Victims

CHAPTER
35

A coroner’s investigator named Rubenfeld took possession of the jar.

“Never seen that before,” he said. “Always a first time.”

Milo said, “Any way to tell how long they’ve been in there?”

Rubenfeld squinted. “If the fluid was real old I’d expect more discoloration, but can’t really say.” He bobbled the jar gently. “The severed ends are a little faded out-that’s small blood vessels you’re seeing, look like feathers… the eyes themselves seem a little rubbery, no? That could mean they’ve been preserved for a while, could be lab specimens.”

“They’re specimens all right,” said Milo, “but not from a lab.”

Rubenfeld licked his lips. “Giving time estimates of body parts really isn’t my pay grade, Lieutenant. Maybe Dr. Jernigan will be able to tell you.” He glanced back at the chair. “One thing you can be pretty sure of. That blue in the irises, your victim’s probably Caucasian.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Milo. Well before the crime scene crew arrived, he’d obtained a readout of Dr. Louis Wainright’s last recorded California driver’s license. Blue eyes, no need for corrective lenses.

Rubenfeld swung the carrier gently. “Least I don’t need a gurney.”

Milo got the cleaning schedule from Donna Nourzadeh. The suites were tended to weekly by a crew of five, but this week there’d been a delay and no office had been touched for three nights.

“Scheduling issues,” she said. “Now, if you don’t need me…”

Milo let her go, turned to me. “Sometime during the last seventy-two hours, the bastard planted the jar.”

I thought: He’d displayed the eyes, expecting to be discovered. Left the question mark behind to confirm his connection to the murders.

Boasting. Unworried; because he was on to a new phase?

Whatever his intentions, the man who called himself Shacker had cleaned up with care, vacuuming the rugs so thoroughly that the crime scene techs pulled up only a few crumbs. Hard surfaces had been wiped free of prints, including in places where you’d expect to find them.

The crime scene crew began to lose energy as it went through the final motions.

Then one of the techs said, “Hey!” and brandished a tape she’d pulled off the glass fronting one of the diplomas.

Shacker’s date-altered psychology license, positioned to the left of the papered-over diploma, Photoshopped on good-quality paper. Even up close, the forgery was convincing.

The tech held the tape up to the light. Nice clear pattern of ridges and swirls lifted from the upper right-hand corner of the pane.

“Looks like a thumb and a finger,” said the tech. “Like someone leaned on it.”

I pointed to the page with the question mark. “Maybe to catch his balance while gluing that.”

“Or it’s just from the cleaning crew,” said Milo.

“Aw c’mon, Lieutenant,” the tech said. “Think positive.”

“Okay,” he said. “How’s this: I’ve got a pension plan, might live long enough to use some of it.”

The AFIS match to the latent came back at seven thirteen p.m. Hand-delivered by Sean Binchy to Milo as he presided over a tableful of food at Cafe Moghul. Petra, Moe Reed, Raul Biro, and I sat around the table. Everyone was hungry in a frustrated, miserably compulsive way, putting away lamb and rice and lentils and vegetables without tasting much.

Milo read the report, bared his teeth, passed it on.

James Pittson Harrie, male Caucasian, forty-six, had been fingerprinted upon joining the staff of Ventura State Hospital a little over twenty-five years ago.

Harrie’s five-year-old DMV shot featured the smiling visage of the elfin-faced, rosy-cheeked man I’d met. Slightly longer hair made for a less artful comb-over. Five six, one forty.

One of the few who didn’t bother to fib about his stats. Honor among fiends?

Harrie’s listed address was a P.O.B. in Oxnard.

Sean said, “Already checked and it’s a parcel shipping outlet in a strip mall. They’re still in business but they haven’t had boxes for five years, well before Harrie used it. I’m thinking he lived in or around that general area, lied to stay off the grid.”

I said, “Oxnard’s one town north of Camarillo and one below Ventura, where he also lied about living as Loyal Steward.”

Biro said, “Everything’s revolving around the beach towns. Returning to roost?”

I nodded.

Sean said, “His last registered ride is a fifteen-year-old blue Acura but he hasn’t paid his regs for years, got his license suspended. Want me to put a BOLO on the tags anyway?”

