportation, a list of clients wealthy enough to pay for illegal organs, and doctors willing to do the illegal surgeries.”
“The donor lists for organs are long,” Frankie explained. “Some people wait years for a new kidney or heart. Bypassing the legal lists of donor recipients is a very complex project.”
“Maybe,” Slater said grudgingly. “Gangs and the mob, with an assist from a cop.”
Frankie nodded. “It could be done. With the right precision, skill and planning, even the inmate organs could remain viable.”
They sat in stunned silence, barely able to comprehend the bizarre scope of the project. Slater cleared away their mugs and glasses, while Frankie and Cruz remained immobile their expressions grave.
“So Anson Stark’s blood oath was the start of it,” Slater concluded. “He just moved from there into a new, illegal activity. He’s probably been planning this for years.”
“We have to expose this,” she finally said, “but where do we start? Who do we trust?”
“People were bribed or paid off to make a scheme like this work,” Cruz said, “dangerous people.”
Frankie chewed at her bottom lip, asked tentatively. “Could there be two killers?”
Slater and Cruz exchanged glances. Cruz shook his head, “I thought at first – ” He frowned, thinking of that vague possibility, “ – but it’s too much coincidence.”
“We’ll have a hard enough time proving the killer’s a cop,” Slater muttered. “The D.A. won’t believe there are two of them.” He swiped his hand over his forehead, damp in spite of the warm room. “Heaven help us all if it’s a cop. And heaven help the cop when we find him.”