The fifth vial

CHAPTER 3

Nailed. Ben Callahan set the stack of five-by-seven glossies on his desk, then popped two Zantac antacid pills into the back of his throat and washed them down with his third cup of coffee of the morning. Another shitty beginning of another shitty day. Maybe it was time to give his friendly neighborhood career counselor a try. Outside, a chilly, vertical rain was snapping against the grime on his office window. Yesterday it had reached 101 with a humidity of, like, a thousand. Today, fifty-five and pouring. Summer in Chicago. You just couldn't beat it.

Ben spread the photos across the desk in two rows. God, but sometimes he detested earning a living this way. He would have detested it even if the living he was earning amounted to anything substantial, which it most certainly did not. Well, at least Katherine de Souci would be happy. She had demanded that Ben "nail the bastard," and now Robert de Souci had, in fact, been nailed, although not quite in the way Katherine had expected.

So what if Robert was active on the board of a dozen or more charitable foundations? So what if he was, from all Ben had been able to ascertain, a terrific father and enlightened corporate CEO? Katherine, whom Ben had come to think of as something of an amalgam of Lizzie Borden and his ex-wife, had her suspicions of infidelity, and now, thanks to crackerjack private detective — make that private eye — Benjamin Michael Callahan, she had her proof. And soon, she would have her gazillions in settlement, as well as her husband's surpassingly handsome head on a platter.

There were just two problems.

Robert's secret lover was a he, not the she Katherine had expected, and the significant other in question was a man Ben knew well. Caleb Johnson, a pillar of the black community, was arguably the finest, fairest, most intelligent criminal judge in the region. It was possible the judge could survive this looming scandal, but not without a significant reduction in his influence on the bench and around the country. And this was a man who had earned and deserved all the influence he possessed.

Ben flipped the edge of a small stack of unopened bills with his thumb. Katherine de Souci's check would make every one of them disappear like David Copperfield, with enough cash left over to actually buy something. He slid the photos back into their manila envelope and prepared to call Katherine. Who in the hell cared what the fallout might be? He had been given a job, he had taken it, he had spent the advance and most of the per diems, he had done the work. Case closed.

Admittedly, this career had been something of a miscalculation on his part, but when he chose it, he was legitimately excited about becoming a detective in the mold of his fictional heroes — knights-errant like Mike Hammer, Travis McGee, and Jim Rockford. He knew he'd have to start slow at first, taking whatever cases came in. Unfortunately, those cases — chasing bail jumpers, philandering spouses, and deadbeats of one kind or another — remained his primary source of income, and with few exceptions, had never amounted to anything approaching noble. Not a single, mysterious, alluring dame-in-distress in the bunch.

Now he was about to take a pile of money from someone he didn't like in exchange for ruining the lives of two men he respected.

De Souci and Johnson should have been more discreet, he tried to reason. There were all those under funded charities and all those African-American kids looking for role models who were counting on them. They should have thought things through a little more. There were ways the guys could have stayed undetectable, or at least more undetectable, but for whatever reason, maybe just the blindness of love, they had chosen not to take them.

Now there were photos.

Ben picked up the phone, dialed Katherine's number, and as usual went through her private secretary to speak with her.

"You have something for me?" the socialite asked without even deigning to say hello.

Her voice grated over the phone. Ben flashed on her perfectly made-up face — so proud, so tight, so haughty. In a life already boringly full of possessions, privilege, and victories, he had uncovered the evidence that would make her day. Katherine de Souci, come on down! You're a winner and you're next on The Price Is Right!

For several moments there was only silence.

"Well?" she persisted.

"Urn…actually, I don't have anything, Mrs. de Souci. Nothing. I think your husband's clean."

"But — "

"And the truth is, I don't think I can take any more of your money. If you want to keep pushing this matter, I would recommend you find someone else.

" But — "

"Goodbye, Mrs. de Souci."

