Читать книгу The Memory Killer - J. Kerley A. - Страница 17

Patrick White sat at the desk in his apartment, its surface covered with books: Gray’s Anatomy, Human Musculature, Medical-Surgical Nursing. An ironing board was opened at his back, three fresh-pressed nursing uniforms hanging from the board. Music played at low volume, études by Debussy. Outside his window the setting sun had turned the sky into layers of purple and orange.

Patrick’s cell shivered an incoming call. He studied the caller’s name and rolled his eyes.

“Hi, Billy,” he said. “What’s happening?”

“You going to Kevin’s birthday party on Saturday, Nurse Goodbody?”

“Hunh-uh. Gotta study.”

“Bitch. All you do is work anymore.”

Patrick leaned back and tossed his pencil on a book. He spun his head in a circle to loosen his neck. “I have to hit the books, Billy. Got a major anatomy final next week.”

“If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, you’ll see lots of anatomy.” A wicked chuckle. “Take notes.”

“If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, I’ll have a two-day hangover. Can’t do it.”

“Gawd … when did you get so serious? Listen, a few of us are going to the Grotto tonight, just a few drinkies. Here’s an idea: close the fucking book and grab your pretty ass.”

Pictures of the Grotto flashed through Patrick’s head: dark corners, flashing lights, splashing drinks and sweaty dancing bodies, eyes scoping from every direction. It was a pick-up bar, raw sex seeping from the dingy, paint-peeling walls, the bathroom air bitter with the scent of amyl nitrite, any conversation quashed under waves of bass-heavy dance tunes.

The Grotto was Billy’s kind of place, but not Patrick’s. Not any more.

“I’m not doing the Grotto, Billy. No way.”

“You want a study break, Nurse White, have a real one.”

“How about D’Artagnan’s instead?” Patrick said.

“Oh, puh-lease,” Prestwick pouted. “Darts is so lame. All people do there is talk.”

“I’ll go to Darts, Billy. Not the Grotto.”

“Oh, all right, little Miss Picky. if you’re not there, I’m gonna strangle you with your own stethoscope.”

Patrick flipped the textbook closed. “I’ll see you around nine, Billy. But when the clock strikes ten-thirty …”

“You’ll become a pumpkin and mice will pull you home. Buh-byeee.”

Gershwin and I were grabbing a fast taco from a downtown street vendor when word arrived that Gary Ocampo’s DNA sample was running through the new machine and the results were nearly analyzed. We used the siren to move traffic aside and I think there were a couple times I cornered on two wheels.

At the lab we found Roy frowning at the ceiling, arms crossed as his fingers twitched the need for a cigar. Deb Clayton had turned away to take a phone call.

“Who is it?” Gershwin asked Roy.

Roy shook his head. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”

“Out with it,” I said. “Who’s the perp?”

“The DNA says it’s Gary Ocampo,” Roy said, passing me the printout of test results. “Still.”

“No way,” I said, staring at the report. “No way in hell.”

“The perp’s DNA matches Ocampo’s DNA,” Roy said. “Somehow your quarter-ton comic-book salesman has abducted and assaulted at least two healthy men.”

Gershwin thought a moment, snapped his fingers. “Maybe Ocampo’s got some crazy accomplice who’s … it’s too weird.”

“What?”

“Squirting Ocampo’s juice into the victims. Ocampo jacks off and puts it in a turkey baster. The rapist …”

Roy held up a hand. “Let’s wait for Deb to get off the phone before we spin off the planet. She’s checking with a DNA expert.”

She hung up and turned to us. “It can’t be Ocampo, Deb,” I said, feeling like the world was upside-down. “There is no way the guy could assault anyone.”

“Yet it’s his DNA, Carson,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “And at the same time, it isn’t. Ever study biology?”

A long-ago memory interceded. I slapped my forehead.

“What?” Roy said, cigar-denied fingers twitching like he was typing.

“He’s a twin,” I said. “Ocampo’s got an identical twin.”

We were back at Gary’s Fantasy World in twenty minutes, the time almost nine o’clock, the shop window bright against the dark. Ocampo was sitting and tapping at a laptop, setting it aside as we entered. The room had recently been dosed with a pine-scented air freshener, but nothing removes the undertone of too much body in too little space.

I pulled a chair to his bedside. “You have a brother, right, Mr Ocampo? An identical twin.”

Ocampo’s mouth dropped open. “How on earth can you know that?”

“I, uh … took another sample of your DNA yesterday – a tissue. Legal, but perhaps a bit, uh, covert.”

He frowned and I feared another verbal assault. Instead, he crossed his arms in justification and arced an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with my brother?”

“Your DNA still matches the samples taken from the victims.”

“What?”

“There’s only one answer: the DNA came from your brother. Do you have any idea where he is?”

Ocampo looked like I was speaking backwards and he had to translate my words into forward. “Wait … what you mean is … you’re saying my brother, Donnie Ocampo, is the one doing these terrible things? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Beyond a doubt. Your brother’s name is Donnie?”

Ocampo nodded. “It was. I guess it still is.”

“He changed his name?” I asked, puzzled.

“Donnie died a week after he was born, Detective,” he said quietly. “He’s been dead for over three decades.”