That was good.
40
SATURDAY NIGHT THE HEAT BROKE, GIVING WAY to one of those glorious Lowcountry Sunday mornings. By ten, Pete and I were at the gazebo, flip-flops kicked, working through every newspaper I’d managed to score at the island Red and White.
I was perusing the Charlotte Observer sports section, when a slow-moving shadow crossed the page. I glanced up. A V of pelicans was wind-slipping overhead.
After pouring a refill from the coffee thermos, I put my feet on the railing and surveyed my surroundings. Beyond the dunes the tide was receding, yielding additional beach footage with each low, lazy swell. To the southwest, Lilliputian kites danced the sky over Sullivan’s Island. In the shrubs beside the boardwalk, birds twittered in intense midmorning dialogue.
On the way home from MUSC the previous afternoon, Pete had announced that one of his law partners was coming Monday to drive him to Charlotte. Buck Flynn and his pals had retained accountants to continue probing Aubrey Herron’s books. Based on what he’d seen prior to having his lung rearranged, Pete doubted GMC was doing a soft shoe with donor bucks.
I didn’t argue with Pete’s plan. The Latvian Savant was healing well. I knew he was anxious to get back to his clients.
I’d spoken with Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County medical examiner, and with Pierre LaManche, the chief of medico-legal in Montreal. A skull and a pair of mummified infants had come into the Charlotte facility. Two partial skeletons had arrived at the LSJML. Both pathologists had assured me the cases could wait, allowing me to remain in Charleston for Emma.
And for one final task.
I was opening the Atlanta Journal-Constitution when I felt more than heard footsteps rumble the boardwalk. Turning, I saw Gullet striding our way. He wore Ray-Bans, khakis, and a denim shirt without an embroidered name. I assumed the ensemble was the sheriff’s idea of civvies.
“Mornin’.” Gullet nodded at Pete, then me.
Pete and I said, “Mornin’.”
Gullet settled onto the gazebo bench. “Glad to see you’re improving, sir.”
“I am. Coffee?” Pete tapped the thermos.
“Thank you, no.” Planting his feet, Gullet leaned forward and rested one beefy forearm on each beefy thigh. “Had a nice little chat with Dickie Dupree. Seems Dickie has an employee who’s long on ambition and short on brainpower. George Lanyard.” Gullet tipped his head at me. “Dickie read his copy of the report you’d sent to the state archaeologist and went ballistic. Lanyard misread his boss’s remarks about wanting your hide. I’m paraphrasing there.”
“Lanyard thought Dupree was suggesting that someone should shoot me?” I couldn’t keep the disgust from my voice.
“Not shoot you. Harass you. Lanyard’s admitted to pegging the beer bottle at the Dumpster and firing at the house. Says he never intended to hurt anyone.” Gullet turned the Ray-Bans on Pete. “You stepped into the kitchen at the wrong time.”
“Dickie wasn’t personally involved?” I asked.
“Dupree got madder than hoppin’ hell when Lanyard came clean about what he’d done. Thought I was going to have another homicide right there on the site.” Gullet took in a long breath and let it out. “I believe him. Dupree may step outside the bounds of decorum now and again, but the man’s no criminal.”
“What’s happening with Marshall?” Pete asked, showing no interest in Lanyard.
“DA cut a deal. Marshall provides the name and location of every one of his victims, the state agrees not to stick a needle in his arm.”
I snorted derisively. “The state should at least insist on taking one lung and one kidney.”
“I’ll pass that along.” Did Gullet almost smile? “I expect the suggestion will be well received, but doubt it will be acted upon.”
“He’s talking?” Pete asked.
“Like a teen with a cell phone.”
I already knew. Gullet had called following Marshall’s disclosure to the DA Saturday morning. I felt the familiar blend of sadness and anger when I thought of the carnage.
Marshall’s first victim was a prostitute named Cookie Godine, murdered in the summer of 2001. Willie Helms was killed that September. Both bodies were buried on Dewees Island. Missing their kidneys and livers.
