Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“So let me get this straight. A fourteen-year-old kid got information from the VA computers that you couldn’t have deleted?”

“Actually, the truth is we couldn’t find it. That goes back to what I said about manpower. We don’t always have the resources to bypass proper channels.”

“Go on.”

“So, Garrity. He’s in the VA system as having severe PTSD. That’s-”

“I know what it is,” Koller cut in. “Is Garrity part of Jericho’s concerns?”

“Indirectly, yes.”

“Is Jillian Coates?”

“She wasn’t, but she became a player once she began sniffing around for her sister’s killer. That’s what led her to Garrity.”

“So, you want me to kill them?” Koller offered up their lives with the same emotion he would have used to order a Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s.

“No,” Ramsland said, “I’ve got our people watching Garrity and his partner, June Wright, and their medical bus. Wright is Reggie Smith’s foster mother. There aren’t enough of us to follow them all twenty-four seven, but we are keeping an eye on them. Your assignments for Jericho have been geographically arranged to keep the media spotlight away from any pattern in your marks. We can’t risk igniting curiosities by having anything happen to Jillian Coates or people close to her, which Garrity has now become.”

“If she gets in the way, she’s dead,” Koller said. “That’s what you get for stirring her up.”

“Okay, then let us handle Garrity. I’m betting he’s a patriot like myself. He’ll understand what we’re up against here and back off.”

“If not?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Whatever you say. So if it’s not Garrity or Coates, why did you bring me out here?”

“The kid has caused one of our people to go squirrelly. The guy’s a small cog in our machine, but he’s become a weak link.”

I hate mixed metaphors , Koller thought. I can’t believe you were a big shot in the CIA for all those years, let alone that you’re going to be vice president.

“It will cost you a million two,” he said, “an extra fifty if you want the job done quickly.”

“Quick as possible.”

“Your call. Same rules apply. I can get what information I need about the mark off of eBay.”

“Don’t you even want to know who it is?”

“In time.”

“I’ll just give you his name so you can get started.”

Koller sighed. “As you wish.”

“He’s a VA claims processor named MacCandliss. Phillip MacCandliss.”

Nick had never set foot in Lieutenant Detective Don Reese’s office before that day. Given the circumstances surrounding their initial meeting, discretion was always an unspoken agreement between them. But when Nick phoned, already en route to the second district’s station house, Reese did not bother asking what he needed. Nick’s request to meet was reason enough for the detective to rearrange his schedule.

The uniformed officer assigned to reception duty, seated in a closet-sized room behind four inches of Plexiglas, was in her early twenties. After phoning Reese, she instructed Nick and Jillian through the intercom to take seats on the molded plastic chairs lining the foyer.

Tucked securely under Nick’s arm was a large manila envelope, thick with confidential records from six different Singh Center patients. Over a one-year period, four years ago, each of them had been treated for a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the face. Examined individually, there was nothing that stood out about any of the cases except for the violence and utter destruction of their trauma. However, beyond the differing names and Social Security numbers, these six cases were identical, right down to the CT scans, cardiograms, and progress notes. In addition, the lists of hundreds of supplies and medications, obtained through Shelby Stone purchasing, were also identical. The likelihood of even two cases having such similarities was probably akin to the odds of winning the Powerball lottery seven or eight times in a row.

Nick and Jillian knew they had stumbled upon something illegal, but they suspected much more was behind the charts than mere larceny-even larceny on a fairly grand scale. Who were these patients and did they have anything to do with Manny or Umberto? Those were questions Nick hoped Don Reese could help answer.

A buzzer sounded to their right and the large steel-reinforced door securing the entrance to the inner sanctum of the precinct station slid open. Reese greeted them with warm, enthusiastic handshakes. He wore a white button-down shirt and red-striped tie, his imposing stature made even more so by the holstered gun tucked beneath his left arm.

“Thanks for taking the time today, Don,” Nick said after introducing him to Jillian. “I really appreciate it.”

“I gave you permission to tell your friend about us when you told me how special she is to you. Did you?”

“He did,” Jillian said, “but my memory’s been horrible lately and I already forgot it. I was intending to call you about the fire that destroyed my condo, but I’ve been waiting until I get the report from the fire investigator for the insurance company.”

“Sorry to hear about your place. I’m here for you anytime.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Like I said in the hospital, Nick, we’ve got a long way to go before I’ll call us even. That goes for your friends, too. Let’s talk in my office.”

Reese escorted the pair through the high-tech, temperature-controlled dispatch center, pointing out details along the way such as the raised floor, necessary to keep the computer systems from overheating the room. There was also a bank of television monitors, broadcasting a grim version of reality TV-the lives of the prisoners locked in the nearby detention cells.

“The heart and soul of nine-one-one,” Reese said, gesturing around the communications center. “Over three hundred thousand calls handled last year alone.”

Nick could feel the detective’s pride in the force as he explained the dispatch process. Coming here had been the right way to begin. With Reese’s help, there was a good chance they’d soon have some idea of just how big a fish they had on the line.

They exited the dispatch center and were directly in front of the door leading to the detention facilities.

“How many are in lockup here?” Jillian asked.

“Like the heart of an enlightened man,” Reese replied with a wry grin, “the chambers are full.”

Nick was impressed by Jillian’s knowledge of police procedures and her familiarity with the jargon. It was knowledge, she had explained, honed over years of dealing with mentally ill patients, whose lives were often inextricably linked to the judicial system. After they had failed to explain the six identical cases, it was Jillian who suggested they use a police database to conduct a more comprehensive investigation. That was when Nick had phoned Reese.

The lieutenant detective’s modest office was on a third-floor corner, and so had windows on two walls. The desktop, shelves, and windowsills were filled with framed photos of his children and grandchildren, as well as volumes of forensics and police law. The walls were decorated with various memorabilia highlighting a twenty-five-year career of distinction. A cop’s cop.

Nick and Jillian took seats across from Reese, and Nick immediately launched into a detailed explanation of recent events, including their history with Manny Ferris and his possible link to Umberto, as well as their growing suspicions of the Singh Clinic’s billing practices following Jillian’s installation of a rootkit into Paresh Singh’s computer.

“Mother of God, Garrity. Talk about playing fast and loose with the law. You guys make Dillinger look like Little Miss Muffett. I’m beginning to feel the return-favor jar filling up.”