What is COTTON FBI?

Your name is Jeremiah Cotton. You are a small-time cop in the NYPD, a rookie that no one takes seriously. But you want more. You have a score to settle with the world. And anyone who calls you “Jerry” will be sorry.

A new time. A new hero. A new mission. Experience the birth of a digital cult-series: Cotton FBI is the remake of JERRY COTTON, the most successful series of German novels with more than one billion copies sold, and it tells an entirely new story in e-book form.

Cotton FBI is published twice a month, with each episode a self-contained story.

Authors

Alexander Lohmann was born in 1968 in Munich. He studied computer science, German philology, and history, and has worked as a magazine editor. Reading The Lord of the Rings early on awoke his love of fantasy, which he has employed in several different novels. His penchant for tension-filled conflict led him to COTTON RELOADED. Alexander Lohmann is a freelance author, editor, and translator based in Leichlingen.

Peter Mennigen was born in Meckenheim near Bonn. He studied art and design in Cologne before he turned to writing fiction. His novels have been published by Bastei Lübbe, Rowohlt, Ravensburger and other publishing houses. He also writes scripts for graphic novels and audio dramatizations as well as screenplays for TV shows and series.

Jürgen Benvenuti was born in 1972 in Bregenz, Austria. After some time in Berlin and Barcelona, he now lives in Vienna. In addition to his novels, which have been published by Bastei Lübbe, dtv and the Falter Verlag, he has also written numerous reviews and articles for a variety of newspapers, magazines and online publications. From time to time he dares to take a detour into the movie business.

Linda Budinger is a freelance author and translator. She has been writing novels and short stories for over 20 years, which are mainly fantasy and speculative fiction. Her stories have been nominated several times for the Deutschen Phantastik Preis (German fantasy award). She became known through publications for the role-playing game “The Dark Eye” and as a co-author of the series of novels “Shadow Realm” (Schattenreich) published by Bastei Lübbe. The author lives in Leichlingen, Germany.

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright for the German edition © 2012 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Cologne, Germany

Copyright for the English edition © 2014/2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Cologne, Germany

Written by Alexander Lohmann, Peter Mennigen, Jürgen Benvenuti, Linda Budinger

Translated by Frank Keith, Sharmila Cohen

Cover design: Sandra Taufer, Munich

Cover illustration: © shutterstock / Irina Solatges / Pavel K
Pavel K; Birsen Cebeci; MANSILIYA YURY; ostill

E-book-production: Urban SatzKonzept

ISBN 978-3-7325-0589-0

www.bastei-entertainment.com

Death On Order

Alexander Lohmann

Translated by Sharmia Cohen

1

A motor scooter rattled past the manicured yards and wooden façades of the flat-roofed bungalows in the suburban housing development in Richmond, Virginia. The last glimmer of evening sun lingered on the horizon, already outshone by the lights in the windows and the yellow glow of the streetlamps.

The pizza deliveryman parked his scooter in front of a house whose yard was somewhat more overgrown than those of its neighbors, with sloppily trimmed bushes sprawling over an unkempt lawn. He took a thermal delivery case from the scooter’s rack, placed a bright red bag on top of it, and walked up to the house, balancing the pile in his arms. It was evidently a large order, and the scrawny man had a hard time carrying it.

He propped up the packages between his body and the doorframe so that he wouldn’t have to put them down to ring the bell. There was no movement inside. He rang again.

Finally, a light came on behind the small window beside the entrance. A gaunt man opened the door. He was unshaven and was wearing a T-shirt and dark-blue sweatpants. He stared at the deliveryman, whose face was obscured by a red helmet and vintage aviator goggles. It was such a bizarre sight that the man was a little taken aback.

“Your pizza!” the pizza man beamed, holding out the order.

The man looked him over. “I didn’t order anything.” He began to close the door. The deliveryman’s smile faded. He balanced the heavy case on a raised knee and used his free hand to grope around in the brightly colored bag.

“Just a minute!” he cried. “Are you Mr. Jason Clegg?”

Clegg paused. “Yes,” he said. “But I didn’t order anything.”

The pizza man pulled something out of the bag. It looked like a pistol but was in fact a much more modern invention, almost as dangerous. A taser.

Without hesitation, he fired. The needles of the electrodes ripped through Clegg’s baggy shirt and into his chest. The device crackled. Clegg convulsed. For a moment, he went stiff as a board.

