Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (21 page)

I woke up full of piss and vinegar, ready to get back to the fight. Darla was going to Chaminade to talk with the black doctor that afternoon. I had a list of loose ends to run down. Before I got started, though, I got a call from the jail. Whip wanted to see me as soon as possible.

As soon as I walked into the conference room, it was evident this was a better day. Whip skipped the hello part of our meeting before plunging into a profuse apology for his behavior the previous afternoon. He'd bottomed out. Overnight he shook off the blues and was once again thinking straight. He started firing off questions for Johnny, determined to help nail Hunter.

“We might lose track of Hunter.” Even with Emilie feeling what Hunter was doing, I worried he'd leave town.

“You mean, he could disappear?”

“Yes. Alex monitors his cell and e-mail. Hunter doesn't seem to be doing anything interesting.” I leaned against the table.

“I asked Jerry early on if the police ever looked at him. Talked with the cops from my case. They're off working on new stuff. No interest in Hunter.” Whip rubbed his chin. “If he moves on, we might never catch him. We can't let that happen.”

“I called Tony Ferraiolli. His guy's coming back to keep Hunter under surveillance.”

Whip agreed. Not that it mattered what he thought.

I needed someone on surveillance.

“Can Johnny find out where Hunter worked before?”

“Already have that. Alex traced him to Mount Sinai, New Jewish, and the Cleveland Clinic.”

“Terrific.”

“Yes, we're checking references.”

“How'd you get Hunter's résumé?”

“Alex hacked into his computer.” Under normal circumstances, I would have locked the kid in his room until he turned eighteen, but these were far from normal circumstances.

“Wanna bet Alex has everything we need on Hunter? We just don't know what's important yet.”

“Probably. He turns up more nuggets every day.”

“Can you contact the state medical boards where he worked? See if there're any complaints filed against him? Has he been sued for malpractice? Has anyone complained about unethical behavior? Like affairs with patients?” Whip's questions ricocheted all over the place.

“Malpractice, huh? Good idea. Alex's monitoring a Web site called ‘rottendoctor.’ He found several complaints about Hunter. We know Hunter killed Merry. Let's say Kiki's a person. He tried to remake Merry into her. He'd soon have realized she wasn't anyone but Merry.”

“Merry was a mistake that had to be destroyed.” Whip looked so sad my heart almost broke.

“Something like that. Johnny and I think he's killed before. We're looking for unsolved murders.”

“If there are similar crimes, think we can link ‘em?”

“If he used the same gun. If we can find it. Em's focused on Kiki. She's been working overtime. Posting questions on dozens of different sites. Getting lots of responses.”

“Good. Anything on Hunter's financial status? Where's his checking account? What's in his savings account? Maybe get a copy of his credit report.”

I didn't answer, but my mental hamster was running at full tilt. I knew what to do. If Alex didn't already have Hunter's financial records, he would soon. He loved real-life mysteries as much as he loved the Internet.

Whip looked alive. He'd beaten the bogeyman. He and I were once again a team functioning with a shared urgency. I wished I could get a computer into the jail so Whip could help more.

“Mad Max! MM! MM! Come here!”

I was meditating after a hard Pilates workout when Alex's cry shattered my quiet. I scrambled to my feet, called “coming,” and went down the hall to his room. It was its usual mess with the added attraction of piles of crumpled, discarded printouts. This attested to how involved my grandson was with his find-the-bastard-and-stop-him role.

“Look, MM. Look what I got!” Alex jabbed at the screen. “Look!”

An e-mail from NYU, Hunter's first medical school. The dean wrote that Randolph Andrew Hunter had been a student but left in his third year.

Randolph?

“I got one from Dracula's second med school too. He graduated but left and finished his internship and residency in Grenada.”

I was puzzled. Chaminade bragged Hunter was a graduate of these schools, so it seemed they hadn't verified his résumé. Shame on them.

“He lied on his résumé.” Alex was fixated on Dracula being a serial liar, maybe even a pathological one.

“Wonder why he left NYU early.” I wanted to know everything Hunter had done. Were we getting closer to an epiphany? My gut said “yes.”

“Some police departments have their blotters online, but this goes back too far.”

“Did you notice what name he used? Randolph? We had Randall.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex clicked through several screens and found letters from the second medical school: Andrew Hunter, no other name or initial.

I patted Alex's shoulder and withdrew to my room, proud he was plowing ahead in unraveling the persona of Randall-Randolph Andrew Hunter. I settled into an easy chair and picked up a book but didn't open it. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, put my mind into neutral, and let my thoughts go quiet.