Please be more careful, Judge. Robert's wife is vengeful, he wrote on a blank piece of paper. Then he signed it a Friend, slid it in with the photos, addressed the envelope to the judge with no return address, marked it PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, and set it aside until he left for whatever would pass today for lunch. Just in case, he decided, he would send it by registered mail. Outside, the rain continued pelting the city. Within minutes, any glow Ben felt at so gloriously disappointing Katherine de Souci had given way to his usual, baseline state of numbness and ennui. It was hard to believe a life once marked by enthusiasm and a spirit of adventure had come to this. It was even harder to believe that he really didn't care.

The phone had rung five or six times before he noticed and picked it up.

"Lo?"

"Mr. Ben Callahan'" a woman's voice said.

"Yes."

"The detective?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Professor Alice Gustafson's office calling."

"Okay."

"Department of anthropology at the University of Chicago?"

"Okay."

"Mr. Callahan, you had an appointment to meet with Professor Gustafson fifteen minutes ago."

"I had what?"

Ben shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found his appointment book, optimistically containing a full page for each day of the year. The name Alice Gustafson, an address, office number, and the time fifteen minutes ago were written in his uneven scrawl on the page for today. Beneath the time were two words: Organ Guard. Only now did he remember taking the call, a week or so ago, from a secretary who didn't exactly bubble over about the wonderful opportunity the job presented for him.

He had agreed to the appointment without bothering to tell the woman he still had absolutely no idea what it was about. Now, it appeared, he had missed it. After four or five years in college, and a stretch as a high-school social studies teacher, he had rolled the dice and decided on life as a private detective. Now it seemed it was time for something else. Perhaps he would learn that he was better suited for life behind a hot-dog pushcart or maybe his true calling was as an animal trainer.

"I…I'm sorry," he said. "Something came up and I've been delayed."

"I guess," the woman replied. "Well, Professor Gustafson says that if you'd like to reschedule the interview, she can see you at one today."

Ben scratched at the reddish brown stubble of five o'clock shadow that seemed to be appearing on his face earlier and earlier of late, and stared down at the words in his book. Organ Guard. Still no bells. He really had to start paying more attention.

"This appointment," he said, "can you refresh me a little?"

Even over the phone he could hear the woman sigh.

"You responded to an ad we placed in the papers about a year ago, requesting your services for Organ Guard. At the time we informed you and those others who responded that we were putting together a database of investigators for future jobs. You encouraged us to include you."

This has to be bullshit, Ben was thinking. He couldn't remember the last time he had encouraged anyone to do anything.

"So, what is this interview about?"

Again a sigh.

"Mr. Callahan, I believe Professor Gustafson has some work for you."

"And money to pay for it?"

"I believe so, yes. So, will we see you at one?"

Ben pulled his keyboard over and moved to go online to search for Organ Guard, then remembered that his browser service had been disconnected for the usual reason. Well, at least this didn't seem to be another stalk-and-gawk infidelity job. After Lady Katherine de Souci, he might not have another one of those left in him.

"One o'clock," he heard himself say. "I'll be there."

Ben was certain he had an umbrella someplace, but never used it. After checking the closet off his small, deserted waiting room, he gave up looking. A cab was a possibility, but also an expense, and one of the remaining spoils of his years as a teacher was a decent trench coat. Head down, wearing the belted coat and a Cubs cap, he pushed twelve blocks through a penetrating rain, ducking into entryways for relief every minute or two. Haskell Hall, on Fifty-ninth, was an expansive, powerful stone building with deeply carved openings, anchoring a well-maintained, tree-lined quad.

ALICE T. GUSTAFSON, Ph.D. MEDICAL ANTHROPOLOGY

was on a small, brass-embossed plaque beside the door of her third-floor office. Beneath it, a smaller plaque — letters mechanically carved in white into black plastic — read ORGAN GUARD INTERNATIONAL. The door was locked. Ben knocked softly and then a little louder.

