Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

"Trafficking in human organs is illegal in most countries in the world," she began, as Ben scanned the pamphlet, "yet it continues to hap-pen at an alarming rate. The donors of these illicitly procured organs may be dead, in that 'dead-not quite dead-middle ground, or very much alive. But what almost all of them have in common is that they are impoverished. There are buyers, sellers, brokers, hospitals, clinics, and surgeons involved. And believe me, Mr. Callahan, the amount of money changing hands in this secret, outlaw world is considerable — millions upon millions of dollars."

Ben set the pamphlet aside.

"Tell me something, Dr. Gustafson," he said. "An impoverished person is desperate for money, and a person with means is desperate for a kidney or liver or whatever."

"Yes?"

"If it is a crime for someone to broker the exchange of an organ for cash, who is the victim of the crime? And perhaps just as importantly, does anyone care?"

"I'll answer the second of your questions first, Mr. Callahan. We care. Seldom do any of the donors end up with what they expected. As usual, they are the needy, taken advantage of by those with more. If you need an analogy, think of a poor young woman who is encouraged by a pimp with money to sell herself as a prostitute. Organ Guard is one of just two watchdog agencies of its kind, but our membership is steadily growing. Countries around the world are beginning to see the need to commit some of their resources to this problem. And as you will see, even here in the States situations are arising."

"You say governments are committing resources to the problem," Ben said, "but I have this feeling there may be at least some exaggeration in that claim."

Again, Gustafson studied him.

"Progress in this area is slow," she acknowledged grudgingly, "I'll give you that. But it is happening. When we provide authorities in any number of countries with hard evidence of illegal organ trafficking, arrests are made."

"Congratulations," Ben said again, not knowing what else to say, and hoping he didn't sound cynical or insincere.

In a world rife with disease, terrorism, dictatorships, drugs, prostitution, political corruption, and corporate vice, Alice Gustafson's cause was fringe. She was Dona Quixote — an idealist tilting against the injustice of a crime in which there were no victims, and aside from an occasional investigative article in the Times, precious little interest.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Callahan, what made you become a private investigator?"

"I'm not sure I know anymore. I used to teach school, but the principal thought my classes were too unstructured and I didn't discipline the kids enough. The kids loved me, and I loved them — well, most of them — but he said that really didn't matter."

Nice.

"I never read his reference letter, but the results of my search for another teaching job suggested it wasn't exactly glowing. Reading detective novels was always a passion of mine, so I thought I'd give it a try. I sort of saw myself as the best parts of each of those guys."

"That would be quite a man. John D. MacDonald is my personal favorite author. I think I've read almost everything he ever wrote."

"His Travis McGee was the man as far as I was concerned."

Gustafson's laugh was natural and uninhibited.

"Well, who wouldn't want to live on a houseboat in Florida and rescue beautiful women in distress?"

Ben flashed on Katherine de Souci.

"The problem is I forgot that all of my role models and their beautiful women were fictional."

"Living in the real world is often a daunting task for all of us." The professor leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingertips together, clearly trying to decide if it was worth continuing or whether she should simply move on to detective number four. "So," she said, the decision apparently made, "speaking of Florida, are you still interested in learning about the job? Because that's where we would be sending you."

"Professor Gustafson, I would be lying if I said I have any real interest in your cause."

"I admire your owning that, Mr. Callahan. Candor is always appreciated here."

"There's a fine line between candor and just not caring, Professor."

"I see…Well, take a look at these photos. They were sent to me by a coroner in Fort Pierce, Florida, named Stanley Woyczek, who used to study medical anthropology with me. He knows all about Organ Guard. You may be right about illicit organ trafficking being a victimless crime, but then again…"

Over the years, Ben had seen a number of coroner's photos, in black and white and, as these were, in color. Still, these images caused him to inhale sharply. The cadaver, a man in his twenties, had been bludgeoned to a pulp.

"He was wandering across a largely deserted highway at three in the morning, when he was hit by a tractor-trailer," Gustafson explained. "According to Stanley, death was instantaneous."

"I imagine so."

"When you're ready, take a look at the bottom three photos."

"His buttocks?"

"Actually, the area just above the buttocks. Stanley writes that he is absolutely certain this man was a bone marrow donor within a day of his death."

"So?"

"So he's called every hospital and clinic and hematologist in the area, and as far as he can tell, this man was a patient of none of them."

"Identification?"

"None."

"Fingerprints?"

"No match."

"Goodness. And there is no doubt in the coroner's mind about him being a marrow donor?"

"For the moment, you can make that unwilling marrow donor."

"I'll bet there's a simple, logical explanation."

"Perhaps. But take a look at this."

Gustafson passed across a file folder with a single word, RAMIREZ, handwritten on the tab. The contents included a tape cassette, typed transcript, several photographs, and two newspaper articles, one carefully cut from the Hallowell Reporter in Hallowell, Maine, and the other from the National Enquirer. Both articles were from about fourteen months ago. Ben chose to start with the more spectacular of the two.

VAMPIRES SUCKED MY BODY DRY

Modern-Day Vampires Use RV to Scoop Up Victim, Needles to Sock Out Blood

The brief article, complete with photos, recounted the claim of Juanita Ramirez, a fifty-year-old motel housekeeper, that she had been drugged, blindfolded, kidnapped, held prisoner in the back of a mobile home, then experimented on by vampires claiming to be doctors. A physician who examined Ramirez after the alleged abduction found evidence that her bone marrow had been sucked out through large needles twisted into the bone of her hip. One of the photos from the paper, allegedly a shot of the skin just above her buttocks, bore a striking resemblance to the one sent by Gustafson's former student.

"Stanley Woyczek didn't know anything about this other case when he sent me the photos," Gustafson said.

"How on earth did you learn about it?" Ben asked.

Gustafson's smile was enigmatic. "Some people read newspapers when they're not working, some watch television, some play around on eBay. I Google things. Lots of things. It relaxes me. That other article — the smaller one — quotes an osteopathic doctor in the north woods of Maine as saying that this woman's bone marrow may have been taken. I went up and interviewed both Juanita and the doctor. She describes a big gray mobile home with some sort of dark decorations on the side. Even before this packet from Stanley, I believed someone had, in fact, kidnapped this woman, aspirated her bone marrow, and subsequent to her procedure, blindfolded her and dropped her off someplace."

"But why?"

"That, Mr. Callahan, is why we need a detective. I would do this my self, but I have courses to teach. And besides, my arthritis is giving me a devil of a time. Sneaking in disguise into hospitals in Turkey or Moldova or South Africa in order to expose organ traffickers may be a thing of the past for me."