Authors: Hilary Norman
“You make it sound so simple, Detective.”
“That part of it does seem simple to me.” Lipman was terse. “Aside from anything else, the FDA are bound to force a recall.”
“Detective Lipman, the Food and Drug Administration will know that it’s too soon to quantify the real risk. Those two hundred or so suspect devices could, God forbid, be just the
beginning.” Hagen’s colour was heightening. “If we wanted to play it one hundred per cent safe, we’d be talking about recalling and checking
thousands
of
pacemakers.” He turned to Joe. “Do you begin to understand what might happen, Lieutenant?”
“I think I can imagine,” Joe said.
“I suppose you imagine a warning going out to hospitals and physicians and cardiologists – maybe you go further, and picture the panic and chaos if the press and TV networks get hold
of the story.”
“Naturally we do,” Lipman said.
Hagen turned his attention to her. “Suppose you had a pacemaker fitted, Detective, and you got wind of the news. What would you
do?”
“I’d run like hell straight back to my doctor.”
“And what would you want him to do?”
“Tell me that my pacemaker was safe.”
“And if he couldn’t be sure?” Hagen paused. “You’d ask him to take it out and put in one guaranteed not to blow up.”
“I guess so,” Lipman agreed.
“Can you imagine what removing a potentially explosive device from a living, breathing human being would entail?” Hagen was white-faced again now. “If you were a surgeon, would
you care for the risk? If you were on the board of governors of a hospital, would you give permission for your operating theatres to be used?”
Lipman did not answer. She, too, had grown paler.
“I could go on.”
“We get the picture,” Joe said.
“This isn’t like the Anacin scare, Lieutenant Duval. You can’t just tell people not to swallow their pills. That’s why we’ve been praying that Fred Schwartz would
at least be able to focus in more tightly. If we could pinpoint two batches that we
knew
for certain to be faulty – and I have to tell you that still seems almost an impossibility to
all of us in the company – then at least the nightmare scenario of operating theatres on red alert could be kept to a minimum.”
They all sat in silence for a long moment.
“What’s Mr Schwartz doing now?” Joe asked finally.
“Obviously, he’s begun testing the undelivered devices from the batches we’ve discussed, and then he’s going to start examining and testing every single master copy set
aside from every batch produced in the last six months.” Hagen paused. “I have to tell you that Schwartz still believes there’s no way this can have happened in this
facility.”
“What do you believe, Mr Hagen?” Lipman asked.
“I don’t know what to believe right now.” Hagen paused again. “Since you and Lieutenant Duval are from the Violent Crimes Division, it’s pretty clear you’re
looking for a more sinister cause than an accident.”
“Since Mr Leary and Mr Schwartz have both made it plain that nothing normally in your pacemakers could explode on its own,” Joe said steadily, “criminal intent does have to be
a consideration.”
Hagen flushed again. “Have you any idea how unthinkable that seems to me?”
“I think we have, sir,” Lipman gave Hagen one of her deceptively tender smiles. When she was being herself, Linda liked wearing vivid pink, sometimes even scarlet lipsticks, but
today she was all face powder and muted colours.
“We’re not just here to investigate, sir,” Joe said, gently. “We want to help you any way we can.”
“For which I’m grateful,” Hagen said. “As I told your commander.”
Joe stood up, and Lipman followed suit. “I guess we should get to work.” Joe took the horn-rimmed glasses from his top pocket. “We’re going to be watching and listening
and taking notes – have your people been told there’s a T & M study starting today?”
“Of course. The only people here who know the truth are Leary, Olivia Ashcroft, and Schwartz.” Hagen hesitated. “And I think it would be helpful to confide in my personal
assistant, Cynthia Alesso – she’s been with me from the beginning. I’d trust her with my life.”
Joe put on the glasses. “I’d be happier if you kept what you told her to the barest minimum.”
“I agree.”
Hagen came with them into his outer office and introduced them to his assistant. Cynthia Alesso was around fifty, with keen nut brown eyes
and dark curls strewn with silver. She reminded Joe of a blackbird, her movements sharp and swift, her voice high and musical. Hagen went back into his office and closed the door, and a moment
later, they heard the sound of classical music, loud and vibrant, piercing the walls.
