Deadly Care, page 9
part #3 of Joanna Blalock Series
That was secondary. She wanted to be in the spotlight again. She needed the limelight and publicity, just like some insecure Hollywood actress. Maybe even more so. Fame was like a disease, Murdock thought. No, more like an addiction. At length he said, “It’s a rather gruesome thing to present, don’t you think?”
“Murder is gruesome business, Simon.”
“It smacks of sensationalism to me.”
Joanna took a deep breath, trying to remain patient.
“It’s not a matter of sensationalism. That’s not the purpose of presenting the faceless man.”
“Then what is?”
“We’ve got a corpse we can’t identify because he has no face and no fingers. We know he’s white, in his thirties, with brown eyes and light brown hair. And he probably had friends, acquaintances, a job, maybe even family in Southern California. In all likelihood our faceless man is being missed by somebody. Somebody is wondering where he is and what happened to him.”
Joanna walked over to the head. Its wig was askew.
She straightened it. “Now, the news program I’ll be appearing on is seen by a million people nightly.
Maybe-just maybe-someone will be watching and will say, “Hey, that could be Charlie or Mike or Rudy or whoever. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe somebody will identify him for us. That’s the purpose of presenting him on television.”
“I see,” Murdock said, not believing her entirely, now wondering if she was going to receive a fee for her appearance. He glanced up at the wall clock. “I must run. I’m already late for an executive committee meeting. Please don’t forget to notify Dr. Mariner when you’ve set a time for the autopsy on his patient.”
“I’ll call him within an hour.”
Murdock nodded appreciatively and walked to the door. He turned and held up a hand, palm out. A peace sign. Joanna returned it. They both knew the problem between them. They simply rubbed each other the wrong way. But at least they could be civil. That they agreed on.
Joanna sat down heavily in a swivel chair in front of the computer. She leaned back and stretched her neck.
Her gaze drifted over to the benchtop where Phil Weiderman had been sitting. He had left a patient’s chart behind. Wearily, Joanna stood and walked over to the chart and quickly flipped through it. She came to a page with a photograph of a young child, maybe four or five, glued to it. The girl had a huge cleft palate. The harelip gave the child a terrible disfigurement. Joanna could only imagine the sadness and anguish the little girl must have felt every time she looked in the mirror.
Joanna turned to another page and saw a second photograph of the same child postoperatively. The defect was gone, the harelip replaced by a very faint white scar. The little girl was all smiles.
Joanna closed the chart, now thinking about Phil Weiderman. She had expected to dislike him, to somehow tolerate him because she needed him to reconstruct the dead man’s face. But it hadn’t turned out that way. She liked him, more than she wanted to admit. She liked his mannerisms and his looks and the way he backed her up in her argument with Murdock. He could have easily done what Errtily Ryan did-split and run. But he didn’t.
And where did he get those blue eyes from? They were too blue to be real.
She shook her head and tried to get rid of her foolish thoughts. And besides, he was married. Or at least she thought he was. Damn it, Jake, she grumbled to herself, now thinking about Jake Sinclair, the big cop who was the main man in her life. Come back from Greece already. You’ve spent enough time mourning over your dead ex-wife, . “Damn,” Joanna whispered softly under her breath. Things had been going so well before Jake got the phone call from Athens. So well. A month ago they were in Hawaii and had the best time ever together. Warm, wonderful days and even better nights.
They were finally finding the closeness that had been missing from both of their lives for so long. Then the phone call came. The past had come back to haunt them again. And now she was thinking about some surgeon’s blue eyes, like a stupid teenager. Come on, Jake! Get back here and we’ll go on with our lives together. We’ll pick up exactly where we left off. But deep down, Joanna had an uneasy feeling they wouldn’t.
Joanna went over to the computer and sat down heavily. She studied the images on the screen. There were six faces displayed with the bone fragments arranged in various combinations. There was not even a hint of what the facial features really looked like. But at least the frontal area-the forehead-had two large pieces of bone in place. Joanna punched in a code, asking the computer to project what the forehead would look like based on the two fragments already in place. Probably a hundred possibilities, she guessed.
Numbers flashed up on the screen, then facial outlines. Then numbers again. Finally the computer made its decision. “DATA INSUFFICIENT TO PROJECT IMAGE.”
“No kidding,” Joanna said and switched the computer off.
Theo Papadakis pulled up to the curb at Athens International Airport. He took a cigarette from his pack and offered one to Jake, then lit both carefully.
“So, my friend,” Theo said, “we will never see you again, will we?”
“You never know,” Jake said, but he knew that Theo was right.
“Regardless of where you are or what happens, you will always be a part of this family.”
Jake nodded, his mind going back to the small cemetery where they had buried Eleni. He could still see the funeral procession led by a Greek Orthodox priest, Eleni’s casket on the shoulders of her six brothers. “It’s hard to believe she’s dead.”
“But she is, and now we must all go on with our lives. Right?”
“I guess.”