Marshall knew Corey Daniels’s history, and hired him in part for that reason, shortly before the first murder. From the beginning, Marshall planned to plant some trail signs to divert suspicion toward Daniels, just in case the clinic was ever implicated. But digging graves was strenuous physical labor and not to the doctor’s liking. When the Godine and Helms disappearances passed unnoticed, Marshall became bolder and switched his MO from burial in a shallow grave to burial at sea.
Rosemarie Moon and Ethridge Parker were killed in 2002, Ruby Anne Watley in 2003, Daniel Snype and Lonnie Aikman in 2004. The final victims were Unique Montague and Jimmie Ray Teal. Barring a fluke such as the storm that brought Montague’s barrel up the Moultrie brothers’ creek, recovery of additional remains was highly unlikely.
Though it gave me no satisfaction, I’d been right about Helene Flynn and Noble Cruikshank. Flynn started working at the GMC clinic in 2003. What triggered her distrust of Marshall was suspicion over finances. Not understanding how minimally GMC funded the clinic, Helene became irate over what she perceived as a major disconnect between conditions on Nassau and Marshall’s lifestyle. In order to confirm her misgivings, she began snooping into the doctor’s private life. Though unable to secure proof of financial wrongdoing, she complained to her father and to Herron.
Marshall found out Helene was observing him. Fearing she’d eventually stumble onto the truth, Marshall strangled her, dumped the body in the ocean, sent the key and rent money to her landlady, and fabricated the California story. Ironically, Helene never learned of the murders or of Marshall’s organ theft activities.
Cruikshank also had to go, but he was a PI, a former cop, and his client was Buck Flynn. He might be missed, so a more elaborate plan was needed. After researching Cruikshank’s past, Marshall settled on suicide, but the mechanics of it had the potential to be difficult.
“I’m curious,” I said. “Cruikshank wasn’t big, but he was tough. How did Marshall manage to take him out?”
“Marshall tracked Cruikshank to Magnolia Manor and began trailing him when Cruikshank went out in the evenings. He discovered that Cruikshank liked to drink, and that Little Luna’s was one of his haunts.
“One night Marshall was in Little Luna’s and noted that Cruikshank was particularly sloshed. Marshall went to a pay phone near the door and dialed the bar. When the bartender answered, Marshall described Cruikshank’s appearance and asked if he was there.
“The bartender got Cruikshank to the phone. Marshall identified himself as Daniels, and said he had important information on Helene Flynn and the clinic. He agreed to meet Cruikshank at Magnolia Manor.”
“And Cruikshank was in such a hurry to get to the meeting place that he grabbed the wrong jacket on his way out.”
“Exactly. He had his car keys in his pants pocket so he didn’t notice the switch. Cruikshank was driving so erratically Marshall feared he’d be pulled over before he got home. No such luck for Cruikshank.
“Cruikshank had difficulty parking, which gave Marshall time to scope out the scene as he walked toward his victim. Marshall had taken to carrying his garrote on his surveillance outings, just in case an opportunity presented itself.
“Cruikshank was fumbling trying to lock his car. Marshall saw no one around, and the street was dark. He stepped up behind Cruikshank and had the loop over his head before Cruikshank sensed danger.”
“How did he get the body to the national forest?”
“As soon as he’d strangled Cruikshank, Marshall draped one of Cruikshank’s arms around his neck and slid his own arm around Cruikshank’s waist. If anyone saw them, it would look like someone was hauling a drunken companion home. Marshall managed to maneuver the body into the front passenger seat of his o
wn car and drove off. When he passed an unlit church parking lot, he pulled in and transferred the body to the trunk.
“Then he went home, collected two lengths of rope, and drove into the Francis Marion. Parking at the same spot where we all gathered on the day of the body recovery, Marshall took Cruikshank from the trunk and dragged him travois style into the woods. At the tree, he looped one rope under Cruikshank’s armpits, threw the other end over the limb, and hoisted until Cruikshank’s feet just cleared the ground. He’d dragged the body on a collapsible stepladder, which he then used to affix a second rope around Cruikshank’s neck and tie it to the limb. Then he cut away the torso rope, collected his ladder, and left.”
“And Cruikshank’s car?”