The deliveryman stepped through the door, pushing Clegg backward with the thermal case. Clegg fell hard onto his back. The impact drove the air out of his lungs. In one smooth movement, the pizza man set the box down on the floor next to Clegg, turned around, and pushed the door shut. Then he attended to his victim.

The pizza man opened the thermal case and pulled out a drill, a small electric saw, a number of bags and boxes, and a leather pouch. He took an alcohol-soaked rag from one of the bags and opened one of the smaller boxes. Inside there was a prepared syringe and a glass plunger.

Clegg struggled to control his twitching muscles. He sat up halfway. “What …?” he managed to gasp.

The pizza man pushed Clegg’s chin back with his left hand and ran a disinfectant wipe across his victim’s neck, carelessly dropping it on the floor. With one finger, he flicked the protective cap off of the needle; he then plunged it directly into Clegg’s carotid artery, holding him against the floor with one hand. Clegg struggled feebly, but it was only a matter of seconds before he lay limp and powerless on the floor with a blank stare on his face.

The pizza man hummed to himself as he unpacked the contents of his delivery case. He pulled something odd over his victim’s head — a hood made of wire mesh that snapped into place. Making small incisions in Clegg’s scalp, he exposed his skull in the exact locations where the fine tubes attached to the hood pushed up against his head.

He hummed louder as his drill carved into bone.

2

Things were quiet at G-Team headquarters. Outside, the streets of New York were bathed in the light and warmth of an early summer day. The windowless underground headquarters, in contrast, was always lit by the same dim glow emanating from the monitors and fluorescent lights. The air-conditioning required to keep the electronic equipment from overheating made the air cool and stuffy. There wasn’t much noise in the large room, except for the hum of the computers and the occasional whispered conversations of agents at work.

Special Agent Jeremiah Cotton sat in front of his computer, whistling Roy Orbison’s “You Got It” and loudly pecking away at his keyboard.

Decker walked up and leaned against his desk. “So cheerful, Cotton? While writing reports? I thought you’d be climbing the walls with boredom.”

Cotton looked up. “It’s nice when there isn’t much going on. At five sharp, the workday’ll be over — a pleasure I haven’t experienced for a long time. And you know what, Decker? I even reeled in a date for the evening.”

“Oo-la-la,” Decker teased him. “A real date? Had enough of your casual flings? What’s the name of the lucky lady?”

“Maria,” Cotton answered.

Decker raised her eyebrows.

“She just moved here from Arizona,” Cotton said. “I helped her out when she got lost on the subway. One thing led to another …” He shrugged. “You know, Decker, this could be something serious. If it goes well, I’ll introduce her to Sarah. She’d certainly like that.”

Sarah Granger had taken care of Cotton after he had lost his parents in the attack on the World Trade Center. Both of them had just barely survived the terrorist attack. Sarah had taken Cotton in after the catastrophe and was a sort of surrogate mother to him.

Decker grinned. “Well, then, I wish you lots of luck with your private life.”

“Fortune favors the bold.” With a decisive keystroke, Cotton sent off his report into the depths of the server, then jumped up and grabbed his jacket. “So, now I’ll get out of here before anything comes up that could get in my way. Bye, Decker.”

He began to walk away between the rows of workstations that stretched all the way to the exit. The ringing of the phone on his desk summoned him back. It was John D. High, the head of the G-Team.

“Come to my office, Cotton. And bring Decker with you. I want to brief you on your next case.”

“Uh … it’s ten to five, sir.”

“Yes,” Mr. High said. “I can see that on the clock in my office.”

He hung up. Cotton paused indecisively. He looked at Decker. “Mr. High wants to talk to us. Just before quitting time. Who knows how long this will take.”

Decker was still grinning. “I heard. Come on, Cotton. You know that crime never takes a day off.”

Cotton just stood there for a moment, grumpily watching Decker’s blond hair bob over the collar of her expensive suit as she made her way toward Mr. High’s office. He hated it when she quoted his own favorite sayings back to him.

*

“This is Mr. Jason Clegg.” High had projected a photo onto the wall showing a man in a hospital bed whose face was obscured by tubes. “The night before last, he was attacked by a stranger in his house. A little while later, he was admitted to the hospital with severe head injuries. He’s in a coma — if he’s still alive. Our most recent information is two hours old. At that point, the doctors believed that he might become brain dead at any moment.”

