Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

"OK. Cash for kidneys. But murder?"

I opened several downloads.

South Africa. June 1995. Moses Mokgethi was found guilty of the murder of six children for their organs.

Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua, Mexico. May 2003. Hundreds of women had been killed since 1993, and bodies continued turning up in the desert. Federal investigators claimed to have evidence the women were victims of an international organ trafficking ring.

Bukhara, Uzbekistan. No date. A family named Korayev was found with the passports of sixty missing persons, an enormous sum of money, and bags of body parts in their home. Their company, Kora, promised visas and overseas jobs. Instead, according to police, the Korayevs killed their clients and, working with a doctor, pipelined their organs to Russia and Turkey.

"Jesus."

"Theft from fresh cadavers is even more common," I said. "And not just in the Third World. Organ Watch has also reported on U.S. cases in which families of brain-dead patients have been offered as much as a million dollars to give organ harvesters access to the bodies immediately upon death."

The room was brightening. I got up and slid open the glass door. The smell of the ocean made me think of boogie-boarding with my kid sister, Harry, beach blanket gossip with high school best friends, sand castle construction with Katy and Pete.

Pete. Again, that pang deep in my chest.

I wanted to go back to one of those long summer days, to forget putrefied bodies, and scalpels, and wire nooses.

"So you believe someone at the GMC clinic is snuffing street people to harvest their organs." Ryan's voice brought me back. "And that Cruikshank was about to blow the whistle."

"I think Cruikshank was killed to keep him quiet. And I'm wondering about Helene Flynn, too."

"Suspects?"

"I'm not sure. The operation would have to involve several people, and a clinic has to be at the core. The average guy on the street can't just yank out a kidney."

Returning to bed, I opened another file.

"Removing an organ isn't all that complicated. In the case of a heart, for example, the vessels are clamped, and a cold, protective solution is pumped inside. The vessels are then severed, and the heart is placed in a bag filled with preservative. The bag is packed in ice in an ordinary cooler and flown or driven to its destination."

"How long do you have?"

"Four hours for a heart, eight to ten for a liver, three days for a kidney."

"Tight schedule for a heart. But plenty of time for transport to kidney recipients."

"Waiting in pre-op at some sterile facility tucked away in the hills." I clicked some more keys. "Cruikshank was looking into Abrigo Aislado de los Santos. Know what that means?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Isolated health shelter. Read the language on their Web site."

The more he read, the more deeply Ryan frowned. "'Unique therapeutic regimes available to individually qualified customers.' What the hell does that mean? You need a pedigree to get a pedicure?"

"It means call us. Provide background. If your story and portfolio check out, we'll get you a kidney."

"I'm guessing putting organs in isn't as simple as taking them out."

I looked Ryan directly in the eye. "Implantation requires a surgeon working in a relatively sophisticated facility."

Ryan's expression told me he was careening along the same deductive pathways I'd followed, speeding toward the same appalling finish. After a full minute, he spoke.

"You've got the GMC clinic on this end, serves druggies, crazies, the homeless. A few patients disappear now and then, no one notices. You would need a small plane, a cooler, a pilot who doesn't ask a lot of questions. Or maybe the mule's actually in the loop. You've got an experienced surgeon operating in an isolated location, catering to those needing organs and willing to pay a substantial price."

"Lester Marshall and Dominic Rodriguez attended the same med school, dropped out of sight around the same time," I said. "Rodriguez is a surgeon."

Ryan picked up the thread. "Two old classmates hook up, hatch a cash-for-organs scheme. Marshall comes here. Rodriguez goes to Puerto Vallarta, sets up a clinic disguised as a spa."

"Or Rodriguez might have left San Diego to practice medicine in Mexico. Could be Marshall got into some kind of trouble, went south, and the two reconnected," I said.

"Marshall takes the organs out, Rodriguez puts them in. Donors don't complain because they've been paid or because they're dead. Recipients don't complain because what they've done is illegal. A hundred thousand a pop buys a lot of margaritas."

"Illegal drugs are flown to the U.S. from Mexico all the time," I said. "Why not organs going the other way? They're small, easy to transport, and the payoff is huge. It explains the nicks, the garroting, the hidden bodies."

"The Burke and Hare script taken to a different level."

A gull touched down on the deck railing. Boyd lunged toward the screen, tail wagging. The bird took flight. The chow turned and looked at us. Ryan and I looked at the chow, thinking the same thought. Ryan voiced it.

"What we've got is speculation. We need to background Rodriguez, find out if the guy's in Mexico. We need to know where Marshall spent those missing six years. And why. And we need info on pilots and planes in the Charleston area. And boats."

Ryan looked confused.

"Willie Helms's body had to have been taken by water to Dewees Island. Unique Montague was dumped in the ocean. I doubt the killer used a ferry for either of those jaunts."

"Doesn't everyone and his granny own a boat in this town?"

I thought a moment. "Let's review Cruikshank's notes some more. You think some of the letters represent initials. You're probably right. What if we check those letter combinations against other Charleston MPs?" I was thinking out loud. "If we find a match it probably puts that MP at the GMC clinic."

"From the dates I saw in the notes, Cruikshank was only staking the place out during February and March of this year."

My mind was cranking now. "OK. I have the MP files from Emma. I think they cover the period of Cruikshank's investigation. I'll check the date each MP was last seen and compile a list. Maybe we can cross-check the list against flight plans logged by small-plane pilots."

"That would be a major law enforcement undertaking, particularly if it involved more than one Charleston-area airport. Also, smugglers rarely log flight plans."

"OK. The disappearances could coincide with times a plane was taken from an airfield."

"Assuming the plane's not kept in a barn somewhere. If they're not filing flight plans, they won't be logging in or out of an airport."

Sudden thought. "What about GMC? They've got a plane. Is it possible this thing goes higher than Marshall? Herron and his staff refused to respond to Helene's complaints. Then she went missing."

"I thought Helene was suspicious about the mishandling of funds."

"That's always been Herron's version. But he and his people refused to help Cruikshank find her, then Cruikshank dies. Stonewalled Pete, too, for that matter, then Pete is shot. Could someone high up at GMC be involved? Oh my God, Ryan, GMC operates clinics throughout the Southeast!"

"Let's not get carried away. When's Gullet coming by?"

"He wanted Cruikshank's computer first thing this morning." Ryan threw back the covers. I grasped his wrist. "Gullet hasn't been busting a gut helping me out. Do you think he could be protecting Herron?"

Pulling my hand to his lips, Ryan kissed the knuckles. "I think Gullet's solid."

"You're probably right. But do we have enough to convince him?"

"Call Emma. Explain our thinking. Helene's complaints to her father and to Herron, then her sudden disappearance. Cruikshank's link to Helene. Cruikshank's files on Burke and Hare, UNOS, the organ trade, Rodriguez, and the Puerto Vallarta clinic. The evidence of garroting on Cruikshank, Helms, and Montague. The scalpel nicks on Helms's and Montague's vertebrae and ribs. Find out when Emma expects a DNA report on the eyelash you found with Helms's bones."