Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

“She was subjected to tremendous heat,” said Sci, who was assisting the medical examiner at the request of General da Silva.

Cardoso wasn’t happy about Kloppenberg being in his autopsy room, but he nodded. “The skull will be brittle.”

“We’ll tease what’s left off the bone,” Sci said.

Using forceps and scalpels, he and the medical examiner were able to peel back what was left of her scalp to reveal a small hole in the left posterior portion of her skull and a larger exit hole above the right eye socket.

“She was shot from five, maybe six feet away,” Cardoso said.

Sci nodded. “Shooter had to be aiming diagonally at her, and almost level.”

Cardoso said, “Thirty-eight caliber. There’s our cause of death.”

“So why burn her?” I asked.

The pathologist and my forensics chief looked over at me, puzzled. So were General da Silva and Lieutenant Acosta.

“I don’t understand, Jack,” Sci said.

“She’s shot through the back of the head, so why burn her in Santos’s front yard? I mean, the killer wanted the body to be there for a reason. And he burned the body for a reason as well.”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Cardoso said. “My job is to examine, not speculate.”

“But I’m free to speculate,” I said. “Luna’s body was not hidden. It was brought to her home, put there to shock and traumatize Antonio, which says to me her murder was probably personal and designed to exact some kind of revenge.”

“And burning her body?” the lieutenant said. “Same thing?”

“Could be,” I said. “But setting a fire after a murder? That’s what killers do when they’re trying to destroy evidence.”

“Evidence in the car she was in?” General da Silva asked.

“Or on her body,” I said. “And it wasn’t to prevent us from knowing she was shot to death before she was burned, unless the killer actually thought Luna was going to be cremated by the blaze.”

Dr. Cardoso did not seem interested, but Sci got what I was driving at and said, “We’re looking for something on or in her body.”

I nodded. “Unless the fire took it.”

Kloppenberg and Cardoso went back to their work. They cut open Luna’s chest and found her organs cooked by the flames. The medical examiner focused on the weight and size of her heart, liver, and lungs.

Sci started dissecting them on another table. For the next fifteen minutes, fatigue-induced negativity crept in and had me starting to believe we wouldn’t find anything of value.

Then Kloppenberg, who was working on the heart, stiffened. He stepped over to the liver and made a cut and looked at it under a magnifying glass. Then he turned to me and nodded.

“Dr. Cardoso,” Sci said. “Could you take a look at this?”

The medical examiner set his instruments down and crossed the room.

Sci gestured into the heart. “Notice anything missing?”

Cardoso frowned, looked down through the magnifying glass for a few beats before he got it. “There’s no congealed or coagulated blood.”

“There’s no blood in any of the organs,” Sci said, looking back at me. “I think she was drained before she was shot and burned, Jack.”

Dressed in his hazmat suit, Dr. Castro reached into the refrigerator in his lab and retrieved one of the pints of Hydra-9-contaminated blood he’d taken from Luna Santos’s body. Castro set the plastic pouch of blood in a pot of water warmed to ninety-eight degrees.

Leaving the blood pack there, he returned to the refrigerator and retrieved five more pints of blood stolen from the blood bank at Hospital Geral. He warmed these too and then used a hypodermic needle to extract a sixth of the volume of contaminated blood and inject it into the clean samples.

He left the newly infected blood at body temperature for twenty minutes, giving the virus time to start to reproduce, and then returned them to the refrigerator to chill and slow the cycle. Before he closed the refrigerator, the doctor stood there, counting. Four pints of Luna’s blood, and five new pints. Nine pints. A little more than a gallon.

Was it enough? Could there ever be enough? What was the ideal?

Three gallons, Castro decided. But what would that weigh? A gallon was roughly eight pounds, so twenty-four pounds. That was too much. Max load according to the specs was fifteen pounds.

So work backward. The delivery system weighs 1.8 pounds, leaving me 13.9 pounds, or just under two gallons. He shut the refrigerator door, knowing he needed another seven pints of blood to do the job.

The doctor left the lab, entered the decontamination shower, and hosed himself off completely with bleach and saline. He rinsed and repeated the process. It was unthinkable for him to get sick, not now, when he was so close to his goal.

Dr. Castro stripped and stepped into a second shower. He shivered as he dried off with paper towels and put them in a biohazard-waste bin. Dressed, he exited and sealed the air lock.

He moved to the door that led to the office and opened it. The doctor flipped on the light, considered the crate on the desk, and felt a thrill go through him. The wood-reinforced cardboard box had been waiting for him when he arrived. He’d wanted to open it right away, but he’d had the blood to deal with first.

Now, however, Castro’s remarkable mind turned to focus on the contents of the crate. He’d have to be as precise and gentle opening it as he’d been handling the propagation of Hydra-9. A fortune lay inside; every bit of his savings had been poured into that crate, and he wasn’t going to—

Knock.

The doctor felt dizzy and frightened when he pivoted to look at the outside door. Other than deliverymen, no one had come to his door in the eighteen months he’d rented the space, and he had no more orders outstanding.

Knock. Knock.

These were louder than the first, more insistent. A cop? Castro fought against panic. Should he answer? Or just wait for whoever it was to walk away?

He stood frozen, straining to hear the sound of gravel under shoes leaving. Instead, there came a third series of knocks.

A male voice called, “Dr. Castro?”

The doctor almost melted down. It was over. It was all—

“Dr. Castro? Please, it’s me, Ricardo. My scooter is broken and my cell is dead and I need to use a phone.”

Ricardo Fauvea? My student? He knows this place? How? Why?

In the two seconds that followed, Castro lost what seemed like a pint of sweat. It gushed out of every pore and soaked him in a glistening sheen. His hand trembled as he turned the lock.

He opened the door and saw young Ricardo standing there looking sheepish. “Thank you, Dr. Castro. My scooter broke down, and I need to call someone to get me.”

Castro almost handed him his cell phone but then thought better of it.

“Where is your scooter?” he asked.

His student put a hand to his brow, said, “It’s around the corner there, about two blocks down.”

“What were you doing in the area?” the doctor asked, studying Ricardo’s every twitch and tic.

Ricardo looked at the ground, seeming disappointed with himself, and said, “I was following you, Dr. Castro.”

That took Castro aback. “Following me? From where?”

“The Hospital Geral,” he said, still not looking at the doctor.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Castro demanded in an even voice.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” the doctor said, firmer. “I have never known you to do anything without a reason, Ricardo. There has to be a reason.”

The medical student seemed mortified, but he looked Dr. Castro in the eye and said in a stammer, “I... I admire you, Dr. Castro. I want to be like you. And, I don’t know, it just seemed... interesting, that’s all, to learn how you live and where you, you know, go.”