It was just as well, he thought. What he really needed to do at this point was to hunker down in his apartment with his cat, Pincus, and figure out what he wanted to do with his life if, in fact, he wanted to do anything at all. What about sales? Everybody needed a Mazda or a vacuum cleaner. He moved to knock again, then thought, The hell with it, and turned to go. A woman, arms folded, was standing just a dozen or so feet away, appraising him. Her plaid, long-sleeved shirt was tucked into carpenter's chinos and cinched around her narrow waist with a broad leather belt and heavy silver buckle. She was sixty or so, with gold-rimmed glasses, a narrow, intelligent professor's face, and graying dark hair, fixed in a short ponytail. Ben's take on the woman, especially after three weeks of Katherine de Souci, was decidedly positive.

"Mr. Callahan, I'm Professor Alice Gustafson," she said. "Sorry if I startled you."

"Only a little. I guess I just flunked the catlike-senses part of my professional evaluation."

Ben shook her narrow hand which, it was sadly easy to tell, had the firm swelling of chronic arthritis in the knuckles.

"Years of walking places where I didn't want to disturb the people or startle the wildlife have given me a fairly soft tread," she understated, opening her office with a key, and, Ben noted, with some difficulty.

The space was surprisingly roomy, but also cluttered and cozy. One wall held two eight-foot-high windows, and opposite them were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, piled to overflowing with academic tomes, bound and loose journals, and even a few works of fiction. In one corner, a tall, glass-enclosed case held dozens of artifacts of various kinds, unlabeled and arranged in no discernible order. On the back wall were a number of framed photos of people, mostly men, and all of them brown or black skinned. Most of the men were displaying scars on their sides, and none of them looked either prosperous or happy.

"Coffee?" Gustafson asked, gesturing to a Mr. Coffee in the corner as she settled in behind a busy, massive, antique oak desk, and in front of a six-foot-wide world map festooned with pushpins.

Ben shook his head and took the chair opposite her. There was an odd, appealing mix of intensity and serenity in the woman's face.

"I…I'm embarrassed to say that I don't really remember answering your ad," he said.

"So Libby, our department secretary, told me. Well, no matter. You're here."

Ben looked about.

"I'm here," he said.

"But you have no idea where here is. Is that right?"

"I suppose you could say that."

The professor studied him for a time, and Ben sensed that she was close to thanking him for coming and sending him back to whatever rock he had crawled out from. He wouldn't have blamed her in the least, and sadly, it wouldn't really have mattered to him. Was he in a depression? Midlife crisis? Probably both. But that didn't matter either. Maybe instead of the friendly neighborhood career counselor, he should pay a visit to the friendly neighborhood psycho-pharmacologist.

"I think you should know," Gustafson said finally, "that you're not the first detective I've interviewed for this job. You're the third."

"Why did you reject the first two?"

"I didn't. Neither of them wanted it."

"Not enough money?" Ben asked, knowing from his experience with others in his clan that there was little likelihood of any other possibility.

"A year or so ago it looked like we were going to get a grant to expand the investigative, enforcement-oriented portion of our work. That's why I placed the ad I did — to try and line up the right people for the job. Then

the source of our grant decided to spend their money elsewhere. Now another foundation actually has delivered. It's not much, but it is something."

" Congratulations."

"Would you like to hear what this is all about?"

That's okay. Whatever it is, I'm not up for it, Ben was thinking.

"Go on," his voice said.

Gustafson took a small pile of twice-folded pamphlets from her drawer and handed one over. It was entitled "Underworld Organ Trafficking," and subtitled "The World's Problem."

"Trafficking in human organs is illegal in most countries in the world," she began, as Ben scanned the pamphlet, "yet it continues to hap-pen at an alarming rate. The donors of these illicitly procured organs may be dead, in that 'dead-not quite dead-middle ground, or very much alive. But what almost all of them have in common is that they are impoverished. There are buyers, sellers, brokers, hospitals, clinics, and surgeons involved. And believe me, Mr. Callahan, the amount of money changing hands in this secret, outlaw world is considerable — millions upon millions of dollars."

Ben set the pamphlet aside.

"Tell me something, Dr. Gustafson," he said. "An impoverished person is desperate for money, and a person with means is desperate for a kidney or liver or whatever."

"Yes?"

"If it is a crime for someone to broker the exchange of an organ for cash, who is the victim of the crime? And perhaps just as importantly, does anyone care?"