Theo took a deep drag on his cigarette and flicked it out the window. His eyes suddenly narrowed and he quickly slouched behind the steering wheel. “Get down and don’t look over at the terminal-unless you want Eleni’s fat pig of a husband to see you.”
Jake glanced over at Frank Starnos, a swarthy, obese man who had probably been very handsome fifty pounds ago. Porters carrying trunks and suitcases followed Starnos into the terminal.
“I’ll bet he’s on the same flight as you. You’d better pray he doesn’t sit next to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Chances are he’ll be in first class.”
“Yes, of course. That way he can eat during the entire flight.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Theo said at once. “But he did do one decent thing while he was here.”
“What?”
“He arranged to have a special caretaker look after Eleni’s grave. You know, to make certain weeds don’t grow and to place flowers throughout the year.”
“So he’s got a little bit of good in him, huh?”
“Just a little,” Theo said grudgingly.
Moments later Jake was inside the terminal and walking toward the TWA counter. The building was crowded and noisy, the air stuffy and stale. He almost bumped into a stewardess for Olympic Airlines. She was wearing the same type of uniform Eleni had on when Jake first met her. The stewardess smiled at Jake and he managed to smile back. Maybe if I get the hell out of Greece I can leave some of these memories behind, he told himself, not really believing it. Eleni’s memory might fade, but there would always be something to bring it back. Always. On his right Jake saw a bank of phones, all occupied except for one. He headed for it. Jake put his suitcase down and lit a cigarette, then placed a call to Los Angeles.
“Hello.” Joanna’s voice sounded sleepy.
“This is Jake. I’m calling to let you know I’m on my way back.”
“Where are you?”
“At the airport in Athens.”
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.” Jake drew heavily on his cigarette. “Are you still mad at me?”
“Not mad, Jake. Just hurt and disappointed.”
“Because I went to the funeral, huh?”
“Because you dropped me like a hot piece of coal, like I really didn’t matter a damn.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“I know-like a dead ex-wife who was more important than me.”
“Shit,” Jake growled. “Can’t you understand that when someone who was once close to you dies it still hurts like hell? Can’t you just give a little bit?”
“I gave plenty and wanted to give more, but you pushed me away. You couldn’t think of anybody or anything except your ex-wife.”
Are you that goddamned insecure?”
‘Insecure? Over what?”
“Over me thinking about Eleni-a girl I once loved.”
Joanna took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I don’t give a damn what you think about. What I care about is how you treat me.”
“That’s not it,” Jake said bluntly. “And you know it.”
“I’m trying to hold my temper, Jake.”
“I’d rather you tell the truth.”
“Goddamn it! Goddamn it!” Joanna blurted out.
“You can take your entire past and your present and your future and stick it! You can weep and mourn over your ex-wife all you want. I just don’t want to be part of it.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t,” Jake snapped.
There was a long, strained silence.
“Maybe it’s best for us to be apart for a while,” Joanna said.
“Maybe.”
“And I think it’s time we started seeing other people.”
“Seeing!” Jake yelled. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Dating other people.”
Jake threw his cigarette to the floor and angrily crushed it out. “Who is he?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The guy you’re seeing or thinking about seeing.”
Jake could tell from the awkward silence that he’d guessed right. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“You can go to hell!”
“And you can go screw yourself”’ Joanna slammed the receiver back onto the phone so hard that the whole phone jumped off the night table.
She quickly disconnected it, just in case Jake tried to call back. Goddamn you, Jake, she seethed, you always thought about yourself first, even when we first started going together. But I turned a blind eye to it because I thought you were so special. But you’re not. And if I want to date Phil Weiderman, I will. And if I want to sleep with him, I’ll do that too.
Joanna went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold chardonnay. She sipped the wine, trying to calm herself, but still furious with Jake. Now her stomach began rumbling. It always did that when she was upset. In the refrigerator she found the makings of a salad and a small block of cheddar cheese. The freezer was filled with unappetizing frozen dinners.
She settled for a stalk of celery dipped in blue cheese dressing.
Her gaze went to the calendar on the refrigerator door. Tuesday. Always a bad day for her. And this Tuesday was no different. Her work at the hospital had not gone well. Things had been forgotten. Things had been left undone or not done as she would have liked.
Not a good day except for the television interview.
That went well. Or at least she thought it had. Joanna checked the kitchen clock. She’d know for certain how well she’d done in a few minutes. She went into the bedroom and switched on the television set.
Joanna sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the evening news. She thought about Jake again and wondered if he was as upset as she was. But it really didn’t matter. It was over and done. Their relationship was now irreparably damaged and Joanna doubted they could put it back together even if they both tried. She should have been able to predict they wouldn’t have lasted. They were too different, their worlds galaxies apart. Yes, it was time to move on, she thought.
On the television screen she watched an attractive blond co-anchor introducing herself.
“Good evening, I’m Cathy Harrelson. Our top story tonight is another tragic drive-by shooting that left a six-year-old girl seriously wounded. We have two reporters standing by. First, in Inglewood we go to …”
Joanna tuned out the anchor’s nasal voice and carefully studied Cathy Harrelson’s face. The transformation was amazing. When Cathy had interviewed her earlier, Joanna was struck by the anchor’s hard looks and horsey face. But the television camera somehow muted those qualities. She actually had a soft attractiveness on TV. But Joanna kept remembering the woman’s incredible coarseness when informed that the patient they’d be discussing had no face.
