Robin Cook - Vector

“Trouble was, he was no longer a teenager,” Chester said. Shirley nodded in agreement. “But he’d gotten in with the wrong crowd. They all had that Nazi stuff. And then they started going around beating up on people who were different, like gays and Puerto Ricans.”

“That’s how he got in trouble the first time,” Shirley said, speaking up for the first time. She had an unexpectedly high, strident voice.

“I understand he’d had difficulties with the police,” Laurie said. She started to relax. It seemed as if the Cassidys merely wanted to talk. They could appreciate that kind of urge, considering their grief and bafflement at their son’s untimely death. The only problem was that there were things that Lou and Agent Tyrrell had told her about the victim that she wasn’t in a position to disclose, such as the fact that he’d been cooperating with the authorities as part of a plea bargain.

“We heard that some awful things had happened to Brad from our daughter, Helen,” Chester said. “Brad had come down here recently to stay with her in the city. But she couldn’t tell us very much about the details of his death. That’s why we came ourselves from where we live upstate.”

“What would you like to know?” Laurie asked. She was hoping she could speak in generalities.

The husband and wife glanced at each other to see who should go first. Chester cleared his throat: “One of the things we wanted to know was whether he was shot.”

“He was,” Laurie said. “Most definitely.”

“I told you so,” Shirley said to Chester, as if the news validated her position in an argument. “For all they who taketh the sword shall perish with the sword: Matthew twenty-six.”

“Do you know what kind of gun it was?” Chester asked.

“No,” Laurie said. “And I’m not sure we’ll ever know. The bullet, of course, will be examined, and if a particular gun was believed to be involved, it could be implicated.”

“Was he shot only once?” Chester asked.

“We believe so,” Laurie said with less emphasis. She was uncomfortable giving more than sketchy details, since Brad’s homicide was under investigation.

“Then maybe it wasn’t one of his guns,” Chester said to Shirley. “If it had been, then he probably would have been hit many times.”

“Did your son have a lot of guns?” Laurie asked.

“Too many guns,” Shirley said. “That’s how he got in trouble the second time. We thought he was going to go to prison. I tell you: I don’t know what men see in guns.”

“Now, it’s not all guns that are bad,” Chester said.

“Most of them, if you ask me,” Shirley snapped. “Particularly those automatic ones.” Then turning to Laurie she added: “That’s what Brad got involved in. He was selling assault rifles.”

“Where did he get them?” Laurie asked. The idea of a skinhead youth selling assault rifles in upstate New York gave her a shiver.

“We don’t rightly know,” Chester said. “They came from Bulgaria originally. At least that’s where they’d been made. I came across a bunch of them hidden in our barn.”

“That’s terrible,” Laurie said. She knew it was a trite response, but she meant it. With her particular interest in the forensics of gunshot wounds, she’d seen a lot of cases, more than anyone else at the office. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever autopsied anyone victimized by one of Brad Cassidy’s customers.

“There’s one other thing we’d like to ask,” Shirley said haltingly. “We’d like to know if our boy suffered.”

Laurie looked away for a moment while her mind wrestled with the question. She hated to have to choose between truth and compassion. It was undeniable that Brad Cassidy had been mercilessly tortured, but what purpose would it serve to relate such horror to his grieving parents? On the other hand, she hated to lie.

“You can tell us straight,” Chester said, as if sensing Laurie’s quandary.

“He was shot in the head, and I believe he died instantly,” Laurie said, suddenly realizing she had an out. By such a statement she wasn’t being entirely honest, since she was not answering Shirley’s question, yet she wasn’t Lying either. It was up to the Cassidys to ask the critical question about the order of events preceding Brad’s murder.

“Thank the Lord!” Shirley said. “He was a troubled boy and certainly not a good boy, but the idea that he might have suffered bothered me deeply.”

“I’m glad we could be of service,” Laurie said. She pushed off the desk, eager to avoid more questions by breaking up the meeting. “If there’s anything else I can do, please give me a call.”

Chester and Shirley stood up. They were grateful to Laurie, and the father pumped her hand enthusiastically. Laurie gave him one of her cards as she escorted them out of the cubicle and across the ID room. She opened the door to the waiting room, and the Cassidys filed out.

After a final goodbye, Laurie let the door close and lock. Then she breathe a sigh of relief.

“Were you doing an ID in there of a case I don’t know about?” George Fontworth asked. He was bent over the list of fatalities, trying to schedule the day’s autopsies.

“No! They were the parents of one of yesterday’s cases,” Laurie said while staring off into the middle distance. With the Cassidys gone, she found herself preoccupied by the horror of their son selling assault rifles, probably to other skinheads. With what she’d learned the day before from Special Agent Gordon Tyrrell, putting such deadly weapons in the hands of such violent and bigoted people was an invitation to disaster, especially since the far-right neo-Nazi militias were busily recruiting the skinheads as shock troops.

What’s this world coming to? Laurie voicelessly questioned to herself. Her strong support for gun control ratcheted up yet another notch.

Tuesday, October 19

11:15 a.m.

With the cab’s motor running, Yuri got out and opened his garage door. Despite his exhaustion, the sight of the pest control truck brought a smile to his face. The fact that it was sitting there waiting for the big day was a source of great satisfaction and gave meaning to the effort he was expending and the anxieties he was suffering. Yuri pulled his taxi inside and shut the overhead door. He didn’t want anyone to see the truck.

At his back door Yuri hesitated for a moment and let his eyes roam his immediate neighborhood. He wanted to make sure no one was paying him any heed. It wasn’t usual for him to be coming home in the middle of the morning. And certainly all the commotion of the ambulance in the wee hours of that morning must have gotten the neighbors’ attention. Yet he saw no one. It was a peaceful Indian summer day with the temperature in the low seventies. For the moment, there weren’t even any dogs barking.

Inside, Yuri went directly to his refrigerator and poured himself a vodka. He leaned against the counter and took a calming sip. He was still nervous about Connie’s body having been taken to the medical examiner’s office at Kings County Hospital. He’d gone with it for purposes of identification, even though he’d been told it wasn’t necessary since he’d made adequate identification at Coney Island Hospital. But he’d gone anyway in hopes of talking the doctors out of doing the autopsy. Yet it turned out he never even got to see a doctor. The person he’d met with described herself as a forensic investigator. At least Yuri made sure she got the story about the asthma and the allergies. She told him that the autopsy wouldn’t take place until some time after eight, when the medical examiners arrived.

It had been five o’clock in the morning by the time Yuri had gotten home. Although exhausted, he’d sensed there was no chance that he’d sleep. He was too keyed up, so he’d taken his cab out for a jump on rush hour.