“That’s it,” he said when he was done. “That’s why we are here.”
Fox’s eyes moved back and forth between them for a few moments while she tried to comprehend what McCaleb had just told her. She then began to move about the small space of the room as she recounted her understanding of the story. She wasn’t pacing. It was more as though she needed to make room for the story in her mind and was manifesting that need in small movements back and forth that expanded the personal space around her.
“You are saying that you start off with a person who needs an organ-heart, lung, liver, kidney, whatever. But like you, they are of the rare blood group that is type AB with CMV negative. What that translates to is a long, long, possibly unsuccessful wait because only maybe one in two hundred people are in that group, meaning that likewise, only one in two hundred, let’s say, livers, that come along would match this person. So have I got this right? You are saying this person decided to improve his odds by going out and shooting people who are in his group because then their organs would become available for transplant?”
She said it with too much sarcasm and that annoyed McCaleb but rather than object, he just nodded.
“And that he got the names of these people in his group from a list of blood donors in the BOPRA computer?”
“Right.”
“But you don’t know how he got it.”
“We don’t know for sure. But we do know that BOPRA’s security system is highly vulnerable to compromise.”
From his pocket McCaleb took out the list that Graciela had printed at Holy Cross. He unfolded it and handed it to Fox.
“I was able to get that today and I don’t know the first thing about hacking into computers.”
Fox took the page and waved it at Graciela.
“But you had her to help.”
“We don’t know who this person is or who they had to help them. We have to assume that if this person has the connections and ability to hire a contract killer, then he or she could get into the BOPRA computer. The point is, it could be done.”
McCaleb pointed to the list.
“Right there is all that’s needed. Everybody on that list is in the group. He would pick one of the donors. He would pick somebody young, do some research. Kenyon was young and fit. A tennis player, equestrian. Cordell was young and strong. Anybody who watched him over some time would know he was fit. A surfer, skier, mountain biker. They both were perfect.”
“Then why kill them-as some sort of practice?” Fox asked.
“No, not practice. It was the real thing but each time things went wrong. With Kenyon the shooter used a fragmenting bullet that pulped his brain and he was dead before they could even get him to the hospital. The killer refined his method. He switched to a full metal jacket load that was fired across the front of the brain. A fatal injury, yes, but not instantaneous. A man who drove up called it in on a cellular phone. Cordell was alive. But the address got screwed up and the paramedics went to the wrong place. Meantime, time goes by, the victim dies at the scene.”
“And again the organs were never harvested,” Fox said, understanding now.
“I hate that word,” Graciela said, her first words in a long time.
“What?” Fox asked.
“Harvested. I hate that. These organs aren’t harvested. They’re given. By people who cared about other people. They aren’t crops on a farm.”
Fox nodded and looked silently at Graciela, seemingly taking her measure all over again.
“It didn’t work with Cordell but it was not because of the method,” McCaleb continued. “So the shooter just went back to his list of potential donors. He-”
“The list from the BOPRA computer.”
“Right. He goes back to the list and picks Gloria Torres. The process starts again. He watches, knows her routine, also knows she is healthy and will do.”
McCaleb looked at Graciela as he said this, afraid the harshness of it would bring another response. She remained quiet. Fox spoke.
“And so now you want to follow this trail of harvested organs and you think the killer-or the person who hired the killer-will have one of them. Do you realize what this sounds like?”
“I know how it sounds,” McCaleb said quickly before she could build on her doubts. “But there is no other explanation. We need your help with BOPRA.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. What are the odds that it could be just a coincidence that the same man-a contract killer, most likely-just happens to gun down three different people from the exact same one-in-two-hundred blood group? You couldn’t figure those odds with a computer. Because it can’t be coincidence. It’s the blood work. The blood work is the connection. The blood work is the motive.”
Fox walked away from them and to the window. McCaleb followed and stood next to her. The room looked down on Beverly Boulevard. He saw the string of businesses across the street, the mystery bookshop and the deli with the Get Well Soon! sign on the roof. He looked at Fox and it looked as though she was staring at her own reflection in the window.
“I have patients waiting,” she said.
