Rock a bye baby, p.24
Rock-A-Bye Baby, page 24
part #2 of Charlene Taylor Series
When the vehicles began moving again, she swallowed and straightened the wheel, cautiously merging with the flow of traffic. She briefly closed her eyes, which stung with tears.
She ran her fingers over the outside of her blouse, feeling the thick purplish scar. The idea of undergoing a chemical peel to have the scar minimized had crossed her mind, but it was the only piece of her past that remained. The surgery had left her unable to bear children, a thought that often depressed her and kept her up at night, but it was a disability she’d learned to live with.
Rage fueled her on.
It took a special person to survive the past she’d put behind her, before her latter high school years. She wouldn’t be recognized as the kid from school. She’d returned home once, after her makeover, for one purpose, and then left that life, buying the necessary paperwork to start over fresh.
In a world where appearance was everything, minor plastic surgery had been a necessity. Just a little touch-up for concealment, and of course appearance, necessary for a female to survive in this male-dominated world—cheekbone structure, rhinoplasty, chin augmentation and lip enhancement.
Once again, Abigail Fellows composed herself, and focused on her destination.
* * *
When they stepped inside the Denver field office just before ten, a young FBI intern in a fitted-suit came speed walking over to them.
“Agent Stone, there’s still no hit on the fingerprints your brother pulled from that nurse’s house. It’s still running through the system, but I wanted to update you.”
“Thanks,” Matt replied, as he and Charlene charged passed the intern and entered the department’s hub of operations, heading straight to Smith’s office.
Smith already sat behind a desk covered with folders and papers. “Sit down.”
The senior agent sighed, rubbing his eyes, looking pressured and exhausted. He was way past needing a shave and a haircut, and his clothes had permanent wrinkles. Smith was losing it, and if he fell, he’d take with him everyone involved with this case.
They grabbed chairs in the cramped office.
Smith hesitated, then looked from Matt to Charlene.
Matt tilted his head and said to Smith, “She’s okay.”
Charlene felt a chill. “What?”
Smith looked at Charlene. “I didn’t know how you would handle this investigation, since your niece was involved. I asked Agent Stone to keep a close eye on you.”
She looked at Matt. “You babysat me?”
Matt shook his head. “We were partners, working together.”
Smith cleared his throat. “We’ve worked with cops like you before. We heard you were a cowboy. You’ll break rules, step on toes and you don’t care who you run over to get the information you need.”
“Then why keep me around?”
“I’ve been here since day one, following leads, working in the trenches, and it’s cost me nearly everything. I’ve stayed up nights, with pictures of missing babies in my head, listening to desperate, angry parents. I seldom sleep, and I lost my family over this case, but I thought you might be just what we needed, and Agent Stone agreed.”
She looked at Matt, but he didn’t look back.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Smith interrupted. “What matters is that you’re here and you need to know.”
Charlene struggled to stifle the anger and humiliation she felt rising inside her. She dared not let it sidetrack her from the goal.
Smith took a sip of now-cold coffee and frowned. “Keep in mind that this is only my theory. I’ve only mentioned it behind closed doors, with only a rare few reliable people, because I don’t know how deep it runs, and I don’t know who to trust.”
Smith removed a folder from a drawer and opened it. “Do you know anything about the American adoption process?”
Charlene shrugged. “Not really.”
“The fact is that it’s lengthy and incredibly costly. I’ve investigated the adoption process in seventeen countries, but for the sake of time, let me say that the American adoption process is complex and often misunderstood. Adoption takes many forms including closed adoption, open adoption, relative adoption, stepchild adoption, foster care adoption, and international adoption.” He stopped to take a sip from a new bottle of water. “Statistics prove that there are far fewer available children than there are parents who want them, so the chances of getting a healthy newborn are quite low. The average wait time is eighteen months. Add this to the fact that the children may already be several months old when the process begins, and a year older by the time it’s final. This means there is greater potential for these children to have attachment disorders and emotional problems. The average cost for domestic adoptions runs between $25,000 and $40,000, which is a lot of money for average-income families, with no guarantees. That’s the big thing. Even after paying that kind of money, there are no assurances.”
Charlene frowned. “Where are you going with this?”
“I’m getting to that. I started investigating this theory five years ago, a year after the New Mexico events occurred. I conducted some deep undercover work, made a few underground contacts but the people involved, for good reason, are very secretive. No new faces are allowed inside the circle, and in the end, I had to get out before my security was breached.”
“Get to the point.”
“The babies are being bought and sold.”
Charlene felt her stomach clench with a fresh dose of horror. “You think this guy, married to Susan Harper and Cindy Richards, is the mastermind behind a baby-selling ring?”
