by Robin Cook
“Thank the Lord for small favors,” Calvin said. He tipped forward in his chair, and the workings again moaned in complaint. “I’ll have Bingham call Patricia Markham, the Commissioner of Health. Why don’t you phone the city epidemiologist: the one you worked with so closely concerning the plague case. What was his name?”
“Clint Abelard,” Jack said.
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Calvin said. “Give him a call. It will foster that cooperative interagency agenda the mayor’s been harping on.”
“Clint Abelard and I hardly worked closely,” Jack said. “Back then when I tried to call him he wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone.”
“I’m sure he’ll feel differently in light of what eventually transpired,” Calvin said.
“Why not have someone else on our capable staff make the call?” Jack said. “Like one of the janitors.”
“Hold the sarcasm,” Calvin said. “Don’t cause problems! Call the man! Case closed! Now, what about that prisoner death?”
“What do you mean, ‘What about the prisoner death’?” Jack asked. “You saw the blood in the neck muscles and the broken hyoid bone. They had him in a deadly choke hold.”
“What about his brain?” Calvin asked. “Did you find anything?”
“You mean like a temporal lobe tumor,” Jack said. “So we could suggest he’d had a psychomotor seizure that turned him into a raving madman. Sorry! The brain was normal.”
“Do me a favor and look at the histology carefully,” Calvin said. “Find something!”
“This case is in the hands of our happy toxicologist,” Jack said. “Maybe he’ll come up with cocaine or something like that.”
“I want the completed file including death certificate on my desk by Thursday,” Calvin said. “I’ve already got a call from the attorney general’s office.”
“In that case it would help if you gave John DeVries a call,” Jack said. “A request to the lab for a rapid result coming from the front office would have far more import than from a grunt like me.”
“I’ll call John,” Calvin said. “But irrespective of what John comes up with, it’s going to be your job to make sure there’s something in the file that leaves the door open, even if only by a crack.”
Jack rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He knew what Calvin was implying, namely that the police commissioner had impressed Bingham that the involved officers needed some justification for the deadly restraining force they’d used. Jack knew prisoners could be violent. Dealing with them was a job he did not envy. At the same time there had been episodes of abuse on the part of the police. Making judgments beyond the forensic facts was a slippery slope Jack refused to descend.
“Hold up!” Calvin called out before Jack was beyond earshot.
Jack leaned back in the deputy chief’s office.
“There’s someone else I want you to call about the anthrax case,” Calvin said. “Stan Thornton. Do you know him?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
Stan Thornton was the director of the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management. He’d been the featured speaker at one of the Thursday afternoon medical examiners’conferences organized in the spirit of interagency cooperation. The topic had been mortuary challenges in the event of a disaster associated with a weapon of mass destruction.
Jack had found the talk disturbing. Prior to the lecture he’d never seriously contemplated the logistics of dealing with a massive number of casualties. Just the problem of identification of thousands upon thousands of dead people was mind-numbing. On top of that was the dilemma of what to do with them.
“What would you like me to tell him?” Jack questioned.
“Tell him exactly what you told me,” Calvin said. “Considering the case is a limited occupational exposure, it’s more a courtesy call than anything else. But since anthrax came up in his discussion of bioterrorism, I’m sure he’d at least like to know about the incident.”
“Why me?” Jack complained. “I’m not good at this professional courtesy stuff.”
“You’ve got to learn,” Calvin said. “Besides, it’s your case. Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”
Jack left the administration area, stopped on the second floor to get a sandwich out of a vending machine, then headed up to the fifth floor. Although he intended to return directly to his office, he couldn’t resist sticking his head into Laurie’s. His idea was to press her once more about the nature of the “big secret.” Unfortunately she wasn’t there. Dr. Riva Mehta, her officemate, told Jack that Laurie was closeted with the law enforcement officers in Bingham’s office.
Grumbling under his breath about how his day was going, Jack plopped himself down in his desk chair.
“You look as bad as when you left,” Chet said. “I hope you didn’t provoke the deputy chief into some sort of argument.”
Jack and Calvin were frequently at odds. Calvin believed in strict rules and set protocols. Jack viewed all regulations as guidelines. He believed that intelligence and native instincts were far more practical than bureaucratic edicts.
“It’s a bad hair day,” Jack said evasively. He scratched the top of his head and then cracked his knuckles while deciding which one of the unpleasant tasks he’d been assigned he should attack first. As he opened up his phone directory to look for Clint Abelard’s number, an unpleasant idea occurred to him. Maybe Laurie had gotten a job offer someplace like Detroit, or worse yet, someplace on the West Coast. It made sense; if she were relocating, she’d certainly want to tell him and Lou, and since such a move would undoubtedly represent a promotion, she’d probably be excited about it. For a moment Jack stared into space while he tried to imagine what life in the Big Apple would be like without Laurie. It was difficult to contemplate; it was also depressing.
“Hey, I forgot to tell you about the show at the Met,” Chet said. “There’s a Claude Monet exhibition that Colleen is dying to see. We got tickets for Thursday.”
