Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Dirgrove listed himself as growing up in Baltimore, attending college and medical school at an elite, Eastern university. Not the same ivy-covered citadel where Norbert Levy had taught engineering and physics, but one very much like it.

Science awards, graduation with high honors, the usual hurdle-jumps.

The bastard had published a fair number of academic papers in surgical journals. Angela had mentioned a lecture on revascularization of the heart and there it was: one of Dirgrove’s specialties.

Endomyocardial laser channeling for revascularization.

Perhaps that’s what he’d been demonstrating to Mandel and the dark, mustached man. Showing off his technique, proud of his virtuosity with the instrument his father had wielded so creatively.

A Humpty-Dumpty situation…

Jeremy scanned the résumé, and something else caught his eye.

For the past six years, Dirgrove had spent his summers in London, teaching bypass surgery at Kings College of Medicine.

Six summers ago, Bridget Sapsted had been abducted and murdered in Kent, a couple of hours’ drive from the city, her skeleton retrieved two years later, after her chum Suzie had met the same fate.

Dirgrove had been in England during both killings.

That’s why Jeremy’s question about surgical precision had seized the attention of Detective Inspector Nigel Langdon (Ret.). Who’d undoubtedly called his successor, Det Insp Michael Shreve. And Shreve had taken the time to return Jeremy’s call. Not to inform him, to pump him. Then Shreve tracked down and alerted his American counterpart, Bob Doresh.

Leading to Doresh’s showing up at Jeremy’s office.

Both Langdon and Shreve had been to Oslo. Random travel? Or were the British investigators familiar with the details of Gerd Dergraav’s swath of horror and aware of similarities to the Kent murders?

And, now, a spate of American murders.

How much did Doresh understand? The man came across as cloddish, but Jeremy remembered his first impression- he and his partner, Hoker. Eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

But they were missing plenty now.

Why do they still suspect me ?

Because bureaucracy trumps creativity and expediency trumps justice.

There was no point dealing with Doresh or his ilk. Despite what Jeremy knew- the nightmare truths of which he was certain - sharing with the mulish detective would be useless. Worse- it would cast more suspicion on Jeremy.

Great theory, Doc. So… you’re pretty interested in this gory stuff, huh?

Going through channels wasn’t going to work.

He needed to be unfettered.

And that, he realized with staggering clarity, was the whole point. Of Arthur’s correspondence, the messages the old man had sent directly and through his CCC pals.

The focus of the entire late-night supper.

Tina Balleron’s suggestion that he stay on target.

Think about the gannet birds, simply doing the right thing.

Evil happened and, too often, expediency did trump justice. The law demanded evidence and due process, but provided little to make things right.

Husbands were murdered at their desks, their killers never brought to justice. Men of spirit and peace were gunned down in greasy parking lots, fortunes were plundered, entire families- entire races- wiped out, and no one paid the price.

A tiny, blond beauty born to smile, could be taken so easily…

You couldn’t depend on others to fix things.

Arthur had been certain Jeremy would understand that because Jeremy had been through it.

Sitting in the toilet stall, a wave of peace washed over him.

Pathology and psychology were polar opposites, but none of that mattered. What counted was the ordeal .

The sword of war comes to the world for the delay of justice.

A two-thousand-year-old lesson from the Fathers, but it couldn’t have been more timely.

A glance at his watch reproached him.

Twice-stricken Doug Vilardi was waiting for him. Another type of ordeal.

At least this pain was something Jeremy had been trained to deal with.

Words. Strategic pauses, kindness in the eyes. Meaning it.

Not enough, not nearly enough…

Here I come, victims of the world. God help all of us.

Doug looked like a patient.

Hooked up to his chemo drip, still in good spirits and voluble, but his facial muscles had slackened.

His prosthesis was covered in a vinyl case and lay on the floor.

Jeremy sat down, made small talk, tried to edge him toward masonry. Doug shook off the distraction.

“You know what bugs me, Doc? Two things. First of all, they let other guys get their chemo at home, but me they want to keep cooped up here.”

“Did you ask Dr. Ramirez about that?”

“Yeah, my spleen’s fucked up. They’ll maybe have to take it out.” He grinned. “No heavy lifting, I might explode, make a big fucking mess.” The grin faded. “Also my liver’s not primo. See?”

He tugged down an eyelid. The sclera was greenish beige.

Jeremy said, “No beer, today.”

“Too bad about that… so, how’ve you been?”

“You said two things were bothering you.”

“Oh, yeah. Number two: Everyone’s being too damn nice to me. Creeps me out. Like they think I’m gonna die, or something.”

“I can write an order, if you’d like,” said Jeremy. “ ‘Everyone be obnoxious to Doug.’ ”

The young man laughed. “Yeah, do that… so, you’ve been okay, Doc?”

“Fine.”

“You look a little, I dunno, wiped out. They working you too hard?”

“Same old same old.”

“Yeah… no offense- that crack about looking tired. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m not seeing things right. Fact is, when I saw you yesterday, after all those years, I’m thinking, ‘This guy doesn’t change.’ It was like, back then, when I first met you, I was a kid and you were a grown-up, and now I’m grown-up and you haven’t really changed that much. It’s like… what, life slows down when you get older? Is that what happens?”

“It can,” said Jeremy.

“Guess it depends on how much fun you’re having,” said Doug.

“What do you mean?”

“You know- what they always say? Time goes fast when you’re having fun. My life’s been a blast, zip zip zip. One thing after the other, fucking adventures, one day I’m knocking up walls and then… and now I’m having a baby.” He glanced at the butterfly needle embedded atop his hand. “I hope they hurry up with getting me better. Gotta get the fuck outta here. Got lots of things to do.”

When he drifted off to sleep, Jeremy left the room and encountered Doug’s parents and wife. That turned into another hour in the cafeteria, where Jeremy brought the three of them coffee and food. They protested weakly, thanked him profusely. Young Marika barely spoke. Still stunned, she avoided Jeremy’s eyes when he tried to make contact.

Doug Vilardi, Sr. spent most of his time putting on the good cheer. That seemed to weary his wife, but she rolled with it. Most of the hour was filled with small talk.

When Jeremy got up to leave, so did Doug’s mother. She walked him out of the cafeteria, said, “I’ve never met a doctor like you.” Then she took Jeremy’s face in both of her hands and kissed his forehead.

A maternal kiss. It reminded Jeremy of something that had happened to him a long time ago. But he couldn’t be sure.

He saw his other patients, went to meet Angela up on the chest ward where she was finishing her last day. He found her in the company of three other residents, on the way to some kind of meeting. Got her away from the group with a raised eyebrow and herded her into an empty nurses’ room.