The Maltese Murders

The Maltese Murders

By

Jerry Labriola, M.D.

All rights reserved. Except in the context of reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information contact:

Strong Books

P.O. Box 967

Middlebury, CT 06762

www.jerrylabriola.com

Copyright 2005 by Jerry Labriola

Hardcopy version

ISBN 1-56649-297-1 - (out of print from Welcome Rain)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005930190

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters, events, institutions, and organizations in this book are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any apparent resemblance to any person alive or dead, to any actual events, and to any actual institutions or organizations, is entirely coincidental.

To Kristen, Jane and Nick

Acknowledgements

I wish to pay tribute

—to my wife, Lois, who skillfully critiqued the manuscript

—to everyone at Wlcome Rain Publishers, especially John Weber and Mara Lurie;

—to the Connecticut Authors & Publishers Association

—and to the enchanting island of Malta.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Books by Jerry Labriola, M.D.

PROLOGUE

Thursday, March 13

There were fifteen babies in the Newborn Unit before Nurse Mia Porter went to lunch and only fourteen when she came back.

Dr. David Brooks slammed down the receiver, burst from the Hole and, attaché case in hand, took shortcuts to the unit on the third floor of Hollings General Hospital. He found Porter leaned over in a chair, pale, hands together, shaking her head from side to side. She sprang to her feet.

Who’s missing? David asked.

Baby Weld.

Did you check the census sheet? Any discharges today?

I didn’t check it, but there weren’t any. I know that for a fact, Porter said unevenly.

David slid his black case onto a chair, put his arm around the nurse’s waist and guided her toward the nearest desk. Well, let’s double-check anyway, shall we?

Porter pulled off the top sheet from a clipboard and they both read down the list. Baby Girl Weld was written on the next to last line along with time of birth, measurements and method of feeding: 3/12, 2:24 a.m.–– 6 lbs 12 oz., 19 in.–– bottle.

In three interconnecting rooms, two other nurses scurried among bassinets and incubators, around white scale tables, past baby supply counters. They checked name tags, then rechecked them.

David spotted a pink tag marked WELD attached to a bassinet in the first row. He walked over to confirm that it was empty.

Chapter 1

David was not one to pace, but this time he did. It had to do with the abduction of an infant, altogether different from that of an adult, and he had investigated his share of those. He was waiting for the arrival of Kathy Dupre, the Hollings police detective he often kidded for being a cop. Too small, too pretty, he would say. She was also his fiancée and he had phoned her as soon as he heard of the kidnapping.

Meanwhile, the newborn unit became a commotion of security and administration officials comparing theories while competing with an ever-louder chorus of infants. Technicians and secretaries from other floors streamed in. They opened closets and cabinet doors. Head nurse Porter’s expression hardened.

Okay, okay, she announced. Anyone who doesn’t belong here please leave now. You’re not gonna find a baby in a cabinet, and you should have been in gowns in the first place.

At six-feet-five, David towered among those milling about the pink and blue juxtaposed rooms and, as he moved back and forth along a side corridor, he could still detect the sweet fragrance of baby powder. Yet, he mused, if ever cleanliness had an odor or a feel, it was there. He had no difficulty viewing the infants in every room, each by now like a nest of hungry baby robins. He felt obligated to pace in tiny steps, hunched forward, and he wasn’t sure why at first, but on his turns his eyes settled on the same front row bassinet next to the Weld empty one. Finally he spotted the corner of a brown paper towel fluttering at the side of its agitated occupant. He gravitated toward it and, with a handkerchief, eased the paper away and read the words scrawled in blue block letters:

TELL GRANDPA NOT TO ATTEND SUMMIT OR ELSE

David pulled back, looked around and reread the message. He felt a familiar surge in his chest, one that had signaled his entry into past criminal investigations. Plus he had the equally familiar sensation of being cast on the qui vive, the scent of talc in his nose, its taste on his lips, the lights brighter, cries more piercing. He dreaded the thought of being yanked into another case so soon, keenly aware that the skein of hospital murders and later, the biotechnology mysteries, were less than two months old. Besides, he and Kathy were scheduled to leave for their Venetian vacation the following night. Here it was, however: a newborn was kidnapped in his own backyard and he had been summoned.

He removed a single towel from the nearest dispenser and compared it to the one bearing the message. They matched in color and size. He folded them separately and put them into individual plastic bags which he’d taken from the side pocket of his blazer. He ducked into a side feeding room, whipped around a chair and straddled it, his favorite position for serious thinking. He thought he was alone.

