"Relay personal schedule," Waverly requested.
No engagements scheduled during first period. Engagement with Larin Stevens, booked for overnight during second period. No engagements scheduled during third period.
"Larin, yes." He smiled again, with a twinkle. "We went to the theater, had a late supper at my home. We also shared breakfast, if you understand my meaning, Captain."
"That's Stevens," Feeney said briskly as he entered the name in his book. "You got an address?"
All warmth fl
ed. "My assistant will provide you with it. I'd like the police connection to my personal friends kept to a minimum. It's very awkward."
"Pretty awkward for the dead, too, Doctor. We'll check out your friend and your patient. Even if they clear you for two of the periods, we've still got one more."
"A man's entitled to spend the night alone in his own bed occasionally, Captain."
"Sure is." Feeney leaned back. "So, you pop hearts and lungs out of people."
"In a manner of speaking." The smile was back, digging charming creases into his cheeks. "The Drake has some of the finest organ transplant and research facilities in the world."
"What about your connections with the Canal Street Clinic?"
Waverly raised a brow. "I don't believe I know that facility."
"It's a free clinic downtown."
"I'm not associated with any free clinics. I paid my dues there during my early years. You'll find most doctors who work or volunteer at such places are very young, very energetic, and very idealistic."
"So you stopped working on the poor. Not worth it?"
Unoffended, he folded his hands on the desk. Peeking out from under his cuff was the smooth, thin gold of a Swiss wrist unit. "Financially, no. Professionally, there's little chance for advancement in that area. I chose to use my knowledge and skill where it best suits me and leave the charity work for those who are suited to it."
"You're supposed to be the best."
"Captain, I am the best."
"So, tell me—in your professional opinion…" Feeney reached in his file, drew out copies of the crime scene stills and laid them on the highly polished surface of the desk. "Is that good work?"
"Hmm." Eyes cool, Waverly turned the photos toward him, studied them. "Very clean, excellent." He shifted his gaze briefly to Feeney. "Horrible, of course, on a human level, you understand, but you asked for a professional opinion. And mine is that the surgeon who performed here is quite brilliant. To have managed this under the circumstances, with what certainly had to be miserable conditions, is a stunning achievement."
"Could you have done it?"
"Do I possess the skills?" Waverly nudged the photos back toward Feeney. "Why, yes."
"What about this one?" He tossed the photo of the last victim on top of the others, watched Waverly glance down and frown.
"Poorly done. This is poorly done. One moment." He pulled open a drawer, pulled out microgoggles, and slipped them on. "Yes, yes, the incision appears to be perfect. The liver has been removed quite cleanly, but nothing was done to seal off, to maintain a clear and sterile field. Very poorly done."
"Funny," Feeney said dryly, "I thought the same thing about all of them."
• • • •
"Cold son of a bitch," Feeney muttered later. He paused in the corridor, checked his wrist unit. "Let's find Wo, chat her up, see about getting a look at where they keep the pieces of people they pull out. Jesus, I hate these places."
"That's what Dallas always says."
"Keep her out of your head for now," he said shortly. He was working hard to keep her out of his and do the job. "If we're going to help her close this, you need to keep her troubles out of your head."
Face grim, he strode down the corridor, then glanced over as Peabody fell into step beside him. "Make an extra copy of all data and interview discs."