Miracle Cure (14 page)

There was not enough face left to tell if there had ever been a beard, but even through the thick patches of blood, Max could see that the dead man definitely had blond hair. Like Hector said, very blond.

Max closed both the file and his eyes. Why the sudden appearance change? A new hair-do and quick shave for a leap through a window seemed a tad bizarre, to say the least.

"Tell me what Dr. Grey said to you when he checked in."

Hector looked up, trying to remember.

"Nothing special. He just said he wanted a room. I asked, "How many nights, sir?" and he said, "One."

"That's it?" "I said, Will that be cash or charge? and he said, "Cash." Then I gave him the key and he took off."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"You're sure." He thought a moment.

"That was it."

"He didn't have any special requests for his room?"

"No."

"He didn't ask for the room to be on a certain floor?"

Hector shook his head.

"I don't even think he looked at the number on the key until he stepped into the elevator."

Cold fear slid down Bernstein's chest. His finger went back into his mouth, but there was nothing left to chew except skin.

This whole thing was getting messy and complicated, too messy and too complicated. Bruce Grey had not asked for a special room.

He had not asked for a room with a view or a room near an elevator or one of those new no-smoking rooms. He had not asked for a room with a king-sized bed or a queen-sized bed or two separate beds. And most of all Bruce Grey had not asked for a room on a high floor. For all he knew, he could have gotten a room on the ground level.

"Is there anything else, Lieutenant?"

"No, that's it for now."

Hector Rodriguez turned to leave and then stopped.

"I saw your name in the Herald, Lieutenant. I hope you catch that whacko before he slices off somebody else's nuts."

Max's head shot up.

"What did you say?"

"Cutting off a man's balls. Pure loco, huh, Lieutenant?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"The evening edition. Front cover. What kind of a man does something like that? City's full of sickos."

Once again, Max rubbed his face and eyes with his right hand.

The press. The mayor. The gay activists.

Help.

The ringing of the telephone jerked George out of his sleep. He awoke, as he always did, quickly, alert. He picked up the receiver before the second ring.

"Hello."

"Did you read this morning's paper?"

George sat up and checked his watch. The voice on the other end sounded different this time still agitated and strained, but now there was something else. More fear. Maybe even anger.

"No," George replied.

"Should I have?"

"According to the Herald, the Gay Slasher tortured and castrated Scott Trian before killing him."

"You sound upset."

"They were supposed to die quickly, damn it! I never said anything about torture or mutilation."

"If you're unhappy with my work " "Unhappy? You're a lunatic. I thought I was dealing with a professional, but you're a goddamn psychopath."

"I was following your orders," George said.

"The mutilation just speeds up the end result. It makes sense financially."

There was stunned silence on the other end.

George continued, "I assume you also read that everything went smoothly with Jenkins' murder. I dumped the body just where you wanted it."

" "Did... did you disfigure him?"

"He died from the first stab wound. The same with Whitherson."

"You're sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Then just promise me you won't hurt any of the others." George almost smiled.

"I am merely the executioner, the one who pulls the switch or drops the gas pellet. But you... you are the judge and jury. You are the one who ordered their deaths." "No," the voice said slowly, "I am not."

Again there was silence. Then the voice said, "Promise me, George.

Promise me that no others will be needlessly tortured."

George paused.

"Okay. But I assure you it was for the best."

There was a long release of breath and then the voice said, "The situation is different now. You'll have to be more careful.

The police are going to start watching."

"Watching what?" George asked.

"The police force can't guard every faggot in Manhattan... unless there's something else."

"Something else? I don't understand." "I think you do," George said.

"Listen, I don't care who you are. I don't care why you want these people killed. It's not my concern. But I need to know what the police are thinking. I need to know what the real connection is between the victims so that I can prepare properly. Otherwise, mistakes can be made."

Silence.

"Can I assume," George continued, "that these men have more in common than being gay?"

"They're all patients at an AIDS clinic," the voice said.

"So that explains why you told me to wear the mask and gloves."

"Yes."

"And Dr. Grey worked at this clinic?"

"Yes."

"So let me get this straight: Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were all AIDS patients at a clinic operated by Bruce Grey?"

"Yes."