“Wagner.” Cynthia Alesso smiled ruefully. “I’ve always hated Wagner, but the boss is crazy about it, says it relaxes him when he has problems to work out. The bigger the
problem, the louder the music.”
Joe Duval knew that his desire for a career in law enforcement stemmed, in good part, from the time after his best pal Tom Harris had been shot to death in a raid on a
drugstore while his mother was buying aspirin and shampoo. Joe and Tom had been the closest of confidants in the third grade, and after the tragedy Joe had been left bereft and confused, emotions
the local police force had seemed to fully comprehend and share as they had dealt with the nightmare rapidly, compassionately and effectively, nailing the two drug-crazed gunmen within two weeks.
The police officers had become heroes to most of the kids at school, but to none more than Joe Duval.
Apart from the terrible months after Tom’s death, Joe’s childhood had been pretty much a joy, yet from an early age he’d known he was not destined to stay in the Berkshires. He
and Lally shared the same colouring, the same dark brown hair and grey eyes, and they loved each other beyond words, but in some ways they were immeasurably different. Lally’s roots meant
everything to her, whereas the day Joe had left West Stockbridge to go to John Jay College in New York City, to study criminal justice and psychology, had been one of the most exciting of his life.
And it had all gone so beautifully, so exactly as he’d planned: first college, then the Police Academy, and his first years on the force with the NYPD. And then he’d fallen in love with
Jess and with sweet Sal, her daughter, and he’d relocated to Chicago so that they could be married. And nothing too much had really gone wrong with his adult life until his parents’
premature death, and then Jess’s miscarriage last year – and those sorrows had felled him, though looking back on them from a distance, in a bizarre kind of way he was almost grateful
to them for forcing him to fully understand the fragility and preciousness of love and family and the stuff that really mattered. Ambition, hard work and achievement had their places right enough,
but they weren’t what really mattered, not by a long chalk.
It was tough, sometimes almost impossible, being a good husband and father when you were a cop, but Joe was luckier than most, because though he knew Jess was as afraid as any policeman’s
wife, she never gave him a hard time about the dangerous situations he got involved in, seldom nagged him about the long hours he worked.
“I knew when I married you,” she said simply.
“But don’t you hate it?”
“How can I, when it’s so much a part of you?”
He was a lucky man in so many ways. Soon after his promotion to sergeant, he’d been accepted by the FBI for a ten-month training programme with the Behavioral Science Unit within the NCAVC
– the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime – and hard on the heels of Joe’s new-won experience in criminal personality profiling had come his first major case. The
arsonist who had terrorized Chicago for almost four months – self-styled
The Inhuman Torch
in letters sent, at first, to the
Chicago Tribune
, and as the investigation got
under way, to Joe Duval himself – had liked burning people more than property, and had liked knowing they had burnt alive and conscious; and the fact that he never knew his victims seemed
only to increase, not lessen his satisfaction. Effective teamwork, routine detection, BSU profiling techniques and good luck had led to the
Torch
’s arrest, but not before the killer
had set a fire that he boasted would burn at least a hundred victims. Joe had interrogated him every way he knew, not all of them orthodox, and the fire, in a children’s hospital, had been
stopped just in time. He had been promoted to lieutenant within three months.
Everything changed less than one hour after Joe and Lipman’s arrival at Hagen Pacing, when Cynthia Alesso asked Joe to return to Hagen’s office to take a call from
the commander.
Jackson was curt and to the point. “Someone in the ME’s office found traces of plastique explosive in Mrs Ferguson’s
remains.”
“I thought that had been ruled out,” Joe said, picking his words carefully with Hagen there in the room at his desk.
“Yeah, I thought so too,” the commander said. “Is Hagen still there?”
“Yes.”
“He knows.”
Joe looked at Hagen. He seemed dazed.
“Do you want us to come back, Commander?”
