FORBIDDEN BIRTH
William Rubin
Forbidden Birth is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author. You can contact William Rubin at werubin.wordpress.com.
This book is also available in print.
ISBN: 978-0-9975949-1-1
All rights reserved.
Copyright 2016 William Rubin
Published by Crystal Vision Publishing
Formatted by Christine Keleny – CKBooks Publishing
To
Mom and Dad
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
About the Author
Discussion Guide
Chapter 1
New York City, April, 2015
The killer obliterated the young woman’s body. Long smooth strokes alternated with short vicious ones, tearing apart the woman’s abdomen as she lay motionless before him. Reflections danced off the polished instrument in his hand as it sliced through the air, blood dripped off the blade. Oh, how he reveled in it! His prize now in closer proximity, he slowed his work, delighting in the control and skill he had acquired from years of practice and careful study.
“What a shame it has taken me so long to find my true calling,” he said to himself as he thrust fourteen feet of coiled, glistening intestines out of his way. “But this is it! This is my life’s work.”
A few key cuts and he had what he had been searching for in the palm of his hand. He pulled it out and examined its symmetry, its beauty, its potential.
For some time now, he had decided who lived and who died—and who would be born again. He had built up this state-of-the-art lab from nothing over the last six and a half years. His clientele now included the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world. He produced high-priced miracles for them and they, in turn, unwittingly funded all he had worked so hard to create. After years of toiling in secrecy, the time had come to reveal himself. The world would learn of his intelligence and power. The world would learn to fear and respect The Giver, the moniker he had chosen for himself.
He looked up from the mangled corpse that lay before him and turned his attention to the flat screen monitor a few feet away. It was an NBC special report that he didn’t want to miss. New York State Governor Gregory Spatick was answering questions from a well-dressed reporter who sat across from him.
“Governor, you’ve allocated a great deal of time, money, and manpower to your pet project, the Division of Medical Crimes. To date they have not solved a single crime. Aren’t you concerned the federal government will withhold funding, shuttering the unit, if the DMC continues to fail?”
Spatick uncrossed his legs, shifted in his chair, and tentatively re-crossed his legs. “Janet, we have wonderful news to report for the DMC. Doctor Chris Ravello has just been appointed the lead detective for the Division of Medical Crimes. As you know, this division is our response to the explosive growth of medical associated crimes in recent years: illegal sales of drugs over the internet; synthetic street drugs; unusual murders where medical expertise is helpful; and crimes involving physicians, hospitals, pharmaceutical companies, or other areas of medicine. All such crimes in New York State now fall under the jurisdiction of the newly created Division of Medical Crimes. Detective Ravello is our new lead investigator and the FBI will also offer assistance whenever we feel their expertise would aid in solving such crimes.”
“Governor, it’s unheard of for an NYPD officer to become a detective after only two months on the job. With such limited experience, what qualifies Detective Ravello to now become the DMC’s lead investigator?” the blond said with a furrowing of her brow.
“Chris Ravello is the only physician-detective in the NYPD history. Doctor Ravello brings experience, knowledge, and a unique perspective to the fight against medical crimes in New York. I whole heartedly believe the DMC will flourish under Detective Ravello.”
“Can you better define the FBI’s role in all of this? Up until now, they have only been involved in investigations where federal laws have been broken or where crimes extend across state lines. How is the FBI to be involved in medical crimes that occur in the state of New York?”
“That’s an excellent question, Janet,” Spatick replied, leaning back in his chair. “Medical crimes in the US have nearly tripled in frequency in the last decade. As a result, Congress intervened, altering the FBI’s jurisdiction with regard to medical crimes. They also provided a great deal of funding for each state to create and maintain a Division of Medical Crimes. If a state doesn’t have a division, the FBI can take over such investigations as it sees fit―no questions asked. We have had a medical crimes division since the summer of 2014, s
o the FBI can only get involved in investigations when we ask them to be involved.”
“Who makes that decision? And once they’re involved, who is in charge?” Janet Glassman said as she leaned forward towards Spatick, revealing a bit of cleavage between her freshly pressed suit lapels.
