Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Police have identified a Seattle-based surgeon and medical researcher working at City Central Hospital on a one-year fellowship, as a serial murderer believed responsible for the deaths of at least five local women, and a possible suspect in as many as three dozen other unsolved murders around the world.

Augusto Omar Graves, 40, holder of both a medical degree and a Ph.D. in biomedical engineering and an acknowledged expert on laser technology and surgery, was shot dead by police Thursday evening in the subterranean storage locker of his luxurious Hale Boulevard condominium. Graves, believed to have been born in Syria and raised in Brazil and the United States, was found in the company of his fifth victim’s corpse. According to the coroner, that woman, Kristina Schnurr, a recent immigrant from Poland who’d worked as a housekeeper at the hospital, had been strangled.

Schnurr, 29, and Graves had been seen talking the day of the murder, and it is believed Graves lured Schnurr on a date, strangled her in his car, and hid her body in the condominium’s parking garage. He then drove the car back to the building’s entrance so that a doorman would see him enter alone. Graves managed to transport Schnurr’s corpse two floors down, to the storage locker, a dank, cellarlike space that he had converted into a dissection chamber.

Graves’s other local victims include a nurse from City Central, Jocelyn Lee Banks, 27, murdered six months ago and formerly thought to have been carjacked from a hospital parking lot. Police now believe Graves convinced her to go with him willingly, under false pretenses. In addition, Graves is the prime suspect in the deaths of three recently murdered prostitutes, Tyrene Mazursky, 45, Odelia Tat, 38, and Maisie Donovan, 25. Given the time span between the Banks killing and those of the other victims, as well as Graves’s frequent business trips, there is reason to believe that he will be tied into murders in other cities.

Graves has also been implicated in the mutilation slayings of at least two women murdered in Kent, England, during periods when he was conducting research at a London think tank and writing about science for The Guardian newspaper. Investigators from Spain, Italy, France, and Norway are reexamining unsolved murders involving surgical dissection that may have links to Graves’s methodology.

Police Chief Arlo Simmons cited “numerous man-hours and first-rate detective work” as the factors that led to the discovery of Graves’s lair.

“We’ve been interested in this individual for some time,” said Chief Simmons. “I regret that we weren’t able to save Kristina Schnurr. However, the death of this man can be truly said to have brought an end to a reign of terror.”

Three days after the death of Augusto Graves, during one of several attempts to steal a moment with Angela, Jeremy’s beeper went off.

Seconds later, so did hers.

They were in his office, sitting on the floor, greasy napkins in their laps, takeout burgers in their hands.

A duet of squawks. They cracked up. First time they’d laughed since that night.

“You first,” he said.

She called in. Diabetic coma on Four East, and another patient had reacted adversely to prednisone withdrawal. She was needed stat.

She got to her feet, gobbled a pickle slice, wrapped her quarter-eaten lunch in its wax-paper jacket, placed it on his desk.

He said, “Take it with you.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve noticed. I think you’ve lost weight.”

“You haven’t exactly been gorging.”

“I’m fine.”

“So am I. Dude.”

She slung her white coat over her shoulders. Placed her hands on Jeremy’s wrists. “We will talk, right?”

“Not up to me,” he said, smiling. “The schedule.” His beeper went off again.

She laughed and kissed him and was gone.

The call was from Bill Ramirez.

“I’m hearing rumors, my friend.”

“About what?”

“Your being involved, somehow, with capturing that lunatic Graves.”

“Pretty crazy rumors,” said Jeremy. “And he wasn’t captured, he was killed.”

“True,” said Ramirez. “It didn’t sound logical. A quiet guy like you being involved in heroics.”

“Heroics?”

“That’s what’s floating around. That somehow you figured things out for the cops, did your shrink thing, helped them profile the bastard. I’ve even heard a really crazy one saying you were there the night they got him.”

“Sure,” said Jeremy. “I’m dusting off my cape, as we speak.”

“That’s what I thought. Maybe it’s the administration, floating those rumors. It’s been a PR nightmare for them- anyway, I figured you should know- never liked that guy. Arrogant.”

“From what I hear, Bill, arrogance was the least of his problems.”

“True,” said the oncologist. “Speaking of heroics, the reason I’m calling is to give you a little good news, for a change. Our boy Doug has somehow managed to ease himself into a nice little remission.”

“That’s great!”

“I’d never have predicted it, but that’s my line of work- humbling experiences every day. Hard to say if it’ll be long-term or not, his presentation’s been so weird. But there’s no transplant on the horizon, and I’m sending him home, continuing his treatment on an outpatient basis. I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it, Bill. When’s he being discharged?”

“Tomorrow A.M., if nothing changes. Talk about a cape. To my mind, this kid’s Superman.”

Marika sat next to Doug on the bed. Both of them in street clothes. Doug wore a Budweiser T-shirt and jeans. His prosthetic leg was attached. Both his hands were hooked up to IVs. His color was better. Not totally right, but better. Some of his hair had fallen out. He beamed.

“Hey, Doc. I kicked major-league medical ass.”

“You sure did.”

“Yeah, I told you that motherfucker leukemia was going to see who was the boss.”

“You’re the man, Doug.”

The young man nudged his wife. “Hear that? That’s coming from an expert.”

“You are the man, honey.”

“Right on.”

“So,” said Jeremy, “you’re going home tomorrow.”

“First thing I’m gonna do is get out to the brickyard, find me some nice used ones, put up that wall in my parents’ backyard that I’ve been promising. Put a little niche for a fountain in, too, and run a water line to it. Surprise Mom.”

“Sounds great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks- c’mere, Doc. Gimme a shake, I wanna show you my grip.”

Doug thrust out his right hand. The IV line looped and thrummed. Jeremy approached. Doug grabbed him, squeezed hard.

“Impressive,” said Jeremy.

“Sometimes,” said the young man, “I feel like I can climb walls.”

The day Arthur came to see Jeremy, the mail brought another surprise.

Cheap white envelope. OFFICIAL POLICE CORRESPONDENCE stamped on the back.

Inside were two squares of cardboard taped together. Jeremy cut the tape and extricated what was sandwiched within.

The snapshot of Jocelyn and him. Her tiny frame made Jeremy look like a large man. Both of them happy. Her blond hair windblown, all over the place.

He remembered: The strands had tickled him like crazy, and she’d gotten a kick out of that.

Oh, you’re ticklish?

She’d gone for his ribs, grabbing with strong little fingers. Giggling like a kid, so pleased with herself.

He stared at the photo for a long time, placed it in an unmarked envelope, set that in a lower drawer of his desk.

Atop the Curiosity file.