What are you up to? Kathy’s voice came from behind him.

David forced a smile. Trying to look like anyone in a crowd, he said, turning. At least out there.

She peeked about, then kissed him lightly on the forehead. Oh sure, big guy. That’s like my trying to blend in at a men’s sauna.

David pushed down on his thighs and rose slowly. C’mon, Kath, he whispered, first you sneak up and kiss me, then you give me a nude scene. We have a kidnapping here.

Sorry, poor choice of scenes. What have you got so far? She slung a blue raincoat over her shoulder and adjusted the badge on the hip pocket of her slacks.

Whoever snatched the baby apparently left a note. David described the paper towel and its contents but, despite the gravity of the moment, his attention switched to Kathy. He hadn’t seen her all week.

So you didn’t get back from the conference until midnight? he asked.

Kathy nodded.

Was it worth the time?

Maybe a day, but not four. Most of those police procedural conclaves have too much fluff. Phoenix was nice though.

Did your illustrious Detective Chief make it?

Nick? Just for the first half, but we flew home together. Incidentally, he should be here any minute. Sparky will be around later. We should at least check for prints.

That’s strange, David said, his eyes narrowing. Aren’t you enough for a case like this?

I thought so when you called, but then he heard the baby was Professor Weld’s granddaughter and he insisted on taking a look for himself.

What? You mean Kater Weld? David hadn’t put two and two together yet. Professor Weld, the Associate Director of Brent Institute of Biotechnology, was in line to succeed Dr. Manuel Molina who had been shot and killed six weeks before. Weld’s research interests were widely known to include the areas of genetic engineering, cloning and stem-cell research.

How did Nick know the baby’s identity? David asked.

He called the admitting office.

You told him the baby was missing?

Yes, right after you phoned. He was standing right there.

David walked to the doorway and motioned Porter over. He looked back at Kathy and resisted the urge to say he’d missed her, especially after having cautioned her, in effect, to stick to remarks appropriate for a crime scene. Nonetheless, he wanted once again to iron out the pout of her lips with his own, a way of communication he had used scores of times in their relationship. And he figured Kathy had gotten the message.

Before I forget, he said, moving closer to her. You’ll be coming over tonight?

Right around six-fifteen…six-thirty. But, what’s this going to do to our trip?

We’ll talk about it tonight.

Kathy sighed. That means we cancel, right?

Not necessarily, David answered distantly, having already compartmentalized their vacation to a lesser priority level. Here. Take the note they left behind. He checked his watch. I’m already late for my calls. Have Sparky run it through the lab and tell him I’ll be in touch. Using his handkerchief again, he removed the note from his pocket and gave it to her. She read it twice.

I suppose this has something to do with the summit in Malta next month, she said. Isn’t Weld revealing some of the details on his inhaler idea?

"Or…now…not revealing. How did you know he’d be talking about that stuff?"

It made this morning’s paper. You didn’t see it?

Not yet.

But David was fully aware of Dr. Weld’s revolutionary work––work that he and Kathy had once discussed and then dismissed as too far-fetched.

I still don’t buy it. I thought that vaccines and things like that were tailor-made for specific diseases, she said.

Up until lately. I’m the first to have doubts, but if Kater’s breakthrough research can be implemented, it could stop bioterrorists in their tracks. It’s as simple as that. He and others call it ‘harnessing innate immunity.’ They’re convinced that a single cocktail of immune boosters could be delivered through an inhaler and knock out any invader. Smallpox, anthrax, plague, you name it.

But not superbugs?

I understand he’ll bring them into his talk too.

David’s hands dwarfed hers. He clasped them gently and whispered, And do you know what, Kath? Whether it could work or not doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that somebody must feel it can. And that’s why a baby was snatched.

Here we go again, folks! I like you both but not when you’re on crime detail around here. It was a booming voice, one that hung in David’s ears like the aftertaste of spoiled wine. The hospital’s longtime administrator, Alton Foster, spoke as if to be heard by everyone within earshot as he hurried clumsily in their direction. He had protruding, thin lips, a sallow complexion and a waddling gait. He reminded David of a bespectacled duck. A six-foot-tall bespectacled duck. And sweating.

They bowed to one another and David said, Hello, Alton. The feeling’s mutual. He detected a new cologne, one he felt should be outlawed in a hospital, and he told Foster so. The administrator didn’t seem to process the comment.

