The Path of Silence (20 page)

“Whoever this is, he really wants to stop the system from implementation,” Field commented.

That was the obvious conclusion. Jeffries was a deadly greeting card. The message was clear, “Stop the project.”

The bankers would not back off. They delivered another warning. Felix Kim was on the project team. He was a direct hit—in their heart. This message was not just obvious but boastful. It said, “I can take out every piece on the chessboard, no matter what their rank and position.”

It also brought to surface fearful questions, “How many people have been turned into walking dead? Who were they—where are they?”

How could it be so frighteningly easy to implant people with dormant death?

Joe felt we should ignore the “why” and “how” and concentrate on “who”.

I wasn’t so sure anymore.

I believed Jeffries’ death was a message. Kim’s death was a harsher statement. However, Brick’s death was neither.

I believed that he was running and executed—but why keep him alive and a slave for four years?

He had been implanted to ensure compliance. That meant they needed him. By kidnapping him, just as he had started to work on the IMF contract project, they had stopped the effort to overhaul the infrastructure of banking practices. It meant that Brick’s masters must have not only known how talented he was but knew his work in detail. It would have made sense to keep him alive. He was a valuable tool—a two-edged sword. If Brick could design a program that closed money-laundering loopholes, he would know how to remove it—or destroy whatever blocks existed in the system. He would do it cleverly and without detection.

It would explain why they’d kept him alive for four years and busy with other work, while watching to see if the project would be once again resurrected and by whom.

I could have put this down in a brief and defended it in court, if necessary.

Brick’s execution, however, made my argument fall apart.

Six months ago, Tavistock started the project again. This is what the opposition had been waiting for. This is where they needed Brick the most. If anyone could undo what the Tavistock team would design and implement, it was him.

Yet, this was when he was executed.

When would I sacrifice my ace, I wondered?

One possible answer was, “If I had another one up my sleeve, with a stronger potential.”

Was it possible that another expert, just as good as Brick, had been tagged?

It was possible but it didn’t feel right. If Brick’s expertise had been readily available, the banks would not have wasted four years.

Brick’s death didn’t make sense.

When would the death of such a valuable tool make sense?

“When it’s part of the plan. When it’s the next step in a precisely laid out, long-term scheme.”

I wasn’t aware that I had spoken my thoughts out loud and only when two voices asked, “What?” did I wake up.

I leaned into the padded cushions and flashed across ten years, to land on my feet, in front of my Criminal Law professor, as a lawyer. With eloquence and clarity that immobilized my companions, I stated my case.

“They’re at the stage of the operation where they have to move the action from Baltimore to somewhere else. They’re winding down their business. This is their finale,” I finished.

“Where would they be moving?” Ken asked haltingly.

I was about to answer when Field said. “To Washington. They’ve tagged whoever they had identified as the key targets in economics and finance—now they’re going into politics. They’re looking for control.”

Chapter 25

I
stood beside the photocopier, looking down on another field of shredded red poppies. I felt I should kneel. It wasn’t just horror at seeing literally into the core of a human being. It was more like being struck with a realization how fragile and helpless human beings were.

The predatory component of these murders weighed me down. The killer struck silently, long-distance and with no personal involvement. Even a snake, a cold-blooded creature, would strike with more feeling than whoever was behind these executions. It was not just contempt for life. It was the mockery of its vulnerability. To him, death was commonplace. He took a lump of clay, molded a figurine and stuck a bomb into it. When it served his purpose, he shattered it.

I imagined him as someone who walked across a sheet of glass, leaving a trail of dust. He liked his path smooth. He never looked back, as most of us would, when troubled by conscience.

It couldn’t be a doctor.

I couldn’t see anyone dedicated to preserving human life leading an existence on such parallel levels. Doctors were “touching” people. Their hands were bleached clean, their faces marred by memories of complications and difficulties left elsewhere in the hospital. They brought their patients’ charts with them to lunchrooms. They were driven by compassion inherent in their vocation. They wore two coats—a lab coat and their duty. Neither was sufficient to protect them from the pain and suffering they encountered every minute on the job.

“Joe,” I said quietly. He was finished but still knelt beside the victim, head bowed. He looked lost in thought. I knew there was more to it. Joe liked to do his thinking after he walked away. This time he didn’t move.

“Same as the other two?” I decided to forget protocol.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s time to take it to the next level. Our administrative officers should go talk to the Hopkins’ directors, convince them to implement emergency measures and stringent guidelines.”

“Yeah. They’re going to do it, no matter how much Quigley hates the idea. It’s too late for him.” He slashed a hand across the body.

“Joe, what if it’s not a doctor?”

He gave a blast of hollow laughter. “I’ll take you over to Hopkins, Meg. I’ll give you one of the implantable defibrillators and watch you shoot it through the blood vessels, okay? There’s no need for open-chest surgery. You just install it through a blood vessel, make sure the patches are on the heart…would you like to try that?” He finished with another grind of cynical laughter.

“I’m sorry, Joe. It was just an idea.”

“There’s no need for me to be so nasty. I’m tired.” He lifted his head. “Come on down.” He waved me to his level. “Take a look at this.”

The victim wore a long-sleeved polo shirt. He had fallen across the photocopier as if trying to embrace it, arms spread wide. I had already looked at the batholithic piece of office equipment. It was a Konica. It bore images on its outer non-skid surface that would have shocked a service rep. The toxic substance was quick and powerful. The victim didn’t leave an imprint of his internal organs in the plastic material but a few horizontal smears were shaped like fragments of bone—a rib cage.

