Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler Page A

customers—medical schools or medical device companies, for example—huge storage, transportation, and” again miming quotation marks, “handling fees. That part is legal.”
    “Meaning there’s an illegal part?”
    Boynton nodded slowly. “Didn’t hear it here, but yes, I’m convinced of it.”
    Wendy stole a glance at her recorder. The red record light was glowing, so she was catching every word. “Go on.”
    “What I’m telling you is only what I suspect. I don’t have proof. We clear on this?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, then. First, there’s a huge black market for body parts. There’s also a huge demand. So, say you’re Ditto and you pick up a fresh body, one that’s still warm and in perfect condition. If you know what you’re doing and work quickly, you can salvage everything—corneas, skin, heart valves, ligaments. I could give you a complete laundry list, but I think you get the idea. He doesn’t deal in kidneys or other living internal organs for transplant—because that gets a completely different level of state scrutiny—but still, there’s enough tissue to make a jaw-dropping amount of money from dealing in cadaver parts. And it seems like such easy money that every year you read about some dumb shit morgue worker arrested for helping himself to parts of the deceased.”
    She thought back to the few cases she reviewed.
    “Donating your body isn’t for everyone, and I’m here to tell you it doesn’t happen every day. For a variety of reasons. Most of all, not everyone knows it’s an option. And if you do know, you might not like the idea of being dissected in a classroom full of curious med students. Maybe you’re worried about being naked in front of an audience. For others, just the thought is intrinsically repugnant. Maybe some have a religious law or belief against it. The point is—and this is a biggie—the number of annual donations doesn’t come close to meeting the demand. Yet somehow every year Ditto’s business grows. How does he do it? I can’t understand where he gets all his material—it must be a huge supply. Something’s not right.”
    She wanted to know exactly where he was going with this. “Can you be more specific?”
    “All I know is how many bodies come to us annually. It’s not close enough to meet our needs. So I can’t for the life of me see how it can approach what Ditto’s numbers are. Granted, he aggressively advertises his discount funeral part of the business and that helps. But think about it. There shouldn’t be any material left over from that. At least not if he really is cremating the entire bodies. So where do all the body parts come from to supply the cadaver parts business?”
    “What exactly are you saying?”
    “Did I say anything?”
    “No, but you sure implied something.”
    “I told you I’m not going on the record with this.” He wagged an admonishing finger.
    “Look, if you have any proof of anything, say it. Now’s the time.”
    “No, I don’t. I already told you that.”
    “Then give me a hypothetical. What do you suspect is going on?”
    Boynton seemed to choose his next words carefully. “Ditto is running three businesses. The one everyone knows about is his budget funeral service. No problem there. The second is his medical research program in which bodies are used for various teaching programs. Supposedly, after the body or limbs are used, all the parts are returned and cremated together and the ashes disposed of according to the family’s wishes. The third business is supplying cadaver parts—bone fragments, ligament, whatever—for use in surgery. I simply don’t see how he gets enough material to keep that third part of the business so robust.”
    When he paused, Wendy said, “Go on, tell me what you think is happening.”
    “Obviously, he needs bodies to meet demand. How does he do it? First, there’s the possibility of getting unclaimed or unidentified bodies from the medical examiner. But they don’t