“You bet,” said Milo. “Good work, kid. Wanna join us for some grub?”

“Thanks but I’d rather be working.” Binchy blushed. “Not that you guys aren’t working.”

Milo said, “Go be productive, Sean,” and Binchy hurried out of the restaurant.

Petra studied James Pittson Harrie’s photo. “Aka Pitty. Finally we have a face and a name. Don’t imagine driving illegally weighs on someone like that, but if he was stupid enough to hold on to his old wheels and keep expired tags on, that BOLO could be exactly what we need.”

Milo cracked his knuckles. “Where the hell are the two of them crashing?”

“Like Raul said, the beach towns keep popping up, but that wouldn’t stop them from drifting down here to do their dirty work and sticking around for a while.”

I said, “If Harrie moved to Atascadero after Huggler got transferred there, maybe he listed a forwarding when he left.”

A call to the hospital was fruitless, two records clerks and a supervisor claiming old personnel records couldn’t be accessed until business hours began the following morning.

“Even with that, don’t get your hopes up,” said the supervisor. “We’ve got major storage issues, don’t hold on to everything.”

A second intrusion into Maria Thomas’s domestic life resulted in a call from Atascadero’s deputy director of Human Resources who’d somehow managed to pull Harrie’s employment application during non-business hours.

Milo got the restaurant’s fax number from the woman in the sari and told him to send everything he had. He asked a few more questions, scrawled unreadable notes, thanked the man and hung up and began reciting.

On his Atascadero application, James Pittson Harrie had claimed a B.A. in psychology from the University of Oregon in Eugene. For one year after graduation, he’d worked as a veterinary technician at a local animal hospital, then moved to Camarillo where he applied to be a psychiatry tech at V-State.

“From four legs to two legs,” said Petra. “Maybe Harrie’s the one who likes dogs, that’s why they take them.”

Reed said, “The question is likes them for what?”

“Ugh.”

Milo read on. “He didn’t receive a tech job but they did hire him as a janitor. Looks like he did that for thirteen, fourteen months, got promoted to custodial officer, level one. Custodial as in guard, not as in sweeping up… that seems to be as high as he got there, but then he moved to Atascadero as part of a compensation program: Staffers who’d lost their jobs at V-State were given priority at other state facilities. And Atascadero granted his wish, he came on as a psychiatric technician, level one. The HR guy insisted they have no records of which specific wards he worked but he must’ve performed okay because he got promoted to level three and left voluntarily a little over five years ago. Which happens to be shortly before Grant Huggler was discharged. And guess who stayed on? Dr. Louis Wainright. Guy had a half-time consultancy with Atascadero, doing outpatient surgical procedures. Received the same transfer courtesy.”

I said, “How long after Harrie resigned was Huggler arrested behind Wainright’s office?”

Milo squinted to decipher his own shorthand. “Looks like… three days. Guess they got right to work.”

Reed said, “Anyone want to lay odds on who bailed Huggler out?”

Petra said, “That leaves four years until they did Vita. Way too long for there to be no one else.”

Reed said, “Maybe another doctor was involved in Huggler’s surgery. An anesthesiologist or a nurse?”

I said, “Bodies never showed up because at that point Huggler and Harrie were still concealing their handiwork. I’d concentrate on disappearances between Morro Bay and Camarillo, anyone with a health-care job.”

Milo said, “Wainright gave up whatever private practice he had in Camarillo to keep working for the state. Unbeknownst to him, he made Harrie and Huggler’s job easy.”

“But Harrie and Huggler still waited until Huggler got out to do him,” said Petra. “Fifteen years of waiting?”

I said, “The key, at that point, was for Huggler to be directly involved. Think of it as therapy.”

Biro toyed with his food. “Wonder if those eyes are Wainright’s.”

Petra said, “Anyone here want to volunteer approaching Wainright’s family and explaining why we want their DNA?”

“Even worse,” said Reed, “we do it and the eyes turn out not to be Wainright’s.”

Milo said, “Enough banter, kiddies. Still hungry, Raul?”

Biro looked at his plate. “Nah, I’m finished.”

