The Righteous Men

The orderlies were moving a gurney into a curtained-off zone which Will took to be the examination area. With not even a moment's warning, Russell pulled back the sheet.

Will felt his stomach tighten. The body was stiff and waxy, a yellowish green. The stench was rancid; seeming to come his way in waves. For a second or two he would think it had passed, or that at least he had got used to it, and then it would strike again – inciting Will to empty his guts out on the floor there and then.

‘It can take some getting used to. Apologies. Now take a look at this.’

Will moved closer. Russell was gesturing towards something in the stomach area, but Will was transfixed by Pat Baxter's face. The papers had run photos, but they were grainy – ‘grabs’ from TV footage mainly. Now he saw the weathered cheeks, chin, eyes and mouth of a man he would have identified as middle-aged, poor and white. He had a longish beard that, in a different context, might have looked elegant, even statesmanlike. (The face of Charles Darwin popped into Will's head). But the effect here was to give Pat Baxter the appearance of a homeless man, one of the winos found sleeping by trash cans in a park.

Russell was pulling back the sheet around Baxter's torso. Will could tell he was trying to conceal one thing, probably the bullet wounds, and reveal something else. ‘Look closely. Can you see it?’

Will leaned forward to see Russell's finger tracing a line on the dead white flesh. ‘That's a scar.’

‘In the area of the kidney?’

‘I would say so.’

‘And that can't be from that night, right? I mean, it takes ages to form a scar.’

Russell pulled back the sheet, stripped off his latex gloves and headed for a basin in the corner of the room. He began scrubbing, talking over his shoulder. He was enjoying this.

‘Well, of course, it's hard to be certain, what with the severe trauma to the skin and viscera.’

‘But what's your professional opinion?’

‘My opinion? That scar is, at the very least, a year old. Maybe two.’

Will felt his heart sink. ‘So it didn't happen that night? The killers didn't take out Baxter's kidney?’

‘I'm afraid not, no. You look disappointed, Will. I hope I haven't spoiled your story.’

But you have, arsehole, was Will's first thought. All this chasing for nothing. Then he remembered what Beth had said on the phone last night.

‘There is one last thing that might help. Do you think we could check Pat Baxter's medical records?’

Russell gave him a mini-lecture about patient-doctor confidentiality, but soon relented. Back in his office, he pulled up the file.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘The date Pat Baxter had his kidney removed.’

Russell paused, scanning the pages. Finally: ‘That's odd. There's no record of a kidney operation.’

Will perked up. He remembered Beth's briefing on the phone last night. ‘Anything there about a history of kidney problems, any disease, any references to renal failure, dialysis, anything?’

A longer pause now. And then, with a hint of puzzlement, ‘No.’

Will sensed he and the doctor now had something in common. They were equally baffled. ‘Does the history speak of any medical problems at all?’

‘Some trouble with his ankle, associated with war damage. Vietnam, apparently. Apart from that, nothing. I just assumed he was a renal patient who had to have his kidney out. This certainly appears to be a complete record. And yet there's nothing about a kidney. I've got to admit, this has me foxed.’

There was a light knock on the door. A woman, introduced by Russell as the media relations officer for the crime lab, opened it.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Dr Russell. It's just we're getting a ton of calls on the Baxter case. Apparently, an associate of the deceased called a talk radio station today saying that he believed Mr Baxter was a victim of some kind of organ-snatching plot?’

Bob Hill, thought Will. So much for his exclusive.

‘Sure, I'll be with you in a minute,’ Russell said, his brow tensing.

Will waited for the door to close to ask what Russell would tell the press. ‘Well, we can't give the most simple explanation, that Baxter had a history of kidney problems. Not now.’ It was Will's fault: he knew too much. ‘We'll think of something. I'll show you out.’

Will was pulling out of the driveway when he heard the pounding on his car window. It was Russell, still in his shirtsleeves and breathless.

‘I just got this call. She wants to talk to you.’ He passed his cell phone through the window.

‘Mr Monroe? My name is Genevieve Huntley. I'm a surgeon at the Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. I saw the reports about Mr Baxter on the news and Allan has just explained to me what you know. I think we need to talk.’

‘Sure,’ said Will, scrabbling to find his notebook.

‘I'm going to need some assurances from you, Mr Monroe. I trust The New York Times and I hope that trust will be repaid. What I am about to tell you I vowed never to repeat. I only tell it now because I fear the alternative is worse. We can't have people scaring themselves senseless about some organ-snatching ring.’

‘I understand.’

‘I'm not sure you do. I'm not sure any of us do. What I ask is that you treat what I tell you with honour, dignity and respect. For that is what it deserves, Mr Monroe. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes.’ Will could not imagine what he was about to hear.

‘OK. Mr Baxter's greatest request was anonymity. That was the one thing he asked of me in return for what he did.’

Will was silent.

‘Pat Baxter came to Swedish about two years ago. He had come a long way, we found out later. When he turned up, the nurses assumed he was an ER case: he looked like a bum off the streets. But he said he was in perfect health, he just needed to talk to a doctor in our transplant unit. He said that he wanted to give up one of his kidneys.

‘We immediately asked who he wanted to give the kidney to. Was there a sick child involved? Maybe a family member needed a transplant? “No,” he said. “I just want you to give my kidney to someone who needs it.” My colleagues immediately assumed that, frankly, there must be some mental health issues involved. Such nondirected operations are almost unheard of. Certainly the first one we had ever dealt with.

‘I sent Mr Baxter away. I told him this was something we couldn't consider. But he came back and I sent him away again. The third time we had a long talk. He told me that he wished he had been born rich. That way – I remember his words – that way, he said, he might have known the pleasure of giving away vast amounts of money. He said there were so many people who needed help. I remember, he asked me, “What does the word philanthropy mean? It means love of your fellow man. Well, why should only rich people be allowed to love their fellow man? I want to be a philanthropist, too.” He was determined to find another way to give – even if that meant giving away his own organs.

‘Eventually I concluded that he was sincere. I ran the tests and there was no medical objection. We even ran psychological tests and they confirmed he was of completely sound mind, totally able to make this decision.

‘There was only one condition, imposed by him. He swore us to complete secrecy, complete confidentiality. The recipient patient was not to know where his or her new kidney had come from. That was very important. He didn't want that person to feel they owed him. And not a word to the press. He insisted on that. No glory.’

Quietly, almost meekly, Will asked, ‘And so you went ahead with it?’

‘We did. I performed the operation myself. And I tell you, in my whole career there was no operation that made me prouder. All of us felt it: the anaesthetist, the nurses. There was an extraordinary atmosphere in theatre that day; as if something truly remarkable was happening.’

‘And did all go smoothly?’

‘Yes it did, it did. The recipient took the organ just fine.’

‘Can I ask what kind of recipient we're talking about? Young, old, male, female?’