They shook hands and Foster said, Are we snake-bitten or what? He wheeled around before an answer could be given, shouting, Now let’s clear everyone out except Security and nursery staff. And look at that! He pointed toward a young man taking pictures in rapid succession. Who called the press, for God’s sake? He turned back to David and added softly, "If we hadn’t had those damn murders, they wouldn’t send anyone here for a missing baby."

The crowd thinned. Foster made his way toward the reporter. Detective Chief Nick Medicore appeared in a doorway.

Dr. Brooks, how are you doing? he asked.

Fine. And you? There was no response. Even after collaborating on two prior investigations, Nick had continued with the surname, and David didn’t for a moment believe it was out of respect for the medical profession. Their alliance was born of mutual necessity, of short-handedness in the police department and of opportunities for David to accumulate credits for full licensure as a private investigator.

Medicore, a recent transplant from California, wore a green turtleneck under his usual checkered jacket, and there was a badge pinned over the bulge near his breast pocket. He was smooth shaven and ruddy, as if fifty-odd years of squatness had shunted blood to his face.

The detective motioned Foster to a far corner, took out a notepad and appeared to question him.

David whispered to Kathy that his house calls awaited, and ambled toward Nurse Porter, who was washing her hands in the anteroom.

Mia, he said, I have only a question or two before I take some pictures. He removed his own notepad and a Polaroid camera from the attaché case. He had a name for the case: Friday. Nothing to do with Girl Friday or Joe Friday, just the day of the week he had bought it. It was usually stuffed with the camera, several notepads, a loaded Undercover .38 Special wrapped in terry cloth, extra rounds of ammo, 7/30 Beecher Mirage binoculars, a postage stamp-sized NT-1 Scoopman digital tape recorder, a box of latex surgical gloves, a flashlight, digital thermometer, whistle, scout knife and various micro bugs.

Are any of the rooms ever left unattended?

No, hardly at all. Maybe a minute or two. And only when we take the babies out to their mothers. But we do it in shifts, so someone’s bound to be here. Look at all the glass. You can see everywhere from any one spot.

Did anyone visit here in, say, the last couple of hours?

I’ve gone through that, and I’d have to say no.

David had not written a word yet. How often are they taken out?

Every four hours.

And had Baby Weld been fed or was she about to be?

She was fed by her mom, and I took her back here myself.

When was that?

About forty-five minutes ago.

I see. He rubbed his chin at a thickened point near its cleft. It was his decision scar. After a quick notation in the pad, he flipped it shut. I have to scoot, but thanks for now. Detectives Dupre and Medicore may want to question you eventually.

David snapped three pictures of the unit. By the way, he said, has anybody informed the mother?

The head nurse took a deep breath. Not yet, she said. I suppose I’d better, but I’m taking Mr. Foster with me.

David noted a sheet of paper taped on the outside of the glass partition of each room, near its open doorway. Each paper contained squares corresponding to the bassinets. WELD was penciled in the first row of the room nearest the main corridor. The unit’s anteroom and a twin set of swinging doors separated the nursery proper from a bank of elevators.

He retraced his shortcut steps to the Hole, clutching a bum knee as he turned on the landings. He had never figured out why it hurt more going down stairs––something to do with extensor muscles, but he was always his own worst doctor.

The Hole was a broken-down basement room, once reserved for broken-down medical equipment. The room had been offered to David as free office space. He considered it his command center where, with the assistance of Belle Osowicki, on loan from the Emergency Department, his house calls were booked. A year before, at age thirty-eight, he had soured on traditional medical practice and opted to restrict his own to making afternoon house calls for other physicians. He felt such an approach helped sidestep the intrusiveness of insurance companies while still allowing some patient contact, plus added time for amateur sleuthing. David preferred the term snooping––because that’s what he did–– and credited a heavy dose of it with having made the difference in his last two criminal investigations. During both, he had been given free rein by an overburdened Hollings Police Department, cracking the cases and establishing himself as a formidable, if not yet licensed, detective. In the aftermath, however, he realized there were still some shadowy elements around, at home and abroad. Sooner or later, they would have to be confronted.

Belle, where’s the morning paper?

Over on your desk where it always is.

He and Annabelle Osowicki, now divorced twelve years, had briefly been an item at Hollings, but once Kathy surfaced, Belle never criticized the new relationship, apparently content with focusing on the care of her eleven-year-old daughter, Georgia. At least David liked to think so. His guess was that she had kept her figure for him but had gradually lost that incentive. Yet her auburn hair still flamed, her smile was just as engaging and she still turned a head or two.

The green metal desk, one of two crammed into the room along with a matching file cabinet and four tubular steel chairs, was the full complement of furnishings that smacked of a 1940s garage sale. David was convinced that all medicinal and detergent odors, all steam radiator clangor and all flakes from exposed pipes settled there in that one space. But the Hole was his office.