"I'll answer the second of your questions first, Mr. Callahan. We care. Seldom do any of the donors end up with what they expected. As usual, they are the needy, taken advantage of by those with more. If you need an analogy, think of a poor young woman who is encouraged by a pimp with money to sell herself as a prostitute. Organ Guard is one of just two watchdog agencies of its kind, but our membership is steadily growing. Countries around the world are beginning to see the need to commit some of their resources to this problem. And as you will see, even here in the States situations are arising."

"You say governments are committing resources to the problem," Ben said, "but I have this feeling there may be at least some exaggeration in that claim."

Again, Gustafson studied him.

"Progress in this area is slow," she acknowledged grudgingly, "I'll give you that. But it is happening. When we provide authorities in any number of countries with hard evidence of illegal organ trafficking, arrests are made."

"Congratulations," Ben said again, not knowing what else to say, and hoping he didn't sound cynical or insincere.

In a world rife with disease, terrorism, dictatorships, drugs, prostitution, political corruption, and corporate vice, Alice Gustafson's cause was fringe. She was Dona Quixote — an idealist tilting against the injustice of a crime in which there were no victims, and aside from an occasional investigative article in the Times, precious little interest.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Callahan, what made you become a private investigator?"

"I'm not sure I know anymore. I used to teach school, but the principal thought my classes were too unstructured and I didn't discipline the kids enough. The kids loved me, and I loved them — well, most of them — but he said that really didn't matter."

Nice.

"I never read his reference letter, but the results of my search for another teaching job suggested it wasn't exactly glowing. Reading detective novels was always a passion of mine, so I thought I'd give it a try. I sort of saw myself as the best parts of each of those guys."

"That would be quite a man. John D. MacDonald is my personal favorite author. I think I've read almost everything he ever wrote."

"His Travis McGee was the man as far as I was concerned."

Gustafson's laugh was natural and uninhibited.

"Well, who wouldn't want to live on a houseboat in Florida and rescue beautiful women in distress?"

Ben flashed on Katherine de Souci.

"The problem is I forgot that all of my role models and their beautiful women were fictional."

"Living in the real world is often a daunting task for all of us." The professor leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingertips together, clearly trying to decide if it was worth continuing or whether she should simply move on to detective number four. "So," she said, the decision apparently made, "speaking of Florida, are you still interested in learning about the job? Because that's where we would be sending you."

"Professor Gustafson, I would be lying if I said I have any real interest in your cause."

"I admire your owning that, Mr. Callahan. Candor is always appreciated here."

"There's a fine line between candor and just not caring, Professor."

"I see…Well, take a look at these photos. They were sent to me by a coroner in Fort Pierce, Florida, named Stanley Woyczek, who used to study medical anthropology with me. He knows all about Organ Guard. You may be right about illicit organ trafficking being a victimless crime, but then again…"

Over the years, Ben had seen a number of coroner's photos, in black and white and, as these were, in color. Still, these images caused him to inhale sharply. The cadaver, a man in his twenties, had been bludgeoned to a pulp.

"He was wandering across a largely deserted highway at three in the morning, when he was hit by a tractor-trailer," Gustafson explained. "According to Stanley, death was instantaneous."

"I imagine so."

"When you're ready, take a look at the bottom three photos."

"His buttocks?"

"Actually, the area just above the buttocks. Stanley writes that he is absolutely certain this man was a bone marrow donor within a day of his death."

"So?"

"So he's called every hospital and clinic and hematologist in the area, and as far as he can tell, this man was a patient of none of them."

"Identification?"

"None."

"Fingerprints?"

"No match."

"Goodness. And there is no doubt in the coroner's mind about him being a marrow donor?"

"For the moment, you can make that unwilling marrow donor."

"I'll bet there's a simple, logical explanation."

"Perhaps. But take a look at this."