Matt shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Smith picked up the thread. “This goes far deeper than a single individual. He’s only one small cog in a massive baby-selling machine. I believe he’s selling them to a group, who in turn is selling them to parents desperate to adopt a child, leaving no paper trail. They’re saving people money, as well as time, and they’re making guarantees. A newborn will remember nothing about his family of origin, and his appearance will change almost overnight, making identification difficult, and much harder to trace. They could be shipping them all over the world.”
She asked the question percolating in her mind. “When the photos of these babies are released, why does no one come forward?”
“We believe that no child is sold to adoptive parents from the same country, or even the same continent, as the ones where the babies disappeared.”
Charlene leaned back, letting Smith’s words resonate in her brain, and felt more frightened for Martina than ever.
Without warning, Smith added, “And once those babies cross the border, they never come back.”
“Do we know if the kidnapped babies are still in the country?”
“I’ve been working with the RCMP and CSIS in Canada, monitoring the borders for any development. I’ve also been in direct communication with a senior officer with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, and our surveillance indicates that no children have crossed the border. It’s almost certain that the children are still in the United States, but we have no idea where.”
Matt shook his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
Charlene noticed. “What is it?”
“I heard this theory a week ago, but something is bothering me about it.”
“What’s that?”
Matt licked his dry lips. “The theory itself is sound. It’s true that it’s a lengthy and costly adoption process, and that it’s hard to get a healthy newborn. The baby-snatchers stand to make a lot of money. All good—except you say the babies won’t be sold in the US. Instead they’re being shipped overseas or to Canada. How do the kidnappers make money on that? The market for a healthy newborn is in the US. If adoption and/or the availability of babies is easier in other countries, why would parents in those countries choose to adopt an American baby, illegally?”
Charlene looked at Smith, who opened his mouth and then closed it.
Matt continued, “And how would the kidnappers make big bucks if they charge adoptive parents less than if it’s done legally? Assuming the seven babies stolen six years ago were sold for twenty-five grand each, that’s only $175,000. Factor in the cost of paying the kidnapper himself, buying the equipment to pull it off, paying for new documentation and flying the newborn out of the country, it becomes a very expensive enterprise, and not a lucrative crime spree, by any stretch of the imagination.”
Matt sat back and let out his breath.
Smith was quiet, shuffling and rearranging papers on his desk, and stuffing them into folders. He wouldn’t look at them.
Charlene said, “I know why.” After a pause she added, “I don’t think the money matters to the kidnappers themselves.”
“What?” Smith and Matt chorused.
“Of course, I’m just thinking out loud here, and I haven’t tested my theory yet. I’m not doubting your numbers, but for all we know, someone is paying this kidnapper double that for these babies. Some parents would pay unlimited money for a guaranteed healthy baby. But I don’t think the kidnappers care.”
Smith nodded. “Go on.”
“I think this has something to do with jealousy. I think the kidnappers like seeing the parents suffer. Why else leave so many witnesses? These are intentional witnesses. He left them alive because he wants them to suffer. I think the people involved have somehow been hurt—maybe they can’t have children of their own, and feel that these parents don’t deserve to have children either. They want the parents to feel what they feel.”
The atmosphere inside the small room grew tense.
Smith stood up and pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. “I have to meet with the press to discuss last night’s kidnapping. This is going to get worse.”
“We’re heading to a cancer clinic in Aurora.” Matt rushed to tell Smith the theory about the nurses losing their babies.
Smith nodded. “Okay, but meet me back here when you’re through. From now on, the three of us are sharing information and working together.
* * *
Smith’s theory tumbled around in Charlene’s head as they entered the UCHealth – Hereditary Cancer Clinic – Anschutz.
The clinic was located on the third floor in the University of Colorado Hospital in metro Denver, and provided early screenings, risk assessments and education to preserve and support the health of patients with a hereditary predisposition toward cancer.
Matt showed his badge at the front counter to a young, brunette receptionist.
“Is this about Tanya’s murder?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you speak with my boss.” She picked up the phone and made a call.
Less than a minute later a short, stocky white-haired man appeared and strode toward them. He wore a white lab coat and sported a full beard and glasses.
“I’m Elwin Monahan.” He shook their hands. “What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to speak to you about your employee’s murder.”
“That was a long time ago. Have you discovered new evidence?”
Matt ignored his question. “Is there somewhere where we can speak in private?”
“Of course.”
He led them into the back, where on one side of the hallway each lab was surrounded by clear plexiglass. Behind the partitions, white-coated technicians worked in soundproof rooms, where a high-tech sprinkler system ran along the ceilings.
The other side of the hallway had regular-looking hospital rooms with beds and curtains that could be pulled for privacy.
“It’s a shame what happened to Tanya. A damn shame.” He spoke as they walked. “We can talk in my office.”
“Actually,” Matt said. “We’d like to see a little bit of what you guys work with here.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”
Charlene asked, “Can you tell us about Tanya?”
“Model employee, never late, never sick, and good at her job.”
“What did she do?”
“Tanya was one of our cytotechnologists.”
“What?”
