Chapter 8 - A Body Without a Name|
Marcus arranged for us to meet Detective Elena Ruiz, a Chicago investigator who had spent years tracking financial crimes connected to the Blackwood organization.
She listened without interrupting while I described the hospital attack, the missing records, and the email linked to Victor Hale.
When I finished, she folded her hands.
“You understand that if I open this investigation, your husband's criminal associations may become public?”
“They should be investigated whether I approve or not.”
Detective Ruiz studied me.
“That's not the answer I usually get from a Mafia boss's wife.”
“I'm a surgeon. My job is to find the cause of a problem, not pretend it doesn't exist.”
She nodded once.
“Then let's start with the body.”
The official report said Victor Hale had died in a warehouse fire six months earlier. His remains had been identified through dental records, and the case had been closed after a brief investigation.
But Detective Ruiz had discovered irregularities.
The dental records belonged to a patient who had died years before the fire. The identification had been approved by a medical examiner who later resigned. And the warehouse belonged to a shell company controlled by Richard Blackwood.
“Why wasn't this investigated?” I asked.
“Because the evidence was buried beneath layers of legitimate paperwork,” Ruiz replied. “And because someone made sure the people who asked questions lost their jobs.”
She showed us a photograph of the burned warehouse.
Near the rear entrance stood a man wearing a long coat. His face was hidden, but his left hand was visible.
A silver ring glinted on his finger.
The same ring from the dashboard image.
Marcus leaned closer.
“That's Richard.”
Detective Ruiz shook her head.
“Maybe. The image is too blurred to confirm.”
“Where is the body now?” I asked.
“The remains were transferred to a private crematorium.”
“Who authorized it?”
She turned a page.
“Ethan Blackwood.”
I felt the room go silent.
When I confronted Ethan later, he looked genuinely shocked.
“I never authorized a cremation.”
“Your signature is on the order.”
“Then someone forged it.”
“Someone has been forging your name, accessing your medical records, and arranging attacks around you. How much of your life is actually under your control?”
He looked at me, pain and anger mixing in his eyes.
“Less than you think.”
For once, I believed him.
Then Detective Ruiz called.
The crematorium's storage records had been altered, but a technician had secretly kept a copy of the original inventory.
One container listed as empty had been sealed and moved to a private facility three weeks earlier.
The recipient had signed with a name we all recognized.
May you like
Eleanor Bennett.
My mother's name.