High hesitated a moment and then added, “Strictly speaking, the doctors weren’t even fully in agreement that brain death hadn’t already occurred. The type of injuries he incurred didn’t make that easy to determine.”

“How is that possible?” Cotton asked. “I thought that measuring brainwaves was the most accurate method of determining death.”

“The attacker deliberately went after his brain, completely disabling parts of it. There is measurable brain activity, but it is largely limited to keeping Clegg’s body alive.”

Cotton’s eyes wandered, reflexively looking for a nonexistent window to the outside. “Was it a burglar, or just random violence?” he asked. “I don’t see why the FBI is taking on the case.”

“He fell into a coma …” Decker said pensively. “That sounds familiar. This isn’t the first case, is it?”

John D. High shook his head. “That’s why it was flagged by the FBI’s analysts. Over the last six months, we’ve seen four patients admitted to hospitals with similar injuries who died shortly thereafter. Each time, an anonymous caller alerted 9-1-1 — and there are indications that the attacker was the caller every time.”

“A serial … offender?” Cotton had been about to say serial killer, but technically speaking, the victims hadn’t exactly been murdered.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” High pushed the case files over to the two agents. “The circumstances are unsettling. It’s possible that there are even more victims out there; in one case, the head injuries were only discovered by chance. The doctors had first suspected a stroke. The analysts are looking into similar patients. You should go talk to Ms. Hunter regarding the medical details.”

Cotton looked at the clock. He was supposed to meet Maria at seven. If they quickly visited Sarah Hunter, the G-Team’s forensic scientist, and then he hurriedly changed his clothes, and if Maria were a little understanding about his tardiness, then maybe he could still salvage their date.

“I’ve also booked you both on a flight to Richmond,” Mr. High continued. “Tonight at nine from Newark. That way, you’ll be able to examine Clegg’s surroundings and look for a common factor that might tie the cases together.”

*

Early the next morning, Cotton and Decker arrived at St. Mary’s Hospital in Richmond. Just before their flight, they had found out that Jason Clegg had died. They had come to the hospital to interview Dr. Mulheimer, who had been in charge of his treatment, and to find out whether Clegg had any relatives in the area.

The lanky blond doctor shrugged. “The man had no visitors. We couldn’t locate any next of kin.”

“Can you prepare the body for transport?” Cotton asked. “We’d like to conduct our own autopsy.”

“We can have the body transferred,” the doctor said, “but an autopsy has already been conducted.”

“What was the hurry?” Decker asked.

“The man had an organ donor card,” Mulheimer answered, “and a very rare phenotype. There are many desperate patients waiting for donor organs.”

“He had a donor card?” Cotton asked. “I thought that was marked on your driver’s license.”

The doctor shrugged. “Some people change their minds. Getting a card to keep in your wallet is easier than applying for a new license. It’s not common, but it proves that the patient made an independent decision on the issue. And we didn’t want to reject Mr. Clegg’s donation, despite the sad circumstances surrounding his death.”

“So you disassembled him and sent all the parts off in different directions?” Cotton said dramatically, venting his anger. “That could’ve been evidence!”

Mulheimer snorted. “Don’t worry. Of course we knew that a crime had been committed. We took every imaginable precaution while performing the autopsy, the same as in the previous cases. I think that Clegg will be the most thoroughly scrutinized corpse you’ve ever come across.”

Cotton was not convinced.

“How do you know that you’ve gathered all the information that’s important to us?” he asked. “We’ve only just begun to investigate the circumstances of his death.”

“The circumstances of his death were highly unusual, I can tell you that much already. With each of these examinations, several experts have been involved, and we’ve discussed every possibility in depth. As for the person responsible for the injuries that led to Clegg’s death … I’m afraid he may represent a problem for you.”

Decker’s ears pricked up. “How do you know that? What can you tell us about the attacker?”

“Very little, except that he knew exactly what he was doing. He must have precise knowledge of human anatomy, particularly in terms of how the brain is structured — a rare specialization.”

“You mean he’s a brain surgeon?”

“I don’t want to speculate,” Mulheimer responded. “In any case, the culprit was somehow able to acquire extensive theoretical knowledge prior to the crimes, and he’s had the opportunity to perfect that knowledge through practical application. He used a special neurosurgical tool to create specific lesions in the victim’s brain.”