Chet had been dating Colleen Anderson on and off for three years. She was an art director for Willow and Heath, a Madison Avenue advertising firm. Jack was acquainted with both Colleen and Willow and Heath, having come into contact with them through the course of tracking the infectious disease case that spawned his reputation.
“How about you and Laurie coming along to see the show?” Chet continued. “Then we could all go out to dinner afterward.”
Jack cringed at the thought of not having Laurie around to join him for trips to the museum. And that would be nothing compared to how much he would miss seeing her every day. Not that Chet could have known the feelings that his invitation had provoked.
“I’ll ask her,” Jack said. He picked up the phone and dialed Clint Abelard’s number.
“Let me know what she says,” Chet added. “If it’s a go, I’ll have Colleen get extra tickets. As a member of the museum, she won’t have any trouble.”
“I’ll be seeing Laurie tonight,” Jack said as his call went through. “I have a number of things to talk to her about. I’ll ask her then.”
“Did you see that skinhead case she was doing this morning?” Chet questioned. “Talk about gruesome; that one deserves a prize. It’s sickening what one human can do to another.”
Jack asked for the city epidemiologist and was put on hold.
“Unfortunately I did see it,” Jack said. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. “The FBI agent thought that the perpetrators were fellow skinheads.”
“Those kids are nuts,” Chet said.
“Do you know if Laurie found anything that was helpful for the police?” Jack asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Chet said.
When Dr. Clint Abelard finally came on the line, Jack made an effort to be friendly and upbeat. Unfortunately, his overture was not reciprocated.
“Of course I remember you,” Clint said dryly. “How could I forget? Thank God it’s not every day a coroner makes my job harder.”
Jack bit his tongue. In t
he past, when Jack had first met Clint, Jack had carefully explained the difference between a coroner and a medical examiner. As a medical examiner, Jack was a physician with training in pathology and training in a subspecialty, forensics. In contrast, a coroner could be merely a bureaucratic appointee with no medical training whatsoever.
“We medical examiners always aim to please,” Jack said.
“Why are you calling me?” Clint asked.
“We had a case of inhalational anthrax this morning,” Jack said. “We thought you’d like to know. The patient was brought in from the Bronx General Hospital.”
“Just one case?”
“That’s right,” Jack said.
“Thank you,” Clint said.
“Aren’t you going to ask anything about its origins?” Jack asked.
“Finding out its origins is our job,” Clint said flatly.
“That might be so,” Jack said. “But just for the record, let me tell you what we’ve learned.”
Jack went on to explain about the Corinthian Rug Company, about how a recent shipment of Turkish rugs and hides was locked up in the warehouse in Queens, that Jason Papparis was the only employee, and that he’d never taken any of the rugs home.
“Thank you,” Clint said without emotion. “You’re so very astute. If I have any epidemiological mysteries, I’ll be sure to give you a call for your assistance.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Jack said, ignoring Clint’s sarcasm, “I’d like to know what you plan to do about this current anthrax episode?”
“I’ll have one of my assistants go out to Queens and seal the warehouse,” Clint said.
“Is that all?” Jack questioned.
“We’ve got a major cyclospora outbreak that’s taxing our manpower at the moment,” Clint said. “One case of a containable occupational illness doesn’t constitute an epidemiological emergency. We’ll get to it when we can, provided, of course, there are no more cases.”
“I suppose you know your business,” Jack said, “but it’s my feeling ...”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Clint interrupted. Then, without warning, he hung up.
Jack replaced the receiver. “Hell’s bells,” he said to Chet, who’d twisted around in his chair as the conversation progressed. “So much for intra-agency cooperation. That guy’s more sarcastic than I am.”
“You must have mortally wounded his ego when you dealt with him during that plague episode,” Chet said.
“Well, let’s see if I have any better luck with the director of the Mayor’s Office of Emergency Management,” Jack said.
“Why on earth are you calling him?” Chet asked.
“It’s a courtesy call,” Jack said. “Strict orders from our deputy chief.”
A secretary answered, and Jack asked for Stan Thornton.
“Is that the guy who lectured to us on weapons of mass destruction?” Chet asked.
Jack nodded. To his surprise the director himself came on the line immediately. Jack explained who he was and why he was calling.
“Anthrax!” Stan exclaimed. It was obvious the man was impressed. In sharp contrast to Clint Abelard, he bombarded Jack with questions. Only after he learned that the probable cause was contained and that there was only one case did his voice lose its urgency.
“Just to be on the safe side,” Stan said, “I’ll use my contacts with the Department of Health to make sure there are no other inpatients in the city with suspicious symptoms.”
“Good idea,” Jack said.
“And I’ll have that warehouse quarantined,” Stan added.
“That’s already in the works,” Jack said. He related to Stan his conversation with Clint Abelard.
“Perfect!” Stan said. “Clint Abelard would have been high on my list to contact. I’ll coordinate with him.”
Good luck! Jack thought to himself.
“Thanks for your quick response,” Stan continued. “As I mentioned in my lecture, you medical people might be the first to see the effects of a bioterrorism event. The faster the response, the higher the possibility the event could be contained.”
“We’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Jack said before winding up the conversation and hanging up.