“Tanya was chiefly responsible for specimen collection, microscopic examination of slides prepared from each specimen, as well as record keeping.”
“Was she good?” Matt asked.
“One of the best. A cytotechnologist must be able to concentrate for long periods of time while examining slides with the microscope, and Tanya was one of the most focused.”
“Did she have access to radiation?”
The lab tech shook his head, as if it had been an odd question. “Of course, she did—all of our employees do. But the health hazards to people working in Tanya’s field are minimal. However, working in the laboratory environment and with biological material always carries risk. All cytotechnologists are trained in laboratory safety and the appropriate handling of all types of specimens.”
Charlene wasn’t sure how to word her next question. “Did you ever see evidence of missing radiation?”
“You think Tanya stole from us?”
“Do you?”
“Come with me,” he said.
He led them into one of the labs, where a woman in a white lab coat, plastic goggles, and rubber gloves handled material through a hole in a clear plastic box. She didn’t turn around when they entered.
Matt asked, “Can we be in here without protection?”
“Yes, this isn’t dangerous.”
He proceeded to the end of the long room and opened a door to a small shelf on the wall. He pulled out a rectangular metal box, opened it up, and showed them a collection of small, silver pebbles, each one about the size of a grain of rice.
Charlene said, “I don’t get it.”
“They’re radioactive pellets.”
Charlene took an involuntary step backward, as if she’d just been told it was an atomic bomb. From the corner of her eye, she saw Matt smile.
“If Tanya or anyone else took one of these, it would be hard to track.”
“How many could someone take without it being detected?”
He shrugged. “I can’t answer that.”
Matt asked, “How powerful is a single pellet?”
“Extremely powerful. These pellets are used in a treatment known as high dose rate (HDR) brachytherapy. A computer-controlled machine, called a microselectron, implants a pellet which gives off radiation that damages and destroys cancerous cells.”
“Would it be possible for a pregnant woman to lose her baby if she were exposed?”
“I would have to say yes, but we take every precaution here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Matt nodded. “Of course. But I have a hypothetical question for you.”
Mr. Monahan appeared uncertain. “Okay.”
“If someone wanted to secretly expose an unborn fetus to these radiation pellets outside of this facility, to terminate a pregnancy, what would be the best way to go about something like that?”
“That’s a strange question.”
“Any idea?”
“Well.” The man scratched at his thick white beard. “Maybe hide it in the woman’s underwear, tampon or feminine pad, but that’s a weird thing to do.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Monahan.”
Chapter 18
Matt had called Agent Smith from the car but he hadn’t returned from his briefing with the press, so Matt and Charlene stopped at the Aurora Police Department at 15001 East Alameda Parkway.
The station was set up much like most police departments throughout the country, including the LAPD, with detectives sharing space with their desks pushed together. Each desk held a computer and calendar.
They huddled around the desk of Detective James Remax, a young-looking, clean-cut cop who didn’t look like he’d been on the job long.
Remax slapped a folder on the desk and opened it. “This one was handed down to me by Detective Charlie Hunt, who retired two years ago, and this investigation went straight to the cold case files. I put in my time, but I couldn’t connect the dots.”
‘Put in my time’ was cop jargon for following leads that came his way, but not proactively seeking, or going out of his way to find his own information.
“What do you know about Peters?”
He read from his notes. “Tanya Peters, thirty-six, Christian, single mother of two boys, employed at the UCHealth – Hereditary Cancer Clinic – Anschutz.”
“Enemies?”
“Not that we know of. No outstanding warrants, didn’t owe money, no problems with IRS. As far as we can tell, she was above reproach.”
“What about the ex?”
“According to him, family and friends, there was no ill-will in the split. He had visiting privileges, made his payments regularly, and they split time with the kids fifty/fifty. Seems like a clean break up.”
Charlene interrupted, “So what do you have on the murder?”
“Her body was found in South East Aurora, on a side street just off of Smoky Hill Road.”
Matt tilted his head in question. “Really?”
The significance of the location seemed to click with Matt, who was a native, but it did nothing for Charlene.
Matt asked, “What’s your take on that? She’s not some junkie with a criminal record. What would a relatively young, employed, Caucasian single mother be doing in that area? Especially one who lived nowhere nearby?”
Charlene asked, “Where is that?”
The detective finger-combed his hair. “Not exactly the kind of place for a gal like Tanya Peters.” He looked at Matt. “We have no reason to believe that she was a regular. When we flashed her picture at local shop owners and residents, no one had ever seen her before. There were no needle tracks or anything in her system to indicate she was a user, then or previously. The Peters family has no idea why she would’ve been there.”
Charlene continued, “How did she die?”
“Ligature strangulation. Her purse and pockets had been emptied and her jewelry was taken. Mugged and killed. No sign of recent sexual activity, so she wasn’t assaulted.”
“Or someone wants you to believe that,” Charlene argued.