“What exactly did the attacker do?” Cotton inquired.

“He essentially turned the victim into a mindless shell while inflicting the minimum possible damage. Although the injuries Clegg sustained were severe enough to wipe out his personality and most other mental functions, the precision of the damage allowed the body to remain alive for a time. Clegg’s death was inevitable — sooner or later, he was going to die of brain damage — but the outcome was no accident. With purely random incisions in the brain, any number of things from immediate death to minor specific failures could have occurred. But the attacker didn’t choose randomly.”

“If it wasn’t random, what was it?” Decker asked.

“Well, you could almost say it was …” The doctor cleared his throat. “… elegant.”

*

Decker and Cotton briefly looked around the hospital room where Clegg had spent the last two days of his life. The bed was neatly made, the instruments had been cleared away — there were no clues that could have told the agents anything. There was also no evidence of grieving relatives or other personal connections that might have revealed something about the dead man’s background.

Cotton and Decker made their way to the pathology lab. They found that the body had in fact been studied quite thoroughly, and that all of Clegg’s injuries had been fully documented. The attacker had tased him, as marks on the man’s chest revealed. Using a bone drill, he then opened the top of the victim’s skull, inserted needles, and incinerated areas of the brain by applying voltage. In Clegg’s file, there were a number of MRI and CT scans of the injuries, taken while Clegg was still alive, but also thin tissue slices from the post-mortem dissection.

“We can send anything important to Sarah,” Decker said.

“Yeah,” Cotton said. “Apparently, they don’t do brain transplants yet.”

Decker chuckled. “Too bad; I know a few people who could use one. Well, I’ll send Sarah the data and then ask her what else she needs for a detailed investigation.”

A few moments later, the two agents found themselves standing indecisively in the hall.

“What now?” Cotton asked. “I don’t imagine we’ll be able to solve the murder using only the medical records. And we’re not going to find any more evidence in the hospital. It’s too bad that no one seemed to be interested in Clegg — at least, not enough to drop by.”

“He has a brother in Seattle.” Decker flipped through the case documents that she had transferred to her smartphone. “But I don’t think that we’ll discover any familial reasons for the murder. Not considering the other cases.”

Clegg was already the fifth person to be found in a coma after suffering brain damage from surgically precise incisions. There were no connections between the victims, who came from all over the country, and there were no obvious similarities between them other than the manner of their deaths.

“What about his surroundings?” Cotton asked. “Did he have a lot of money?”

“He’d been unemployed for the past two years.” Decker tapped on the small screen of her phone. “He had previously earned pretty good money as a systems analyst at a bank. Then he lost his job, got divorced, worked on a few short-term contracts … he probably just never got back on his feet. No idea what he’s been living off for the past few years. Possibly his savings.”

Cotton furrowed his brow. “Or maybe he was involved in some dirty business that ended up costing him his life.”

“There’s no evidence of that,” Decker said. “Besides, if someone wanted to get rid of him, there would’ve been easier ways.”

“Let’s talk to Mr. Clegg’s neighbors.” Cotton resolutely set off down the hall. “Maybe one of them saw something.”

“Or someone knows something about him that could give us a new lead,” Decker added without much hope. “A trait he shared with the other victims that could lead us to the attacker.”

*

“I’ve heard that Clegg had been drinking a lot lately.” Rupert Hillbridge narrowed his eyes and looked out the window. From his living room, he could see right into Jason Clegg’s yard.

“You’ve heard.” Cotton rolled his eyes. “But you haven’t seen anything, right?”

“Clegg usually kept his curtains drawn,” Hillbridge said. “He’d get a lot of fast food delivered, almost every night. He didn’t fit in around here.”

Mrs. Hillbridge, standing beside her husband, nodded in agreement. “Just like on the evening he died. I saw a pizza deliveryman drive up. Right after that, the ambulance came.”

“How long after?” Decker asked.

“About an hour,” Mr. Hillbridge said.

“Thirty minutes at the most,” his wife corrected him.

“Can you describe the deliveryman?” Decker asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Hillbridge shook their heads.

“Did you see the company logo?” Cotton asked.

Another negative.