Gustafson passed across a file folder with a single word, RAMIREZ, handwritten on the tab. The contents included a tape cassette, typed transcript, several photographs, and two newspaper articles, one carefully cut from the Hallowell Reporter in Hallowell, Maine, and the other from the National Enquirer. Both articles were from about fourteen months ago. Ben chose to start with the more spectacular of the two.

VAMPIRES SUCKED MY BODY DRY

Modern-Day Vampires Use RV to Scoop Up Victim, Needles to Sock Out Blood

The brief article, complete with photos, recounted the claim of Juanita Ramirez, a fifty-year-old motel housekeeper, that she had been drugged, blindfolded, kidnapped, held prisoner in the back of a mobile home, then experimented on by vampires claiming to be doctors. A physician who examined Ramirez after the alleged abduction found evidence that her bone marrow had been sucked out through large needles twisted into the bone of her hip. One of the photos from the paper, allegedly a shot of the skin just above her buttocks, bore a striking resemblance to the one sent by Gustafson's former student.

"Stanley Woyczek didn't know anything about this other case when he sent me the photos," Gustafson said.

"How on earth did you learn about it?" Ben asked.

Gustafson's smile was enigmatic. "Some people read newspapers when they're not working, some watch television, some play around on eBay. I Google things. Lots of things. It relaxes me. That other article — the smaller one — quotes an osteopathic doctor in the north woods of Maine as saying that this woman's bone marrow may have been taken. I went up and interviewed both Juanita and the doctor. She describes a big gray mobile home with some sort of dark decorations on the side. Even before this packet from Stanley, I believed someone had, in fact, kidnapped this woman, aspirated her bone marrow, and subsequent to her procedure, blindfolded her and dropped her off someplace."

"But why?"

"That, Mr. Callahan, is why we need a detective. I would do this my self, but I have courses to teach. And besides, my arthritis is giving me a devil of a time. Sneaking in disguise into hospitals in Turkey or Moldova or South Africa in order to expose organ traffickers may be a thing of the past for me."

"I truly hope not, Professor."

"Why, thank you."

"So why Florida? I thought your interest was focused on Third World countries."

"Mostly because that's where the action is right now. If we can come up with something organized in this country, anything at all, I suspect we wouldn't have to worry nearly so much about funding. And even though having bone marrow taken might not be as debilitating as losing a kidney, or liver, or heart, it's still organ theft."

The woman's story and flimsy evidence didn't leave Ben any more taken with Organ Guard or its mission, nor did he believe there was anything more sinister surrounding the young man's death in Florida than the grille of a tractor-trailer, but he was absolutely impressed with Alice Gustafson, and in truth, jealous of her passion as well.

"I'm afraid the foundation grant we have is not very large, Mr. Callahan."

"That sounds ominous."

"Would you be willing to go to Florida and see if you can find the identity of the unfortunate man in that photo, and perhaps piece together what happened to him?"

"I'm not licensed in Florida."

"That shouldn't get in your way. I'm sure at one time or another, you have followed people into other states."

"I have."

"Besides, my former student, Stanley, knows the police in his area well. He has promised to put me in touch with them. I don't think he'll have trouble doing the same for you."

"Haven't the police been working on the case?"

"Technically, there hasn't been a crime committed, so I don't think they are devoting too much energy to identifying the victim. Besides, they have many cases going on at the same time. You will have only one. Are you interested?"

Ben was about to say something about how busy he was, but there was nothing about this woman that suggested she'd believe him in anything but the truth.

"How long do I have?" he asked instead.

"We can afford your plane fare — coach — and eight days at one hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. Make that reasonable expenses."

Ben tried to keep his black humor in check. Katherine de Souci had been paying him a hundred and fifty an hour.

"I understand why you're having trouble getting someone," he managed. "I would think that anyone who would work for that little wouldn't be someone you'd want."

"You are someone I want," Gustafson said. "You have the honesty to tell me you don't care for our cause and the intellect to have succeeded, at least by my standards, as a teacher."

"What if I need more time?"

"I doubt the Organ Guard committee on enforcement would authorize any further expenditure on you."

"Who's the committee on enforcement?" Ben asked.

Alice Gustafson grinned modestly.

"That would be me."