“He has no fucking face?” Cathy Harrelson had blurted out. “What the hell kind of story is that going to be?”
“We’re going to give him a face,” Joanna had told her.
“How “With a computer and a lot of hard work.”
“We’re going to break for a few commercials,” Cathy Harrelson was saying on the screen, “and when we return we’ll be delving into one of medicine’s most mysterious subspecialties, forensic pathology. And folks, let me tell you up front, this segment will be graphic. So, if you’re squeamish-well, use your own judgment.”
Joanna cringed, hating the sensationalism. Horror story to follow. Don’t miss this. It’ll scare the hell out of you. Why do they have to sensationalize everything?
She knew it was meant to tantalize, but all it really did was detract and cheapen. But that wasn’t her biggest concern. What worried her most was the editing. The interview had lasted for over twenty minutes and there was no way she was going to get all that time on the screen. She’d be lucky to get more than a few minutes.
She could only hope they wouldn’t remove the most important segments, particularly the portion that dealt with the general description of the dead man.
“And now our special feature, ‘Insights into Medicine,’ ” Cathy Harrelson said, her face very serious.
“Tonight we delve into the area of forensic pathology. Earlier I had a chance to interview Dr. Joanna Blalock, who is the director of forensic pathology at Memorial Hospital. She is currently helping the police with one of their most difficult cases. We call it ‘The Case of the Man with No Face.” In just a moment, you’ll see why. Again let me warn you: this is graphic material.”
Joanna leaned forward as she saw herself on the screen. She seemed older on television. There were no noticeable facial lines. The makeup artist had taken care of these with a layer of powder. But her eyes looked tired and heavy with dark circles beginning to form. Her hair was just a little disheveled and that added to her fatigued appearance. That’s what you get from fourteen-hour workdays, she thought miserably.
“So he was brought in with no face?” Cathy Harrelson was asking her on television.
“No face at all. It was virtually destroyed by some blunt instrument. He remains unidentified,” Joanna said.
“Weren’t his fingerprints of any help?”
“His fingertips were cut off.”
The ‘ camera moved to the replica of the dead man’s head. In the bright light, the attached pieces of bone glistened.
“And this is a cast of his head, right?”
“Correct.”
“And how do you plan to reconstruct his face?”
Joanna explained how she had harvested as many pieces of remaining facial bones as possible and how she was using a computer to find the correct position for each piece.
“Fascinating,” Cathy Harrelson said breathlessly.
“Just fascinating. What are your chances of coming up with a recognizable face?”
“Pretty fair, I’d say.”
“Are there any features of his body that might help in identifying this man? You know, like scars or tattoos that somebody in our viewing audience might recognize?”
“He has an unusual tattoo on his buttocks.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Not at this time, no.”
“Can we say that the police didn’t want its characteristics revealed?”
“You can say that, yes.”
“Did they give you a reason?”
“No, they didn’t,” Joanna lied easily. The police had specifically asked her not to describe the tattoo because that would have caused a flood of phone calls from all the nuts and psychotics in Los Angeles, either confessing to the crime or claiming they knew the person who did it. And of course every phone call had to be checked out, resulting in a monumental waste of time.
No. Better just to tell them he had a tattoo on his buttocks. If the victim was being missed by someone who really knew him, then the fact that he had a tattoo on his buttocks plus his other general characteristics would be enough.
Joanna turned her attention back to the television set.
“Absolutely fascinating,” the male co-anchor was saying, “you did a superb job, Cathy.”
Cathy Harrelson beamed. “Thanks, Bill. I wish I could take the credit, but to be honest the story literally told itself.”
“Indeed,” the co-anchor agreed. “Do you really think they’ll come up with a face for their faceless victim?”
“I’d bet on it,” Cathy said with certainty. “Joanna Blalock is one of the very best in the science of forensic pathology. Yes, this man will have a face. And soon.), “I hope you’ll give us a follow-up story on this.”
“Absolutely.”
In a small motel room on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles, Karl Rimer switched off the television set and went back to cleaning his Beretta. He checked and double-checked the semiautomatic mechanism, making certain it was functioning properly. He liked the weapon. He liked its weight and feel and balance and, most of all, the caliber of its bullets. Nine millimeters.
Exactly the right size. Big enough to do a lot of damage, but not messy. Not like the magnums. Their bullets went right through people and sometimes through the wall and into the next room. And magnums were noisy too. They sounded like cannons.
Rimer continued cleaning his weapon, but his mind drifted back to the program he’d just seen. Goddamn it!
There was going to be trouble. He knew it. He felt it in his bones. His phone would ring shortly and he’d have to calm them down, soothe them, let them know that everything was going to be fine. And it was going to be fine. It was just a pain in the ass to have to go back and make certain. Double certain this time.
