The unspoken hung thick and dark in the room as Tarasov’s words snaked through Maddocks’s brain.
When I ask her question, she say in Russian that they will cut my tongue out if I talk. Like they told us in Prague they would do if we ever speak to anyone about men who brought us there. In Prague there was woman with no tongue.
“A warning,” whispered Maddocks. “Sophia Tarasov crossed the line, disobeyed the rules. And someone hunted her down to send a message.”
“How in the fuck did they find her, get in here? How would they even know she talked?”
Maddocks shook his head. “I don’t know. A leak. Or maybe they didn’t know that she talked, but they were aware that we had them and wanted to be sure no one did speak.”
“And they just picked Tarasov? Coincidence like?”
“Maybe she’s given them trouble before—the others are younger, more frightened. And killing them all—maybe there just wasn’t enough time.”
“But those surviving girls witnessed it,” Holgersen said, glancing back at the bed that had been wet. “And now they believes they can be tracked down anywhere.”
CHAPTER 29
“He entered the ward shortly before 1:00 a.m. I . . . thought he was a doctor,” said the wan-faced officer who’d been stationed outside the door when the suspect had entered. “The docs did rounds at night when the vics were first brought in. It wasn’t that unusual to see a doctor or nurse enter at that hour.”
Maddocks was seated opposite the officer in a small room that the hospital had made available to the MVPD for their investigation. Meanwhile, Holgersen was going through closed-camera security footage with hospital security. Other employees who’d been on duty last night were being interviewed in the cafeteria. The decedent’s body had been taken to the morgue. The postmortem would commence this afternoon. Maddocks had every intention of being present when O’Hagan got Tarasov up onto that table.
“Description of the male?” Maddocks said coolly.
“He was average. Average height—about five ten. Caucasian. Maybe in his thirties. Or forties. Average complexion.”
Christ.
“Hair? Don’t tell me—average, too?”
The young cop wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow. He smelled bad in these close quarters. Of fear and possibly a few too many drinks the night before. A hangover could have lulled him into complacency, Maddocks thought.
“Dark-brown hair,” the officer said. “Cut short—a conservative cut. Thick hair.” He wiped his face again. “I didn’t know the girls were at risk like that. We should have had better security protocol. We should have been checking the IDs of all doctors who went in and out from the get-go. That wasn’t my brief.”
Maddocks tightened his jaw. He hadn’t known the extent of the risk that the young barcode survivors faced, either. All the suspects found aboard the Amanda Rose had been taken into custody—there was no threat from them. The barcode tattoo detail had never made it into the press. Nor had the location where the girls were being treated been disclosed. But given Tarasov’s and Camus’s statements, and Holgersen’s trafficking route theory, this could be the work of the Russian mob. Whoever had sold the so-called merchandise would have known that these specific girls had gone to Madame Vee and were aboard the Amanda Rose. And when the traffickers had learned in the news about the MVPD takedown of the yacht and the Bacchanalian Club, the mob would have put two and two together. Possibly they came to reclaim their merchandise. Or at least stop the girls from testifying. And perhaps to send a warning to others. But which others? More girls like this? Here in BC? The rest of Canada? The United States?
He kicked himself for not having initiated a tighter security protocol from day one, nevertheless. He’d bet his last dollar that this integrated task force investigator who was so keen for members of his team to meet with Maddocks had known the risks. Yet the lead investigator’s secrecy, his refusal to give Flint a heads-up right away as to what they might be dealing with—it could have cost Sophia Tarasov her life. Anger curled thin and hot through Maddocks’s blood.
“Build?”
“Average build. Not thin, not fat, not overly athletic. Confident walk.”
“What about eye color?”
“I . . . I don’t recall.”
Maddocks heaved out a breath. “We’ll get you in with a sketch artist. And you heard nothing while the suspect was in there? No scuffles, screams?”
“Nothing. He was inside for about twenty minutes. When he came out, he looked as normal as he did when he went in, wearing his lab coat, no blood on him, nothing.”
A knock sounded on the door. It swung open wide. A red-faced uniformed officer entered and held up a bag with a white garment inside. “Sarge, sorry for the interruption. Found this in the dumpster outside—lab coat,” he said. “Blood on the inside and a stethoscope and security badge for a Dr. Martha Taluswood in the pocket. Dr. Taluswood reported a vehicle break-in to security yesterday evening. It happened sometime between 6:00 and 10:00 p.m. She said her coat, stethoscope, and badge were on the passenger seat of her car, along with a security card. They were gone when she returned to her vehicle.”
“Where was she parked?”
“Staff lot E—a silver Toyota RAV4, plate NT3–87B.”
Maddocks cursed and lurched to his feet. “Log that evidence. Get it to the lab, stat.” He turned to the officer he’d been interrogating. “You, wait here. I’m going to get someone to help you with an identikit.”
Maddocks left the room and strode down the hall, making for the security room. He jabbed the elevator button and called Holgersen at the same time. The elevator doors slid open. He stepped in. Holgersen answered.
“Yo, boss.”
“I’m on my way up. We’re looking for footage that covers the dumpsters outside and the staff parking lot E from around 6:00 to 10:00 p.m. Our suspect broke into a doc’s vehicle during that time frame and took her coat and security clearance to gain access to the hospital. Looks like the coat was left in a dumpster outside the hospital. Given the blood found on the inside of the coat, the suspect could have removed the lab coat to assault Tarasov, then re-covered himself with the coat after he was done, hiding any blood that he’d gotten on his clothes so he didn’t attract undue attention while exiting the building.” Maddocks watched the elevator buttons light up in succession as he spoke. “This guy is organized. Calm. This is no neophyte.”
“Hit man,” said Holgersen. “For the mob.”
The elevator doors opened. Maddocks stepped out. “Yeah, possible.” He stopped, turned around in the corridor. “Where is the security office located? I’m on the fourth floor.”
“West wing. Far end.”
“Did you get hold of the interpreter?”