“Marshall got the keys after he strangled Cruikshank. It must have given him a start when he found a wallet with another name, but he eventually decided he had the right man but the wrong jacket. That probably struck him as a piece of good fortune. The day after he strung Cruikshank up, he drove the car to the airport long-term parking lot. Used a briefcase to hide the license plate and decals that he removed. Then he took a cab from the airport back into the city. About a month later, the police removed the car to an abandoned car lot. By that time, Marshall must have been feeling downright invincible.”
“How did Friday night play out?” Pete asked.
“Marshall cut to the ocean using the public access lane yonder, intending to approach your house from the beach.” Gullet indicated a pathway several lots down. “Imagine his delight at seeing Doc Brennan parked right there on the sand.”
Unconsciously, my hand went to my throat. “Why was Daniels following Marshall?” I asked, fingers tracing the welt Pete had dubbed my “organic necklace.”
“Daniels’s experiences with law enforcement have been less than optimal. Distrustful of cops, and worried that Marshall was working to set him up, Daniels decided to collect proof of his own. He intended to dog Marshall until he found hard evidence the guy was dirty.”
“Why didn’t Daniels use his own car?”
“Figured Marshall might spot it. Miss Honey keeps a vehicle on the mainland, so Daniels took auntie’s and left his own at the marina.”
“And prior to Marshall’s arrest and his own interrogation, Daniels never suspected a thing?” I still found that incredible.
“I told you. RN or not, the guy’s got the IQ of okra.”
“Why was he so hostile at his interview?”
Gullet shrugged. “Hates cops.”
“What about Herron and his cronies at God’s Mercy Church?”
Gullet shook his head. “Long as he stayed on budget, Marshall had total autonomy running the clinic. Appears the GMC folks hadn’t a clue what their physician was up to.”
“Any word on Shorter?” I’d already learned that the Cessna was gone when Tybee arrived at the airfield Friday night.
“Lubbock PD bagged him at ten forty P.M. yesterday. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”
“Shorter flew to Texas?” I asked.
“He’s got an ex living in Lubbock.”
“Is he cooperating?” Pete asked.
Gullet did a “so-so” hand waggle. “Shorter claims he operates a legal shuttle and charter service. Admits to making deliveries for Marshall, but denies knowledge of the cargo. Way it worked, Marshall called one or two days in advance, then brought a cooler to the airfield at a prearranged time. Shorter flew to Mexico, landed in the desert outside Puerto Vallarta, and handed the cooler over to a Mexican named Jorge. Marshall paid ten thousand dollars cash per trip. Shorter says he didn’t ask questions.”
“Why the quick bolt on Thursday?”
“Shorter says Marshall’s arrest spooked him, given his past legal problems.”
We were quiet for a moment, considering that. I spoke first.
“Given Shorter’s history, the most likely scenario has him running organs from Charleston to Mexico, and drugs from Mexico into the States.”
“Lubbock’s on the same page, so they contacted the feds. DEA’s tossing the plane. Shorter so much as waved a joint over a wingtip, they’ll nail him. Besides, his story won’t hold up. There’s evidence that the tail of the plane has been painted over several times, probably to put on phony registration numbers for the illegal flights. And the Mexican authorities don’t have him logging in to enter Mexican airspace.”
“Has Marshall described how the scheme worked on the other end?” Pete asked.
“Marshall would phone Rodriguez when he found a clinic patient who was a match for one of Rodriguez’s recipients. The victim was always homeless, or someone whose disappearance wouldn’t be noticed.
“On the Mexico end, Rodriguez would place his call, and the recipient would hop a flight to Puerto Vallarta. On the Charleston end, Marshall would make his hit, and Shorter would overnight express the organ south.”
“How did Marshall hook up with Shorter?” Pete asked.
“Shorter lives in the same complex as Daniels. The two popped an occasional beer, swapped stories. Daniels shared some of Shorter’s history with Marshall, or maybe Marshall overheard Daniels talking about a pilot with a record. In either case, Shorter sounded like a good candidate for the new enterprise. Marshall researched the guy, dropped bait, Shorter bit.”