“Congratulations,” Chet said. “That was a very civilized conversation.”
“My intra-agency diplomatic skills must be improving,” Jack quipped. “I didn’t irritate the guy in the slightest.”
Jack gathered up the papers from Jason Papparis’s file and stuffed them into the folder. He pushed it aside and redirected his attention to the prisoner-in-custody case.
For a few minutes, peace reigned in the cluttered office. The two medical examiners bent over their respective desks and went back to work. Chet glued his eyes to his microscope while he diligently scanned a section of liver from a case of fatal hepatitis. Jack began to outline the significant pathology on the prisoner case.
Unfortunately, the tranquillity didn’t last long. A sound similar to a gunshot reverberated around the tiny room. Chet sat bolt upright. Jack uttered a string of expletives, making Chet even more anxious. But then Chet realized that they weren’t in jeopardy of becoming their office’s next two cases. The sudden noise had come from Jack’s slamming his ballpoint pen down onto the desk’s metal surface.
“Damn! You scared the hell out of me,” Chet complained.
“I can’t concentrate,” Jack said.
“What’s the matter now?”
“A lot of things,” Jack said vaguely. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about Laurie.
“That’s not being very specific,” Chet said.
Jack reached over and retrieved Jason Papparis’s folder. “This case, for one.”
“What could bother you now?” Chet questioned irritably. “You made the diagnosis, reported it to the deputy chief, called the city epidemiologist, and even the Director of Emergency Management. What the hell else can you do?”
Jack sighed. “Like I said before, it’s too pat. It’s like it was designed to go into a textbook, and it’s bothering me.”
“Bull!” Chet said. “Sounds to me like you’re using it as an excuse. What else is on your mind?”
Jack blinked and eyed his officemate. Jack was impressed with Chet’s clairvoyance. For a fleeting moment Jack considered telling Chet about Laurie’s early-morning phone call, but then decided against it. Such a conversation might lead to questions about Jack’s true feelings about Laurie, an issue Jack wasn’t ready to probe, even on his own.
“There is something else,” Jack said. His face fell into an exaggerated expression of emotional anguish. “I’m upset that Seinfeld is off the air.”
“Oh, for crissake,” Chet said disgustedly. “It’s impossible to have a discussion with you. Fine! Stew by yourself, but at least do me the favor of doing it quietly or, if that’s impossible, go someplace else!”
Chet swung around once again and replaced the slide on his microscope stage with another. He leaned over the eyepieces while mumbling under his breath how trying Jack could be.
“Clint Abelard said he’d see that the Corinthian Rug Company’s warehouse was quarantined,” Jack said. He poked Chet’s shoulder with the corner of Jason Papparis’s folder to make sure Chet was listening. “What about the office here in Manhattan? What if the rug merchant brought some of the hides to the office? And what about the advisability of going through the company’s records to see if any of the recent shipment had been sold and shipped elsewhere?”
Chet swung back around. He examined his officemate’s broad face and saw that he was being serious.
“What do you want me to say?” Chet asked.
“I want you to confirm my concerns,” Jack said.
“Fine,” Chet said. “You’re right! So do something about it! Call back the epidemiologist and make sure he’s thought of these issues! Get it off your chest. Then you and I can get some work done.”
Jack eyed his phone, then looked back at
Chet. “You really think so? He’s not a fan of mine and he’s not what you’d call receptive to suggestions, especially my suggestions.”
“So what if the guy is a nerd?” Chet said. “At least you’ll have the satisfaction of having done everything you could possibly do. What do you care what he thinks of you?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jack said as he reached for the phone. “I can’t expect everybody to love me like I do.”
Jack called back the city epidemiologist. The secretary asked for Jack’s name, then put him on hold. Jack waited for several minutes. He looked up at Chet.
“So the guy’s being a little passive-aggressive,” Chet said. “Hang in there.”
Jack nodded. He drew interlocking circles on his scratch pad, then drummed his fingers on the desktop. Finally the secretary came back on the line.
“I’m sorry but the doctor is busy,” she said. “You’ll have to call back.”
Jack hung up. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I just love this intra-agency cooperation crap.”
“Send him a fax,” Chet suggested. “It will accomplish the same thing without the aggravation of having to talk with him.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Jack said. He got out the identification sheet and retrieved Helen Papparis’s phone number. He then put in a second call to the rug dealer’s bereaved wife.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Jack said after identifying himself.
“It’s no bother,” Helen said. She was as gracious as she’d been on the first call.
“I wanted to ask if you’d heard from any of the city public health people,” Jack said.
“Yes, I have,” Helen answered. “A Dr. Abelard called soon after I spoke with you.”
“I’m glad,” Jack said. “Could I ask what he said?”
“He was very businesslike,” Helen said. “He wanted the address and the keys for the warehouse. Then he made arrangements for the local police to come by and get them.”
“Excellent,” Jack said. “What about the office in Manhattan? Did Dr. Abelard ask you about that?”
“Nothing was said about the office.”
“I see,” Jack said. He glanced at Chet, who shrugged. Jack thought for a moment and then added: “I’d like to take a look inside the office myself. Would you have a problem with that?”