“Then how about starting with the calls, from Morro south, anyone with a medical background disappearing between Wainright’s final hike and Vita Berlin’s murder.”

“You bet.” He walked to a corner of the restaurant.

The woman in the sari came over with a silver tray. “Faxes for you, Lieutenant.”

“Nothing like dessert.” Milo scanned the material, handed it to Petra, who did the same and passed it on.

James Pittson Harrie’s Atascadero personnel photo portrayed a young man with long, thick, straight hair draping his brow from hairline to eye-ridge. Much of the remaining facial space was taken up by a dense beard.

Hippie in a uniform.

Grant Huggler’s patient I.D. showed him with even longer hair and a patchy beard long enough to conceal his top shirt button.

Moe Reed said, “Wainright was last seen in the mountains and these two look like mountain men. Maybe they camped up there, were ready for him.”

Milo compared the photo with Harrie’s driver’s license. “He cleaned up well enough to fake being a B.H. shrink, got himself insurance gigs. But he had to be doing well before he rented that office because he anted up twenty-four G in cash. So maybe he practiced somewhere else. Or had another scam going.”

I said, “Or he collects monthly pension checks. As a state employee for over two decades, he’d have a generous payout, maybe a bonus for leaving early. And Huggler would qualify for all sorts of welfare. If the two of them have lived prudently, they could’ve saved up plenty. And if they are living off the state, the checks get mailed somewhere.”

Milo tried Maria Thomas again, sat there for a while, tapping his fingers on the table. “Dammit, answer.”

Unanswered prayer; he tried another number. Same result.

Petra said, “Who was your second choice?”

“His Voluminousness.”

“You have his personal line?”

“I’ve got a line he sometimes answers.” A 411 got him the pension board’s main office in Sacramento. Closed until working hours tomorrow morning.

He cursed, shoveled food.

Biro returned to the table. “Got an interesting hit in Camarillo, woman named Joanne Morton, eighteen months ago. Went hiking in the foothills, not that far from where V-State used to be and hasn’t been seen since. It was initially worked as a low-priority MP then they started considering suicide because Morton had a history of depression and her third divorce had really knocked her low. It was the ex who reported her missing but he didn’t stay a suspect for long. Lives in Reno and could account for his whereabouts.”

“Why’d he call?” said Petra.

“Concerned about her. They broke up but it was friendly. He told them Joanne had ‘issues,’ he was worried she might hurt herself. And yes, she was a surgical nurse, freelanced around town.”

Reed said, “If I helped Wainright mutilate kids I might have issues.”

Milo said, “Was she hiking with a dog?”

“If she was,” said Biro, “it’s not in the report.”

Petra said, “A pet’s not a prereq for getting carved up, it’s just a perk for the bad guys. Eighteen months ago. They are going down a list.”

“Eighteen months ago,” said Reed, “leaves plenty of time for someone between Wainright and Morton, or after her and before Berlin.”

I said, “Or they started off gradually, picked up the pace. Because it’s no longer just about revenge.”

“What’s it about?” said Milo.

“Recreation.”

No one spoke for several seconds.

Milo said, “Moe, you and Sean and whoever else you can get who’s competent, do a total and comprehensive recanvass of all the murder neighborhoods using the drawing of Huggler and Harrie’s DMV photo. Petra, how about you and Raul try to find the clinic where the tipster claimed Huggler got his thyroid meds. That doesn’t work out, go back to North Hollywood Day and lean on Mick Ostrovine to produce medical records for Grant Huggler. We know he was there and I’m not buying Ostrovine’s hear-no-evil. I’ll contact the pension board first thing tomorrow, find out if checks are being mailed to one or both of our creep-os. If I get an address, we reconvene and map out an assault, probably with SWAT. I’ll also talk to Jernigan, see if those eyeballs can be DNA’d and if they can, I’ll approach Wainright’s family.”

He snatched up his phone, called in a DMV on Wainright’s nurse, Joanne Morton. “Brown eyes, so they’re not hers. Any questions?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood, brushed off his trousers, threw money on the table.

When the others reached into their wallets, he said, “Not a chance.”

Reed said, “You’re always footing the bill, El Tee.”

“Pay me back with good deeds.”