He dropped into his chair and found the article about the upcoming summit on the back page. Its headline read:

MALTA HOSTS INTERPOL SUMMIT ON BIOTERRORISM

DR. J. KATER WELD TO HEAD BRENT DELEGATION

He read the first sentence:

In a hastily called assembly of Interpol’s police authorities, 179 countries will send delegations to Malta’s capital, the port city of Valletta, on March 27.

He was more interested in the agenda, however, paying little attention to the earlier titles or their descriptions and authors’ names:

*** Terrorism: An Overview

*** Firearms and Explosives

*** Attacks Against Civil Aviation

*** Maritime Piracy

*** Chemical and Biological Threats

*** Superweeds and Genetically Modified Food

Dr. Weld’s topic was listed last:

*** Novel Ways to Spur Immunity. United States Professor J. Kater Weld will introduce his research findings about an audacious idea that is captivating scientists around the globe: Can a simple inhaler help the immune system ward off any germ used in a bioterror attack, even before the germ is identified?

David read through it quickly, then returned to the beginning of the article.

So it’s the Weld baby who’s missing? Belle asked, peering over David’s shoulder.

Yes, and how did you know a baby’s missing?

The media. Radio, TV, the papers. They’ve all called.

Already? David scratched his head. Someone’s got a big mouth around here.

Do you think it has anything to do with what you’re reading?

He turned and gave Belle one long searching look before responding. Directly? It’s possible. Indirectly? Yes. What does that mean? I don’t know. Although he had sworn Belle to secrecy about all matters related to his investigations, he decided not to mention the threatening note yet.

I’ll bet it’s related.

David put on his best poker face and said, What did you tell the media?

That you’re unavailable. Tending to medical business. Making house calls. That private investigation means just that: private. Even some out-of-town reporters called. Said they’d be willing to see you at your house later.

What did you say?

That you have a special agreement with the local media: your home is off limits, period. That was the arrangement during all those murders and it still is now. And you’d hope they would honor it, too.

Good job. Did they ask if I’ll be handling the case?

They acted as if you were, so I didn’t say anything. She paused. Will you be?

David delayed his response. I suppose so, but we have this trip tomorrow. You know. Venice. We’ve planned it for weeks.

He puzzled over whether Belle was envious––not of the trip, but of Kathy. Reinforced by the trip. Her expression turned flat. So just go. Let others handle it.

We’ll see. Did any reporter ask you if this brought back memories of Georgia’s kidnapping?

Yes, most of them, and I answered that you can never get your own daughter’s kidnapping out of your mind.

For sure.

David scooped up some cards from a wire basket on the desk and sifted through them. Each represented a house call and contained vital information, including the referring doctor and chief medical complaint.

Belle walked over.

Are these in order? he asked, not looking up.

You always ask. As always, David, no, not in the order you should make them, but yes, in the order they came in. And as always, don’t forget to enter something about your findings…see, right there, in that empty space. She pointed at one of the cards.

He raised his eyes. I have everything I need up here, he said, tapping his forehead.

But it should be recorded. Someone else besides you should know what you found.

Her voice sounded at once exasperated and wistful; then there was the oh, brother look, one he had come to expect.

He counted the cards: eight. That’s about right. He put them in the side pocket of his jacket and added, Okay, first a quick call to Kater and then I’m off.

The receptionist at the Brent Institute of Biotechnology stated that Dr. Weld’s secretary was at lunch and that her boss was away until three.

David lumbered toward the doorway as if Friday, which he carried in one hand, and a medical bag, which he carried in the other, were loaded with bricks. I’m late, he said, anxious to begin his daily routine. One would have thought a house call schedule would be less tight than office hours, but a one o’clock start––with an average of eight stops––assured him he’d finish by five, a time he labeled his necessary goal. He had his own assortment of labels. This one was necessary because it allowed him the freedom for other events before dinner. Like karate classes at Bruno Bateman’s, a pastime that on occasion rose to a reverence. It was one-thirty.

Hollings, Connecticut, more denim than madras, was a city of one hundred thousand people trying to recover from the effects of industrial relocations to warmer climates and states with cheaper labor and more favorable tax codes. A few decayed but proud manufacturing plants had bucked the exodus south, joining hands along a river valley that snaked by the central district’s shops, banks, churches and a splendid green with towering sycamores, granite war memorials and a gazebo. On its eastern and western slopes, four industrial parks