“If the killer had access to a surgical kit, he could’ve also brought sponges—nice and absorbent, perfect for cleanup. Any traces of sponge material in the van?”
He shook his head.
I said, “What else did you find, in terms of medical supplies?”
“Empty hypodermic syringe, the thiopental and the potassium chloride, alcohol swabs—that’s a kicker, ain’t it? You’re about to kill someone, you bother to swab them with alcohol to prevent infection?”
“They do it up in San Quentin when they execute someone. Maybe it makes them feel like health-care professionals. The killer would’ve liked feeling legitimate. What about a bag to carry all that equipment?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“No carrying case of any kind?”
“No.”
“There had to be some kind of case,” I said. “Even if the equipment was Mate’s, he wouldn’t have left it rolling around loose in the van. Also, Mate had lost his license but he still fancied himself a doctor, and doctors carry black bags. Even if he was too cheap to invest in leather, and used something like a paper sack, you’d expect to find it. Why would the killer leave the Humani-tron and everything else behind and take the case?”
“Snuff the doctor, steal his bag?”
“Taking over the doctor’s practice.”
“He wants to be Dr. Death?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s murdered Mate, can’t exactly come out into the open and start soliciting terminally ill people. But he could have something in mind.”
Milo rubbed his face furiously, as if scrubbing without water. “More wet work?”
“It’s just theory,” I said.
Milo gazed up at the dismal sky, slapped the packet of death photos against his leg again, chewed his cheek. “A sequel. Oh that would be peachy. Extremely pleasant. And this theory occurs to you because maybe there was a bag and maybe someone took it.”
“If you don’t think it has merit, disregard it.”
“How the hell should I know if it has merit?” He stuffed the photos in his jacket pocket, yanked out his pad, opened it and stabbed at the paper with a chewed-down pencil. Then he slammed the pad shut. The cover was filled with scrawl. “The bag coulda been left behind and ended up in the morgue without being logged.
Sure,” I said. “Absolutely.
Great,” he said. “That would be great.
Well, folks,” I said, in a W. C. Fields voice, “in terms of theory, I think that’s about it for today.”
His laughter was sudden. I thought of a mastiff’s warning bark. He fanned himself with the notepad. The air was cool, stale, still inert. He was sweating. “Forgive the peckishness. I need sleep.” Yet another glance at the Timex.
“Expecting company?” I said.
“The yuppie hikers. Mr. Paul Ulrich and Ms. Tanya Stratton. Interviewed them the day of the murder, but they didn’t give me much. Too upset—especially the girl. The boyfriend spent his time trying to calm her down. Given what she saw, can’t blame her, but she seemed . . . delicate. Like if I pressed too hard she’d disintegrate. I’ve been trying all week to arrange the re-interview. Phone tag, excuses. Finally reached them last night, figured I’d go to their house, but they said they’d rather meet up here, which I thought was gutsy. But maybe they’re thinking some kind of self-therapy—whatchamacallit—working it through.” He grinned. “See, it does rub off, all those years with you.”
“A few more and you’ll be ready to see patients.”
“People tell me their troubles, they get locked up.”
“When are they due to show up?”
“Fifteen minutes ago. Stopping by on their way to work—both have jobs in Century City.” He kicked dust. “Maybe they chickened out. Even if they do show, I’m not sure what I’m hoping to get out of them. But got to be thorough, right? So what’s your take on Mate? Do-gooder or serial killer?”
“Maybe both,” I said. “He came across arrogant, with a low view of humanity, so it’s hard to believe his altruism was pure. Nothing else in his life points to exceptional compassion. Just the opposite: instead of taking care of patients, he spent his medical career as a paper pusher. And he never amounted to much as a doctor until he started helping people die. If I had to bet on a primary motive, I’d say he craved attention. On the other hand, there’s a reason the families you’ve talked to support him. He alleviated a lot of suffering. Most of the people who pulled the trigger of that machine were in torment.”