Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

Boldt ran his index finger along the square end of the bone.

"Some kind of surgical technique?"

"Interesting, isn't it?"

Boldt waited him out. "We use gardening shears. They work the best."

"We?" Boldt asked. "My office," Dixon replied. "For the autopsies," he clarified. "You've seen me use them; you just don't remember."

"But this was no autopsy," Boldt said. "I have some serious hunches about that rib, about this skeleton, and the young woman it once danced inside. Once slept inside.

The woman inside whom it grew and developed. My office closed the case' Another department could reopen it." He stabbed some of the salad. "You're the investigator."

"Boy Scouts. What did you expect?"

"We had some good people leading them.

Nothing wrong with young eyes, young legs. That's rough country out there."

Boldt asked, "Did they look up river for the rest of her?"

"Of course. And found nothing. But there must be some way to find her."

"You want my advice?"

"I want more than your advice. I want your participation. How would you go about it?"

"I'd talk to the experts. Water Resources or Army Corps of Engineers. Someone responsible for flood predictions, for the way water would move a bone like that. We had some heavy rains last fall. Was that six months ago? I think it was. Those rains let up right after Miles was born. That's how I measure the world now, you know? In terms of when my boy was born." Dixie said, "People bury bodies along rivers for two reasons.

The wet soil speeds decay-7Boldt interrupted, "And it's easier to dig in."

"Matthews showed you the autopsy files on those three runaways. I've put in a request for the tissue samples from those cases. But this … I had forgotten all about this case." He touched the long femur that remained between them on the table just as a young man in his twenties passed, noticed the bone and nudged his girlfriend.

"Oh, look. They have leg-o-man tonight." She giggled.

Boldt did not laugh. He was staring intently at Dixon.

"Patterns, my friend. We're in the patterns business-cops and interior decorators. This bone," he said, shifting his attention to the rib, "never healed. Never had time to heal. See the different color here? That means it was buried within a few days of the operation. Oh, yes: operation. This woman was cut open, either to heal her or to steal from her. But not at a hospital, not as part of the system. Quite possibly it killed her, if she wasn't dead already. Cut open by a surgeon-someone who has done enough rib work to use snippers instead of the medical school tools we're told to use. Snippers work better. Those runaways, the files I gave Matthews-Walker-, Sherman, Blumenthal-they were also cut open by a surgeon. The same guy? The same reason? He wasn't after a kidney, I can tell you that. Lung or liver, those are your choices, the way he cut that rib. Are all these the work of the same doctor? Patterns. We both know that it's patterns that hang these guys. We're all-every one of us-victims of our own inescapable patterns."

inescapable patterns Boldt thought. He examined the bones once again. "An organ harvest?"

"It's a strong possibility. We have a lot of questions to answer: How long ago was she buried? Who was she? What procedure was done? We need the rest of her, Lou, or a good portion thereof — Why did he bury this one and not the others? She's been in the ground a long time. Those bones are picked clean. What sets her apart?" only Boldt sensed something in the man, a friends can. "You're jumping ahead of yourself. You're linking her to the others with only supposition. Or are you? You wouldn't get this excited over hunches," Boldt realized, thinking aloud. "There's something else in that bag of yours, isn't there? Something even more convincing?"

You were born a detective. Did you know that?" He seemed a little disappointed that Boldt had second-guessed him. Boldt's heart rate increased. Now, more than ever, he wanted the rest of the evidence. Dixie dug out a pair of black-and-white photographs which, because of their magnification, Boldt immediately recognized as lab work. "Peter Blumenthal-one of the runaways who died as a result of surgery-also had several ribs snipped. He was a lung harvest. We saved one of his ribs, as is our custom with possible evidence. Yesterday, when those files reminded me of Mr. Carsman's visit, I ran both ribsblumenthal's and this mystery woman's-by the lab for comparison tool markings. Here's what they came up with." He handed Boldt the photos. He had studied hundreds of such photographs. When any tool-a knife, pliers, a wrench, wire cutters-interacts with a material-wood, wire, metal, in this case, bone-it leaves a distinct "fingerprint." A cutting tool leaves grooves that A under magnification resemble scratch marks. These scratch marks form distinct patterns, like a comb with some of the teeth missing. In the photo, the two sets of scratch marks had been perfectly aligned, indicating the work of the same tool.

Boldt caught himself holding his breath. Whoever was responsible for the death of Peter Blumenthal and the two other runaways had also performed surgery on the woman who had once lived inside these bones. The cases were inexorably linked by this evidence.

Reading his thoughts, Dixie said, "The harvester buried this one, Lou. Why? Why when he turned the other three, and Chapman, back into the streets? Why treat this mystery woman any different?"

"Because she died on him."

"Maybe. But the way these bones were picked clean, this woman predates these other harvests by several years. These recent ones may have died by accident. He may not even know they're dead yet. But with her," he said, pointing to the bones, "he certainly knew."

"His first? Is that what you're saying?" Boldt knew the importance of such a find. The first incident in any criminal pattern typically told the investigator more than did any of the subsequent crimes or victims. it established method, motivation and a key look into the demographics of future victims. These bones suddenly took on an additional importance. This woman-whoever she was-just might tell them who the harvester was.

Dixon had reached the same conclusion. "If we locate the rest of her remains, she can tell us more." Toying with the bones again, Boldt asked, "May I keep these?"

Dixon grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

Tegg boarded the ten-fifteen ferry for Bainbridge Island at Pier 52 and waited until the ship was under steam. The wind blew out of the west, bitter cold upon his face. Gunmetal clouds moved overhead like a giant door shutting. When the ferry whistle reverberated out across the water, Tegg shuddered. As ordered-he hated taking orders! — he worked his way down a series of steep metal ladders into the car hold.

it was dark down here, despite the occasional bare bulb and the wide openings at either end. Empty cars parked in long, tight rows. The smell of car exhaust and sea salt, kelp and fish. He wandered the aisles, as instructed, twisting and turning to worm his way through the cars. Sea spray kicked up by the wind blew through the open bow and misted across him, blurring the windshields. Many of the cars showed excessive body rot-even a few of the newer ones; these were the regular commuters. When Tegg turned around at the stern and started up the next aisle, he spotted a hulk of a figure some yards away. As he drew closer, he recognized the ape as one of Wong Kei's bodyguards. This was Wong Kei's world, not his. Wong Kei's rules. The ape stood alongside a black Chrysler New Yorker with mirrored windows. He opened the car door and signaled Tegg inside.

Tegg found himself alone with Wong Kei in the back seat. The emaciated man was drinking a diet Coke, holding the can with fingers as long and thin as chopsticks. "You are able to help me?" he said in an old man's voice. "You wouldn't have called otherwise, would you? "We have a possibility. What's your wife's present condition?"