Cotton and Decker were glad to get back outside onto the street. They had had to wait until the evening to question the Hillbridges, a working couple who returned home quite late. They had been the most promising witnesses, but in the end they hadn’t provided the agents with any more information than the other neighbors with whom they’d spoken.

It seemed that Clegg hadn’t really fit in with the neighborhood, and none of his neighbors had known him very well. The man had kept mostly to himself. Several neighbors mentioned the pizza deliveryman, but they didn’t even agree on whether he had come by car, motorcycle, or bicycle.

Nevertheless, the deliveryman was suspicious. At the very least, he had been the last person to see Clegg alive. Even more suspicious was the fact that there were no pizza boxes found in Clegg’s house, or at least none that had been delivered on the day of the crime.

So, they had a suspect, but no clue as to how they could find the man.

“We can check for surveillance cameras in the area,” Cotton suggested. “Maybe we can spot the guy in the recordings.”

Decker made a face. “But we don’t need to personally look at all of the images ourseleves. Let’s send the recordings to the office and have them be analyzed there.”

Cotton nodded. “We should try our luck with the other victims. If we compare the statements, maybe we’ll find something that’ll give us a lead.”

“I hope so,” Decker said. “We’ve gathered enough irrelevant information today — from Clegg’s alleged character flaws to his gardening habits.”

“Non-existent gardening habits,” Cotton added. “His yard is half jungle. If it weren’t for the other victims, I’d say the guy was lynched by his neighbors.”

*

Marissa Waite had been popular among her neighbors. She had worked twice a week at the local soup kitchen and had been a member of her church council. She was found lying in the gutter with a battered face, just a block away from her building in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco. The ambulance had been called from her own cell phone, but the voice analysis of the recorded phone call indicated that the inarticulate moans and groans that had alerted the 9-1-1 operator had been made by a man.

Decker and Cotton sat with the dead woman’s husband in his living room. Darkness was already setting in outside the window, and Decker suppressed a yawn. They had now been jetting back and forth across the country for three days, questioning dozens of witnesses from the individual murders. Gradually, all the statements were beginning to blend together, but without any discernible commonalities. The procedure was always the same. The victims were not.

Perched on the edge of his sofa, Mr. Waite fidgeted restlessly, staring into space. Cotton had to force himself to concentrate on the droning voice of the widower, whose brooding on certain details kept derailing the interview.

“I don’t understand it,” Waite said yet again. “Every Tuesday and Thursday, she worked all day with homeless people, and then she gets attacked in our neighborhood, of all places.”

“Mr. Waite …” Decker spoke to the man in a comforting tone of voice. “The police have already determined that your wife was probably not assaulted where she was found. The body was placed there. When we retrace your wife’s day, there’s a gap of an entire hour. No one knows where she was during that time.”

“They say someone killed her … deliberately killed her. Why Marissa? She only ever helped people!”

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Cotton said. "Anything you can tell us could be helpful. In the days prior to the attack, did you ever have the feeling that someone was watching you? Did your wife possibly mention anything of the sort? After her death, did you learn anything about your wife that you hadn’t known before? Any surprise connections or secrets?”

“What are you trying to say?” Waite looked up indignantly. “She had no secrets! There was no reason for this to happen to her!”

When the agents finally left the apartment, a cool night breeze greeted them. They looked up at the well-kept three-story apartment buildings that lined the busy street. Several passers-by had stumbled across Marissa Waite’s horribly beaten body before the ambulance had arrived. She couldn’t possibly have been lying in the busy neighborhood for more than a few minutes, but remarkably there were no witnesses who could reveal how she had gotten there and no indications of who the attacker might have been.

“Should we question more neighbors?” Decker followed the row of streetlamps with her eyes.

Cotton shook his head. “No more tonight.”

“It’d be best if we fly back early tomorrow,” Decker said. “We can find out everything else from the police files.”

“Except that those files have gaps big enough to fit your fist through,” Cotton complained. “The police just assumed that Mrs. Waite was attacked somewhere by unknown thugs and managed to drag herself almost all the way home. But that’s completely impossible. Not with those injuries! Not when you consider how long she was missing. And not without someone having seen her.”

Decker shrugged. Although it predated some of the other attacks, Waite’s case had been the last to be identified, as her brain injuries had been overlooked at first. The attacker had beaten and cut her face — randomly, it seemed — before going after her brain with the same needle punctures found in the other victims. The superficial wounds had been enough to cover up the surgical interference, and so the doctors had attributed Marissa Waite’s death to multiple brain hemorrhages following the violent assault.