I might have dozed. As you get older, mini-naps are refreshing. I awoke more hopeful because we had a better understanding of Hunter's past, which held the keys to his current and future actions. Had he been thrown out of medical school? Had he been charged with ethical violations? Just as I had a hunch we'd find missing persons in his past, I had an even stronger hunch we were closing in on the end of this nightmare.

Three days after Alex received the e-mails from the two medical schools, Emilie wandered out onto the patio where I wrote letters. I still wrote letters. Putting fountain pen to beautiful stationery and shaping my thoughts was one of my favorite pastimes. I liked writing in my journal too. I wasn't about to be a blog person. I capped the pen and set my portable desk aside.

Emilie stared at a printout. Then she handed it to me and wandered over to the patio railing. She spoke not a word.

I was alone with a piece of paper. I steadied myself and read:

Dear Emilie
,

I don't know why I am writing, but I might have some information to help with your search. I want you to know how difficult this is for me.

My dear friend Brenda came across your search for someone named Kiki.

I knew a Kiki almost two decades ago, Kiki Gustafson, a freshman at Columbia. She dated my son Randolph when he was a third-year med student at NYU. Kiki was a lovely young woman with a winning smile, a gentle personality and a quiet manner.

She was Randolph's opposite—he was outgoing, athletic and talkative. They dated for about a year, fell in love and got engaged. They were on the way to my apartment one evening to celebrate when a car ran a red light and hit their cab broadside. Kiki took the brunt of the blow, smashing her face into the back of the front seat.

Even though he was still a student, Randolph assisted with the emergency surgery. No one asked if he was a doctor. Kiki was dreadfully injured, and it was a busy night, so they welcomed an extra pair of hands. From what he told me, the surgery started normally. Kiki had broken so many bones in her face, but they were repairable. Unfortunately, she also had a bruised heart no one detected. She went into cardiac arrest and died on the operating table.

Afterward, Randolph withdrew from NYU, convinced he killed her. I lost him to depression for several years. I didn't know where he was until he sent me a letter from Grenada where he finished his residency. He was a plastic surgeon.

Eventually, Randolph moved to Pittsburgh and married. I went to the wedding, but we had a huge fight, and I haven't spoken to him in nearly a decade. Until Brenda found your post, I am ashamed to say I hadn't thought much about my son in years. I tried on and off to reach him in the beginning, but he didn't return my calls. When he got a new cell number, he refused to give it to me.

I don't know if our Kiki is the one you are looking for. I hope I've helped. Good luck, my dear. Please let me know how things turn out.

Sincerely
,

Paula Hunter Goodman

My hands shook when I finished Mrs. Goodman's letter. Emilie found Kiki, who died under the hands of her fiancé. Hunter lied by omission in not telling the attending surgeon he was a medical student. That violated medical ethics.

My guess? He was kicked out of NYU, but the dean of students couldn't say so. Our litigious society too often buried the truth under politically correct language.

Emilie turned, tears in her eyes. “He killed her,” she whispered.

“That's not what Mrs. Goodman says.”

“He killed her. He didn't murder her, but he killed her as sure as he murdered Mom.” Tears poured down Emilie's tanned cheeks. She came over and threw herself into my arms. “Oh, Grams, he's so awful.”

Grams?
I held her, rubbed her back and let her cry herself out.

Even though we were on a roll, finding Kiki upset me more than I expected. My first inclination was to tell Whip, but I sat on the news for two days. I was as shaken as Emilie and needed space to cope with my emotions. I did the logical thing—I asked Mrs. Goodman if I could meet her in New York.

When I got to the jail three days after Emilie received the original note, Whip entered the conference room and stopped dead still. Unlike my usual practice, I wasn't sitting at the scarred oak table, the fridge list in front of me. Instead, I leaned my forehead against the smudgy window that faced the back alley and didn't turn around. I knew he wondered what the hell happened, why I was missing in action for two days.

I whispered, “We found Kiki.”

“Say again.”

I turned and looked Whip in the eye. “We found Kiki. Or rather, Em found Kiki.”

Whip fell into the straight-backed wooden chair, his face full of hope. “Have you talked with her?”

“No, but I've talked with Hunter's mother.”

The tiniest breeze would have knocked Whip off his chair. His face showed he couldn't believe what I'd said.

“His mother? How…?”

I took a couple of steps to the table and sat on its edge. “You know Em posted questions on several Web sites about Kiki.”

“Yeah.”

I handed him the message.

“That's incredible! We have the whole story now.”

“There's more.” I pointed to the bottom of a second message. “She sent her phone number. I've met her.” I moved to a chair.

“You met her? She lives nearby?”