“As governor, I alone make that decision,” Spatick said with a smug look on his face. “Under some special circumstances, that we won’t get into now, other high ranking state officials such as the Lieutenant Governor or State Attorney General can make the call. Once called in, the FBI is squarely in charge of the investigation from that point on.”
Hands still and folded in front of him, The Giver smiled to himself as the television droned on. Not only had the dead woman in front of him given him exactly what he needed, she was his perfect calling card. Her appearance would jolt Ravello. Indeed, it would disturb him to his core.
“Ravello is doomed to failure, just like all those before him. They haven’t caught me yet and bringing on that punk doctor won’t help,” The Giver said with a laugh “They don’t realize how powerful and dangerous I am, but Ravello will soon find out.”
The Giver closed the Styrofoam container labelled Organ Tissue Donor. This would hold his specimen, preserving and protecting the next link in what he saw as a brilliant plan. It would also deflect any prying questions from those who worked in the lab but were not yet privy to The Giver’s plans. He meticulously cleaned his instruments and put them away for later use. Next, he wrapped the body and cleaned every surface so that no one else would suspect where the tissue had come from. He then crammed the body into a large plastic container, dropped down the lid, placed it on a wheeled cart, and rolled it out the door. Soon Ravello will find this body in one of New York City’s landmark locations, and that’s when the fun will begin.
Before he turned off the lights, he inspected the room one last time.
“They have no clue who or what they are dealing with. And they never will.”
Chapter 2
Michelle and I were curled up on the couch sipping a sweet dessert wine, a 1989 Muscat Vin de Glaciére from Bonny Doon. Far too expensive for a cop’s salary, it was left over from my days as a general surgeon, when money was plentiful; that was hardly the case now. Pulling out the bottle was my attempt at smoothing over the rough edges that had developed between us. The kids had gone to sleep a half hour earlier. After a few minutes of light banter, we put our glasses down and I leaned forward on the couch while Michelle massaged my neck and upper back, uncoiling the knots that built over the last week.
While Michelle massaged, we spoke of the past and the present, of good times and bad. About how lucky we were to have found each other and how ten wonderful years of marriage had flown by. We thanked God for the daily blessing of our two beautiful, healthy young children.
Eventually we turned down the lights and our voices and held each other in a warm and long embrace, our faces, legs, and arms intertwined. Michelle’s touch melted my remaining tension and worries away. Thoughts of depravity and murder receded from my mind, as did the constant worrying about what I was putting my family through these past few months since I traded my scalpel for a gun.
Michelle was my rock and my sanctuary. Her kind words, her beautiful smile, and her infectious enthusiasm and optimism refreshed and renewed me. It sounds corny, but her love has always completed and sustained me, building a fortress that walled off the outside world’s destructiveness and divisiveness. Experience had taught me time and again that with Michelle’s support, I could face any adversity life thrust upon me—even the self-inflicted variety. Hopefully, the enormous stress I had placed us under wouldn’t do anything to harm our relationship.
Less than a year ago life was perfect. I had just finished my residency at Washington General, a Level 1 trauma center located in Harlem, and I had accepted a well-paying general surgery appointment there. A month later Michelle and I closed on a beautiful Victorian home in Rye, New York. The home boasted a beautiful view of the Long Island Sound, was in one of the best school districts in the country, and provided a short commute to work for me. In late August, Michelle and I embarked on a vacation to Australia to celebrate our ten-year wedding anniversary. The night and days that followed on our Australian adventure were the happiest in my life. But the trip was cut short by an unspeakable tragedy that altered our lives forever. My mother, Jacqueline, for whom our boy James was named, was viciously attacked near the Bronx Botanical Gardens. At the time, Mom was busy doing what she did best: helping people. The problem was, the stranded motorists she thought she was helping were in fact muggers. Over the next two weeks, Mom clung to life as we kept vigil at her bedside.
My mother regained consciousness just once during those two weeks, but it was long enough for me to tell her one last time how much I loved her. She responded in kind, expressing her joy and love for all of us and filling us in on the attack. She died later that day.
The period following my mother’s death was a deep and dark abyss, one that seemed without end or escape. I struggled to get through my work at the hospital as a longstanding illness of mine worsened under all the stress. Michelle’s love was the lifeline that tethered me to this world and showed me the way back home.