“No point wasting time.” Jackson’s voice was grim. “I’ve talked to Boston, and Chief Hankin’s informed the FBI and FDA. Under the circumstances, given our
jurisdiction, they’re letting us put together our own task force, including Bomb and Arson, and the FBI will give us access to computers, transport, whatever we need.”
“Who’s going to head the task force?” Joe asked.
“You are.”
Joe said nothing. A swift stab of excitement gripped him, followed by a wave of guilt. It was often that way for him, getting caught up in a homicide investigation. All the right motivations,
sure, but then that nasty little worm of conscience reminding him that a job done well could further his career, the way all those poor burned people had brought him his promotion.
“You got
The Inhuman Torch
” – Jackson was a mind reader – ”and more to the point, you trained in their Behavioral Science programme, so the FBI’s
behind us on this, for the moment at least. It’s all yours, Duval.”
“Thank you, sir.” Joe pushed the guilt aside and started focusing hard on the case.
“It’ll be around the clock,” Jackson went on, “and you can’t talk about this one to anyone, not even your wife.”
“I realize that, sir.” Joe hated keeping stuff from Jess – they were the kind of couple who liked to share.
Hagen got up from his desk and went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Hagen just left,” Joe said. “He looks pretty shell-shocked.”
“Tell the others – Leary, Ashcroft and Schwartz – see how they react – and make damn sure they know it’s for their ears only.”
“It could be any one of them,” Joe said.
“It could be anyone in the whole goddamned place.” Jackson paused. “Hagen says Schwartz is going to test samples from the last six months’ output. Think he’s up to
it, or do we bring someone in?”
“I think it might be a mistake replacing him at this stage,” Joe said. “He knows better than anyone exactly what goes into these things.” He remembered the man’s
haunted expression, remembered that he’d liked him on first impression, then put the thought away. “He’ll have to be supervised every working moment.”
“And he has to work in a secure testing area, away from the rest of the work-force,” Jackson said. “Who do you want on the task force?”
“Lipman, for sure. And Tony Valdez from Bomb and Arson,” Joe said without hesitation. “He’s the man to stick with Schwartz and the production line.” He paused.
“And Cohen.”
“Cohen has a pacemaker.” Involuntarily, the commander laid his right hand on his own chest. Aside from Chief Hankin, he thought no one in the department knew about his trouble.
“He’s had it for ten years,” Joe said. “It’ll make him extra sensitive.”
Jackson winced. “He may not think it’s such a hot idea.”
“I think he’ll want to help,” Joe said. He and Sol Cohen went back a long way.
“I’ll talk to them both, and get back to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just find out how the hell this happened, Duval, and get the bastard who did it.” Jackson’s voice grew more resonant. “And for the love of God, find out if those two
were the only ones.”
“We’ll do our best, Commander.”
“Not good enough, Lieutenant.”
Joe looked at the dead receiver, and put it slowly back on the hook. The commander wanted results, Chief Hankin demanded results, and if Joe didn’t give them what they needed – and
soon – if this horror was allowed to get out of hand, the whole country would be after his blood.
Joe knew he had the case of a lifetime. He had never wanted one less.
Hugo came to collect Lally from the hospital at three in the afternoon.
“Are you sure you’re ready to leave?” he asked her.
“I’ve been ready to leave since yesterday morning.”
“But Dr Ash wanted you to stay till tomorrow.”
“And then he changed his mind.”
“Because you drove him nuts.”
“He wouldn’t be letting me out if he thought I wasn’t ready.”
“Depends how nuts you drove him.”
“You make me sound terrible.”
“You are.”
“Hugo.”
“What?”
“Take me home.”
She knew he was still frightened for her, and in a way she was grateful for that fear because it strengthened her, gave her someone else other than herself to think about. That
had probably been the worst part of the last few days, the sudden awareness of her own body, the constant battle with her mind not to count every heartbeat. Hugo had said, in one of his braver
moments, that she looked fine, a little on the pale and interesting side, but nothing that a few home-cooked meals and a lot more sleep wouldn’t set right. Lally still felt pretty sore,
though that did seem to be getting better with almost every passing hour, but apart from that, she found it hard to describe exactly what she felt.
“I feel emotionally weird,” she told Hugo on the drive home.