"And the police know this?"

"They know most of it. The rest they'll figure out."

"So they may look into Grey's suicide again."

"They might." George thought for a moment.

"I have an idea, but it'll cost you."

"I'm listening."

"I'll kill a couple of random faggots "

"No!"

"Hear me out. I kill a couple of faggots who don't have AIDS or aren't being treated at this clinic. It'll throw the cops off the track. Make it look even more like the work of a psychotic gay hater

"No!"

"Then I'll change the way I kill the next few.

"I'll make it look like an accident or better yet, a suicide. If these guys have AIDS and are on death row anyway, a suicide might not be looked into too closely."

"The police will be looking for something like that. You'll never get away with it."

"Worth a try."

"No. I want you to use the same methods unless I say otherwise."

George shrugged.

"Your money."

"And remember the only people who are to be put to death are the ones I say." "Not put to death," George said.

"Excuse me?"

"They're not being 'put to death," George continued.

"They're being murdered." "Do you eat here every day?" Sara asked.

"No," Eric Blake replied. They both slid their trays along the hospital cafeteria girders. The room was packed with doctors, nurses, lab technicians everyone dressed in white coats or blue hospital scrubs with the words

"Property of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center Removal From Premises Prohibited" emblazoned across the chest. Everyone looked exhausted, the men unshaven, the women baggy-eyed. Working 40-hour shifts can do that to a person.

Sara looked down at the hospital pizza and frowned.

"Eric?"

"Yes?"

"Is mozzarella cheese supposed to be green?"

"It's one of the better items on the menu."

"I think I'll pass."

"I can order in Chinese, if you'd like."

She shook her head.

"Michael would kill me. He hasn't eaten Chinese in two days and he's already suffering withdrawal pains."

"He always did love Chinese food."

They found a table toward the back where the room was relatively quiet.

"How's Michael feeling?" Eric asked.

"I haven't had a chance to check in on him today."

"About the same," Sara replied.

"He's taking a nap right now.

I don't know, Eric... he just doesn't look right to me."

"He'll be fine." Eric carefully opened his container of milk.

While everyone around them drank directly from the carton, Eric poured the milk into a glass and then lifted it to his lips.

"It's kind of spooky seeing Michael here though. Like a bad deja vu."

"What do you mean?"

"It reminds me of when we were kids," he said.

"Of when Michael's stepfather beat him."

Sara winced.

"He doesn't talk about it much."

"I know. I don't blame him. It was a bad time, Sara, best forgotten."

She nodded slowly, picturing Michael as a helpless child in a hospital bed. A flush of anguish and anger rose in her. Her mind traveled back five years to the first time she had learned about Michael's past, a few hours before she met him for the first time.

"I want you to interview Michael Silverman," Larry Simmons, managing editor of the New York Herald, told her.

"The basketball player?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Why? Basketball is hardly my area of expertise."

"I don't want a story about basketball. I want a story about Michael Silverman, the man. Look, the NBA finals are on now and everyone is applauding Silverman's skill on the court. But where did he come from? What made this Jewish kid from New Jersey become such a fantastic athlete?"

"Hasn't this story been done before?"

"Others have tried. Others have even dug up some of Silverman's tragic past."

"Tragic past?"

"It's all in the fik. But I don't want you to look at it right away.

I want you to start by going directly to Silverman."

"So why hasn't the story been done before?"

"Because Silverman won't talk to the press about his personal life.

Ask him about a jump shot or a quick move to the basket and he'll be as poetic as Proust. But ask him about his pre-college years and forget it."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Get him to talk. Find out what he's all about. Be honest and open with him. If that doesn't work, be sneaky."

She laughed.

"And if all else fails, I'll hit him over the head with my cane."

"Now you're talking."

A half hour later she called Michael's apartment in the city.

"Mr. Silverman?"

"Yes."

"My name is Sara Lowell. I'm a reporter for the New York Herald." "Oh yes," Michael said, "I've read some of your work, Miss. Lowell.

I liked the expose you did on the housing commissioner last month.

Powerful stuff."

"Thank you."

"Now what can I do for you?"

Sara was somewhat taken aback. She had been prepared for an ogre, a man more than a little wary and suspicious of the press. But this man was very polite. Gracious even.