Only now, with the specific search underway for possible similarities, had Waite’s case surfaced in the database, allowing the results to be re-evaluated. Marissa had survived nearly a week in a coma before she had been declared dead.

Decker seemed to feel obliged to come to the defense of the police. “The cops didn’t know anything about the brain damage. Even the missing hour could be explained without any connection to the crime. For example, Mrs. Waite could have stopped for a coffee on her way home.” She looked at Cotton before she went on: “How were the cops supposed to figure out that the attacker had spent an hour doing anything to her, if the doctors told them all her injuries had been caused by a few punches that could’ve been dished out in some dark alley in half a minute?”

“Don’t get me started.” Cotton felt personally affronted by the failures of his former colleagues on the force. “I know that type of cop. They’d rather jump on the first plausible explanation than engage in any critical analysis or expend any effort.”

“You probably know more cops than I do,” Decker admitted. “But at least the routine police work was clean in this case. They questioned all of the neighbors, especially the ones who might’ve noticed anything about Marissa Waite’s reappearance. We don’t have to re-do all that work.”

“Okay,” Cotton agreed. “But we probably can assume that Marissa Waite didn’t crawl all the way to where she was found. I’d guess that she was pushed out of a delivery van. We should look for something like that when we go through the police files again.”

“A delivery van …” Decker pondered. “With Jason Clegg, it was some kind of smaller vehicle for pizza delivery. Maybe it’s not just the similarities that are important in this case; maybe the differences can tell us something, too.”

“Like what?” Cotton asked.

“The appearance of our prime suspect is different every time. He’s adaptable and clever.”

“You think that this all revolves around the attacker? That we won’t find a connection between the victims?”

“Unemployed people, blue-collar workers, businesspeople, housewives, all ages, genders, socio-economic classes, and spread out all across the country. We now have six victims in eight months, and I see no connection between them at all. If you ask me, we’re dealing with the typical case of a serial killer who’s choosing his victims randomly, and it’s more about what he does to them than who they are. We should forward the case files to Les Bedell, our forensic psychology expert. We need a profiler to help us look at the case from the perspective of the perpetrator instead of the crimes.”

“I don’t know …” Cotton shrugged.

Deep in thought, the agents went back to their car and got in.

“What don’t you know?” Decker asked before Cotton started the engine.

“Well, I’m no profiler, but where’s the evolution of the murderer? Don’t serial killers start off slowly and then become more extreme as they try to enhance the thrill? Shouldn’t he be improving his methods, in search of the perfect crime? Why did he choose these victims? No preferred type, no preferred setting. They’re not even the easiest victims he could’ve found. It doesn’t make sense.”

Decker nodded. “There’s something to that, but you and I aren’t profilers. Don’t you think we should ask Bedell before we make any assumptions about what could be going on in such a sick mind?”

“Sure, we can ask him,” Cotton replied. “But I feel like we’ve missed something with these murders. Everything just seems so random. There must be a reason why the attacker chose these specific victims.”

“Oh, is that what your instinct tells you?” Decker said teasingly.

Cotton started the engine. “I think we already have the crucial clue we need to bring it all together. We just haven’t pinpointed it. If I don’t figure it out at the hotel or before our return flight, we can certainly call in the head-shrinker.”

3

Organ donors. Cotton was late for the briefing. He ignored Mr. Highs disapproving look, as well as the stunned expressions of Decker and Sarah Hunter, and slammed a file onto the table.

John D. High frowned. I hope you can present your report in complete sentences, Agent Cotton.

I found the common thread that connects all of the cases together, sir. All of the victims viable organs were removed after their deaths. I think thats what the murderer was looking for.

That sounds like organ theft, Decker said. But I already looked into that. They were all legitimately registered as donors. After their deaths were confirmed, the hospitals did everything required, by the book. The attacker had nothing to do with it. He didnt touch a single organ except for the brain and the subsequent organ donations followed protocol exactly. The requisite procedures were carried out at different hospitals, and different doctors were involved each time. I found no signs of malpractice. Unless youre buying into a conspiracy theory involving countless doctors across the country.

Dont you find it strange, Cotton continued, that all of the victims were organ donors?

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