“Daniels never learned that his neighbor was muling for his boss?”
“Hadn’t a clue.”
“How much do you think Shorter really knew?” I asked.
“Marshall’s version pretty much confirms Shorter’s claim that he was simply a courier. Says Shorter never asked about the contents of the coolers.”
“Right,” I said. “The honorable pilot never suspected he was running contraband.”
Gullet shrugged. “Ten thousand smackers buys a lot of disinterest.”
“What about Rodriguez? Was he in the loop on how Marshall was obtaining the organs?”
“Big-time. According to Marshall, the two were hatching plans as early as ninety-five.”
“Rodriguez and Marshall graduated med school in eighty-one. How did they reconnect?”
“The two kept in touch. Knowing his old classmate had also become persona non grata in the medical profession, after his release from jail in ninety-one, Marshall called the only other crooked doctor he knew, then headed to Mexico. Rodriguez had been working at the Puerto Vallarta spa for a couple of years by then, and running a small private practice on the side. One thing led to another, and the two cooked up what they thought would be a low-risk money machine. They’d limit themselves to a handful of supplementary donors per year, score one or two hundred thousand per organ, lay low the rest of the time.
“The only question was where would Marshall work his end of the venture? Within months, GMC posted an opening for its Charleston clinic, and, given the salary, the organization wasn’t too fussy about applicant credentials. Marshall managed to produce some forged documents and got a medical license in South Carolina. Rodriguez began buying used surgical equipment south of the border. Within a few years, they were ready to roll.”
“Has Rodriguez been located?” I asked.
“Not yet. But the federales will get him.”
“And charge him with what?”
“The Mexican authorities are putting considerable thought into that.”
“Rodriguez will deny knowledge of the murders, claim he was assured the organs were legally obtained.”
“Marshall is saying Rodriguez masterminded the whole scheme. Also claims he wasn’t Rodriguez’s only supplier.”
“Marshall pled guilty to eleven counts of murder,” I said. “How do we know there weren’t more victims?”
Gullet leveled the Ray-Bans at me. “My gut tells me there were. Marshall’s probably giving us the MPs we know about, and tossing in Godine for credibility.”
A couple of details still bothered me.
“Lester Marshall is a painstakingly meticulous man. How could he have been so careless with those shells?”
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“I suspect he’s going to ponder that question frequently in the coming years.” This time Gullet actually did grin. “Marshall says he bought a bag of shells the day he murdered Willie Helms. Was hoping to find something good among the assortment. Best as he can figure, one shell found its way into a cuff or pocket, maybe at the market, maybe while walking back to the clinic. That one ended up with Helms. He remembers viewing the shells under a scope, then leaving them in his desk drawer for a short time. He thinks the packaging must have been torn.”
“So one shell drops from Marshall’s clothing onto Helms’s body. Another rolls into a desk hollow. Marshall doesn’t notice either.”
Gullet nodded. “Marshall was more shocked than anyone that those little buggers turned up. Had to do some fast thinking to weave shell planting into his Corey Daniels setup scenario.”
“Foiled by a mollusk,” Pete said.
“Who dialed Cruikshank from Marshall’s office?” I queried detail number two.
“O’Dell Towery.”
“The cleaning man?”
Gullet nodded. “Towery’s slow, but he remembers because it was outside his ordinary routine. Says Marshall instructed him to use his office phone at a specified time. Said he was expecting a message and wouldn’t be able to make the call himself at that time. Told Towery that if no one answered, he should just hang up and give the slip with the number back to Marshall the next day. Marshall had an alibi elsewhere for that time. If problems arose, the call would at least muddy the picture, at best throw suspicion on Daniels.”
Silence.
Gullet’s eyes dropped to his hands. “I understand Miz Rousseau’s pretty sick.”
“She is,” I said. My mind wandered.
Emma had been running a fever when I’d visited on Thursday. That night, her temperature shot to 102, and the sweats, headache, and nausea became violent.
Suspecting infection, Russell had hospitalized Emma on Friday. I’d called Sarah Purvis on Saturday morning. Though just home from Italy, Sarah had immediately set out for Charleston.