“She lives way out at the end of Long Island, retired and spending her time gardening. I flew out and talked with her yesterday. She told me the entire story about the original Kiki and her son's resultant depression.”

“You told her about Merry?”

“Of course. Both what we know and what we suspect.” I rubbed at the stiffness in the back of my neck. Mrs. Gordon and I lost our children too early. We had much in common—pain, loss, anguish, and a survival spirit.

“Many years after Kiki's death, Hunter married a lovely young woman with dark auburn hair and green eyes named Lydia-Marie Mendoza in Pittsburgh. Mrs. Goodman met her once early in their relationship. Didn't see her again until the wedding a year later. By then, Lydia-Marie had new eyes, cheeks, and chin. In fact, she looked almost exactly like Kiki.”

“Dear God, you were right. Hunter's resurrecting a ghost. Merry was just the latest. Where's Lydia-Marie?”

“No one knows. Mrs. Goodman told me her son called Lydia-Marie ‘Kiki.’ Lydia-Marie thought it was cute. She didn't know she was the second Kiki.”

I remembered the napkins in Merry's desk with Meredith “Kiki” Hunter doodled on them. At the time, I thought she was making up a new persona to go with her new face. Had I known Hunter controlled her every move, I would have tied her to a tree in the backyard or had her committed to a mental hospital until she was cured of any infatuation with this cretin. Or until he moved on to his next victim.

I reached into my tote and pulled out an envelope, yellowed and tattered from much handling. I handed it to Whip. In it were a series of pictures: Hunter as a child, Hunter in a Little League uniform, Hunter at a piano recital, Hunter in a cap and gown. The hairs on Whip's arm stood up.

Looking at the original Kiki and Lydia-Marie was like looking through a distorted mirror at Merry. Each had similar eyes and cheeks. Both were blonde. Lydia-Marie's unaltered lips were fuller than Kiki's. Because I studied the photos on the plane home, I was no longer vulnerable to their impact. Whip wasn't.

Whip dropped the photos on the table as if his hands had been splashed with acid.

“Mrs. Goodman knows we think her son's a cold-blooded killer. She promised to do whatever she could. She told me how worried she was when Lydia-Marie disappeared. Hunter said she went to visit her family in Mexico. Decided to stay.”

“Could it be true?”

“Highly unlikely. Lydia-Marie, her parents, and her siblings were all born in the US. Her grandparents are dead. No family in Mexico.”

“So, what do you think happened to her?”

“Mrs. Goodman stayed in touch with her after the wedding, even though Hunter forbade it. Lydia-Marie was strong-willed. She wasn't about to be bullied. Mrs. Goodman kept her letters. She'll send them if we need them.” I couldn't sit any longer. I walked back to the window and watched police cars enter and leave the parking lot as the morning shift ended and the afternoon shift began.

“Wonder if we can find Lydia-Marie's body.” Whip mumbled. “If Hunter gets rid of his mistakes—and Merry was a mistake—he must have gotten rid of Lydia-Marie too.”

“Alex is searching for unsolved crimes between here and New York. Do you have any idea how many police and sheriff jurisdictions there are?”

“Too many to count.”

“You've got that right. Alex is focused on unsolved murders of young women in or near the hospitals where we know he worked.” I rubbed tired eyes. I was almost as drained as I was the week of Merry's funeral.

“Hunter shot Merry behind the ear with a twenty-two. Have him look for similar crimes. For missing women too.” Whip joined me at the window.

“Will do.”

“Try smaller jurisdictions.”

I was too exhausted to ask why.

“How are you holding up? You look beat.”

“I am. Once Mrs. Goodman contacted Em, she was up several nights puking. It's nerves. She feels Mrs. Goodman's pain. She's overwhelmed.”

I stared through the mesh sandwiched between two panes of glass. I wanted to hide how worried I was about Emilie's health. Whip had enough on his mind without fretting over something he couldn't change.

“Used to think her feelings were fantasy. They're real, aren't they?”

“They're very real. Do not underestimate that child.”

“Does she know how to control them, the feelings?”

“No. I'm looking for a New Age, hippy-dippy shrink. Maybe from California. Doubt there's anyone local. I might have to call every shrink in the phonebook. Ask what their sign is. Or if they've read Carlos Castaneda. Do they believe he turned into a crow? Come to think about it, that might not be a bad idea.”

Whip laughed.

“Seriously, I've been reading about some of the newer trends in psychotherapy. We need someone experienced in dealing with a sensitive. Not a sensitive teenager, but a true sensitive. Em's gift has to be trained, or it could destroy her.”

I stowed the photographs in my tote. Pete opened the door to the interview room.

“Time's up.”