"I'd like very much to do an interview with you at your convenience."

"I see. Have you become a sportswriter, Miss. Lowell?"

"Not really."

"Then what sort of story do you plan on doing?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just a general piece on Michael Silverman off the court. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know you a little better."

"Sounds like pretty dull stuff." "I don't think so," Sara said.

"From what I hear, you're a fairly interesting person."

"So," Michael continued, "all you want to do is a light piece on how I like to go to the theater, collect rabbits, garden in my underwear, stuff like that?"

"Sort of."

"I assume, Miss. Lowell, that you already know that I do not grant interviews on my personal life."

"I've heard something to that effect, yes."

"And you won't ask any personal questions? Nothing about my love life or my childhood?"

"You can always say, "No comment."

" Michael chuckled.

"You forget, Miss. Lowell, I read your column.

You don't do fluff. You probe and penetrate and usually go for the kill."

"Mr. Silverman, this article is nothing like " "Explain something to me," he.

"Why can't you reporters understand that my personal life is none of anyone's business?

Why can't you just report what happens on the basketball court and leave me alone?"

"The public wants to know more."

"Frankly speaking, I don't really give a shit what the public wants.

How come I never see a reporter's life story smeared across the headlines?

How come I never see a story on how you lost your virginity, Miss. Lowell, or about that wild college weekend where you had too much to drink?"

"No one wants to read about me, Mr. Silverman."

"Bullshit. No one wants to read about me either unless I'm scoring baskets."

"Not true."

"Listen, I'm not in the mood to be this week's tabloid story, okay?

Just leave me alone. And why do you have to play all the devious head games with me? Why couldn't have you been honest enough to admit what you were really after?"

She hesitated before answering.

"Because you would have probably hung up on me."

"Very prophetic of you. Good-bye, Miss. Lowell."

She heard him slam down the receiver.

"Eat shit, Mr. Silverman."

So much for his being a nice, easy-going fellow. She stood and headed for the door.

"Where you going?" Larry Simmons called to her.

"To Silverman's apartment."

"He agreed to the interview?"

"No. He hung up on me."

"So?"

"So sneaky didn't work. Maybe bouncing my cane off his skull will prove more persuasive." "Before you go," Larry said, "I think you should read his file after all." He handed her a manila envelope.

The file was short but potent. One page to be exact. Sara skimmed the sheet.

"I don't believe this," she muttered.

"I thought you might find it intriguing."

She read out loud.

"Born Beth Israel Hospital, Newark, New Jersey.

His father, Samuel Silverman, died in a car crash when he was five.

Mother, Estelle Silverman, remarried a year later to a Martin Johnson.

Between the ages of six and nine Michael had eight overnight hospital stays. His injuries were rumored to have been the result of physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather and included several broken bones and three concussions. When Michael was ten, his mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the forehead. Michael found her body.

He has no brothers, no sisters. Stepfather abandoned him after the suicide. Only living relative was paternal grandmother, Sadie Silverman, who raised Michael until her death when he turned nineteen."

She looked up.

"Jesus, Larry, you want me to go after this guy?"

"None of it has really been printed before because the details are too sketchy. Keep reading."

Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading.

"Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano." She paused.

"The guy's a pianist?"

Lorry nodded.

"That part is fairly well known."

"Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row... reputation of being a bit of a ladies' man "

"That's the understatement of the millennium," Larry interjected.

"The man changes women like some men change socks." He smiled.

"Hope you don't get sucked in."

"Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn't sound like my type."

"No one is your type," Larry replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said, "that you never date."

"I've got too much work to do."

"Excuses."

"And no one interests me right now, okay."

"Listen, Sara, I'm sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years."

"So?"

"So you're going to have to find someone else. I'm taken." She smiled.

"Damn. You found me out."

"And don't be so quick to judge Silverman," he added.

"Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?"

She put the file on her desk.

"This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism," Sara said.

He shrugged.

"Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous. well, you'd have to go back to Sandy Koufax."

"What's your point, Larry?"

"It's a great human interest story. A man who overcame incredible adversity to become one of the world's top basketball players. And he'd be a perfect role model for abused kids."