Michelle, without reservations or second-guessing, supported the difficult decision that helped me begin to heal. I resigned from my position at Washington General and entered the police academy, resolved to protect and serve by cleansing New York City’s streets of the kind of degenerates who killed my mother.
My longtime friend, Kevin Kennedy, a ten-year veteran of the NYPD and a Detective First Grade, had helped broker a deal in which I would use my medical knowledge to run investigations for a new, poorly performing division of the NYPD that was desperate for a shake-up.
My career choice came with painful repercussions for my family. Gone were the beautiful home and the upper class lifestyle in one of Westchester County’s most exclusive communities. Michelle, the kids, and I moved to a modest home we could afford in Peekskill. The neighborhood, one in which recent attempts at gentrification had failed miserably, left a lot to be desired, but it would afford us the fresh start I needed.
§
“Daddy, I’m scared,” my little girl said as tears welled up in her eyes.
“What is it, kiddo?” I said tenderly. “We have to get you to school now.”
“There’s a mean girl. She made fun of me yesterday and tried to punch me.”
Michelle and my eyes locked. This sort of issue would never have happened in Rye. The pain on my face said it all. Tension between Michelle and I and problems for our children were the norm since our move.
“Uh, you’ll be all right, sweetie.” I rubbed both of Christine’s arms. “I’ll talk to your teacher when I drop you off.”
“No, I want Mommy to do it. You don’t even know my teacher, Daddy.”
Oh boy. I looked at Michelle, this time with helpless eyes.
“It’ll be okay, Christine, Mommy will take―Oh, my God!” Michelle jumped back as a cockroach scurried past Christine’s feet. She screamed, picked up Christine, and ran to the corner farthest from the hard-shelled intruder. My cell phone rang. It was Kennedy.
“What’s up Kev? I’m sort of in the middle of something now.” I lunged at the cockroach but it squeezed under the cabinets.
“I thought you were coming in early, bud? Petersen is wondering where the hell you are?”
“Shit! I forgot that was today. I’m on my way.”
“Hun, I’ve got an early meeting.”
Michelle stared at me with exasperation. “Just go. I’ll take care of it...except the cockroach. You get to deal with that when you get home!”
§
“Ravello, this isn’t a country club. When I call a meeting, I expect everyone to be here,” Ray Petersen barked at me.
“Sorry Ray, er, Chief. Won’t happen again.”
“Better not. I don’t give a shit about your role at
the Division of Medical Crimes. When there are no active cases with the DMC, your ass is mine. Now get the hell out of here. Kennedy will fill you in on what you missed.”
“Right.” I hightailed it out of his office before Petersen, our chief of detectives, could think of anything else to ream me on.
§
“Well, no one can accuse you of being a kiss ass,” Kennedy said with a smirk as he stuffed his face full of a Boston Cream donut. The pastry looked like a crumb in his massive hand. A devout body builder, whose physique resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger from his early Terminator days, Kennedy nonetheless had a glaring weakness for the sweet stuff. “Took me four years on the force before Petersen lit into me like that. You pulled it off inside of six weeks. I guess you doctor types are quick studies.”
Kennedy had been my best friend since fourth grade, when we both moved to Ossining, New York, he from Queens and me from the Bronx. His gift for cutting through the niceties and just telling it like it is, was legendary.
“Been a hell of a morning, Kev. Found out Christine is being bullied at school, and we have cockroaches at the house…. Oh, and did I mention the hole Michelle bore through my skull with her eyes when I had to suddenly leave early this morning?”
“So, you could get here late and get your ass chewed out. Way to go, Doctor Ravello,” he said with a booming laugh that was best measured with a Richter scale.
Kennedy, best man at my wedding, ten-year veteran of the NYPD, direct descendant of Paul Bunyan, was reveling in my misery; somehow that made it all the more bearable.
“Well, things have got to get better from here on out,” I said with a grin. “Can’t get much fucking worse.”
“Ravello! Kennedy! Boys at the 2–2 just pulled a mutilated body out of the reservoir in Central Park.” Petersen’s voice boomed. “And for some friggin’ reason, McGowan wants the DMC on it.”