The photographer’s flash sizzled behind me. I moved to the side. The man took two more shots then began to work with a digital camera so the crime scene shots could be input into the computer. It was part of the forensic protocol but in this case I didn’t see what we’d gain by computer-modeling the crime scene, changing scenarios. The killer was never on the crime scene. He probably wasn’t even in the building because his killing tool was remote-activated. I wondered if any of those pictures would find a way into the medical textbooks—to frighten students.

Joe pulled up the meshed cotton fabric to reveal the victim’s arm. His gloved fingers traced an irregular checkerboard pattern. It started at the wrist and ran up the forearm. It probably extended all the way to the shoulder. I saw alternating patches, of lighter and darker skin, connected by puckered, brownish seams.

“Are those skin grafts?” I murmured.

“Extensive,” he confirmed. “It was done over a period of several years.”

“It’s not recent?”

“No. It could have been done when he was a child or a teenager. The scar tissue’s smoothed out. You don’t get that kind of regeneration in an adult.”

“Is it good work?”

“I’d say it’s pretty decent, without knowing the extent of damage and how serious the injuries were.”

“Burns?”

“Fire or acid. It was probably fire if it happened in childhood—or a car accident when he was a teenager. Was he a Baltimore native?”

I looked up to see where Ken and Field were. I saw them talking to Sven and a guy in a uniform. He had to be the security guard. I snapped my fingers to attract their attention.

Field came over. I asked him Joe’s questions.

His notebook was in his head. “He was born in San Francisco and came to Baltimore with his family at age five. His father is an accountant with the Solingen Chartered outfit. The victim went to the University of Maryland. He got a job with the bank right out of school and had just finished his Master’s degree in computer science last year, as a part-time student.”

I looked at Joe to see what he was thinking. His shoulders were hunched. His hands rested inert in his lap as he knelt.

“Those grafts had to be done in Baltimore,” he said. “When we get his medical records, it would be worthwhile to track down whoever did it—and where.”

“The doctor connection,” I sighed, growing even more uncomfortable with this premise. No doctor, who had spent hours each day trying to heal physical tissue and prod a gossamer spirit into continuing its difficult life’s journey, would do this.

“It’s got to be, Meg,” Joe growled with frustration. “I can’t think of anyone who’d be this good.”

“Good, Joe?” I echoed, rising. “I would have said deadly.”

Ken and Field had finished talking to Kim’s colleagues and the security guard. I listened to Ken’s clipped speech while my mind edited impatiently.

Felix Kim worked all evening in the open concept office down the hall, diligently and normally, as had everyone else. They were serious workers, not prone to socializing. He’d needed to make copies of his work, to distribute among his peers. He left his computer station calmly, unaware that he was leaving for good. His prolonged absence was not questioned. Taking a washroom break, or going to get a snack from one of the vending machines in the cafeteria while on a business errand, was normal. The guard found him as a result of his punctuality. At nine forty-five, his route took him to the fifth floor, in the hallway, where the copier stood. He was well trained. The sight of a body draped over the copy machine activated his ‘emergency’ button. The blood momentarily confused him. Then he blocked it out and called 9-1-1. The instructions given over the phone were to get him to observe his surroundings, for later debrief. There was no one around. The office was way down the hall.

“That device must have a range of several blocks,” Field said.

I thought it could be city wide. Hell, country wide.

“How would they have set it off?” I wondered. Since the device came filled with the seeds of its own destruction, we had nothing that would give a clue about its operation, range or activation.

“It must be a frequency signal,” Field replied.

“So the device would have to be a receiver.” I looked at his hand. He held a cell phone. He followed my look and his lips curved.

“It could be as simple as calling a number from a phone,” he nodded.

Joe stopped by on his way out. The paramedics had lifted the black bag onto the stretcher. Since there was only staff around, no supervisors, I told the guard that he could notify the cleaning crew.

Joe’s shoulders sagged under the burden of his job. I had more questions.

He spoke tiredly, eyes downcast. “Technology is rapidly changing. The Federal Communications Commission is making new frequencies available all the time. I’ve read that the newer cellular phones using these frequencies might make pacemakers unreliable. Phone companies are studying these possibilities but we’re not dealing with a regular pacemaker here. It’s a device, based on the same premise but it’s far too sophisticated to malfunction. It’s possible that a certain frequency could activate it. What the range is, I couldn’t begin to tell you. It could be a block. It could be across the state.”

I imagined Joe, walking around his automated morgue, holding a hi-tech journal in one hand and a chicken wing in the other, reading out loud between the bites. He’d probably finish reading the research article even before he finished sucking all the meat off the chicken wing. His brilliant mind would always come ahead of his stomach. I smiled, in spite of the crime scene and made a mental note to urge Joe to publish a few research papers himself to show his medical colleagues that pathologists weren’t just the “keepers of the dead”. I promised to get him the victim’s medical records as soon as we visited his family.

I glanced at Ken, then said to Joe. “We’ll deliver them. And we’ll bring two buckets of Nando’s chicken.” I meant to cheer him up.

He moved his head uncertainly from side to side, “I’ll be in but I’m not all that hungry these days.” He left dispirited.

“The Chairman’s coming in,” Ken said, after Joe disappeared into the hallway shadows. “He wants us to attend a midnight session in the boardroom on the top floor.”

Field anticipated me well. He grabbed my arm. “My impression was that he might back off. Let’s see if I’m right.”

“My feelings haven’t changed,” I mumbled.