Vector

by Robin Cook

  “Okay, I have the folder,” Randolph said into the phone, capturing Jack’s attention. “And I’ve got the PA’s report in front of me.”

  “What’s the scoop?” Jack asked.

  “The attending doctor, Michael Cooper, gave a diagnosis of status asthmaticus leading to death,” Randolph said. “There was a long history of asthma with hospitalizations and multiple ER visits. She was also grossly obese, which I’m sure didn’t help her breathing when she got into trouble. It also says she had lots of allergies.”

  “I see,” Jack said. “Tell me, did you look at the body?”

  “Of course I looked at the body!” Randolph was clearly offended by the query.

  “In your professional opinion, were there any signs of domestic violence?” Jack asked.

  “If there’d been signs of domestic violence I would have done the goddamned autopsy,” Randolph said defensively.

  “Any signs of suffocation?” Jack asked. “Like petechial hemorrhages in the sclera. Anything like that?”

  “You’re insulting me with such questions,” Randolph shot back.

  “How about toxicology?” Jack asked. “Were any samples taken?”

  “An autopsy wasn’t done!” Randolph snapped. “We don’t do toxicology on cases we don’t post. Neither do you.”

  Randolph disconnected without another word. Jack raised his eyebrows as he hung up the receiver. “Kinda sensitive guy although in his defense my lack of diplomatic skills is legendary. Anyhow, did you hear the other end of that conversation?”

  Both Warren and Flash nodded.

  “He said there was no sign of domestic violence,” Jack said. “Now he’s not the world’s greatest medical examiner in my opinion, but recognizing domestic violence isn’t that hard even though it can be subtle.”

  “Why did you ask about toxicology?” Warren questioned.

  “Poisons, things like that are picked up in toxicology,” Jack said. “That kind of stuff goes on.”

  Warren looked at Flash.

  “Do you want me to continue looking into this?” Jack asked.

  Flash nodded. “I’m sure he killed her.”

  “After what you just heard, why do you still feel that way?”

  “Because she didn’t have no strong history of asthma and allergies.”

  “Are you sure?” Jack asked with astonishment.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Flash said. “I’m her brother, ain’t I? Hey, she had a little when she was young. But I’m talking about when she was ten. Over the last couple of years I’ve been talking to her at least once a week. She didn’t have no allergies and no asthma.”

  “My word,” Jack said. “That puts a new spin on all this.”

  “What else can you do?” Warren asked.

  “I can call the attending doctor, for one thing,” Jack said. “The doctor that took care of her at the Coney Island Hospital.”

  Since Jack had the Yellow Pages open to the hospital section, it was easy for him to get the number. He called and asked for Dr. Michael Cooper to be paged. When he got the man on the line, he went through his usual ME routine of explaining who he was and why he was calling. In contrast to Randolph, Michael was cooperative and not at all defensive.

  “I do remember Connie Davydov,” Michael said. “Tough case! She came in essentially moribund. The EMTs described her as very cyanotic when they arrived at her home and barely breathing if at all. She’d collapsed in the bathroom where her husband found her. They gave her oxygen immediately and ventilated her. When she got here to the ER she was acidotic with a CO2 off the chart and low arterial oxygen saturation. The numbers improved with adequate ventilation but her clinical state didn’t. She had no peripheral reflexes, dilated and fixed pupils, and an essentially flat EEG. There wasn’t much we could do.”

  “How did her chest sound?” Jack asked.

  “By the time she got here, it sounded clear,” Michael said. “But that didn’t surprise us with the low oxygen saturation and the degree of acidosis she had. All her muscles, including her smooth muscles, were essentially paralyzed. Considering her size, she was like a beached whale.”

  “Any suggestion of a heart attack?”

  “Nope,” Michael said. “The EKG was essentially normal, although the rate was very slow, and there were some changes consistent with her low arterial oxygen.”

  “What about stroke?”

  “We ruled that out with a CAT scan that was normal,” Michael said. “We also did an LP, and the fluid was clear.”

  “Any fever, skin lesions, or other signs of infection?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing,” Michael said. “In fact, her temperature was subnormal.”

  “And you did get a strong history of asthma and allergies,” Jack said. “How did you get it? Was it through hospital records?”

  “No, from the husband,” Michael said. “He was pretty together despite his ordeal and was able to give us a good history.”

  Jack thanked the man and hung up. He turned to Warren and Flash. “This is getting more interesting. It doesn’t sound as if the history was corroborated. I think maybe I ought to take a look at Connie.”

  “Can you do that?” Warren asked.

  “Why not?” Jack said.

  Jack went back to the phone to try to get Randolph on the line directly, but no one picked up. Next he tried paging him. When the operator came back to ask who was calling, Jack gave his name and waited again. When the operator returned the second time, she told him that the doctor was busy. Jack left a message that he was on his way over.

  “Seems that Dr. Sanders is indulging in a bit of passive-aggressive behavior,” Jack said as he stood up. He picked up his cellular phone and his small camera and pocketed both. “What do you guys want to do? You’re welcome to come along.”

  “You want to go?” Warren asked Flash. “I got the time.”

  Flash nodded. “I want to see this to the end.”

  “How’d you get here to the ME’s office?” Jack asked.

  Warren held up an ignition key. “I got my wheels parked right outside on Thirtieth Street.”

  “Perfect,” Jack said. “Let’s go!”

  They took the elevator down to the basement and were about to exit through the loading dock area when Jack paused.

  “I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “Who knows what my reception’s going to be over in Brooklyn. It might be best to bring my own supplies.”

  “What kind of supplies you talking about?” Warren asked.

  “It’ll take too long to explain,” Jack said. “You guys wait here or out by the car. I’ll be right back.”

  Jack detoured into the depths of the morgue, passing the bank of refrigerated compartments where the bodies were stored prior to being autopsied. Conveniently, he ran into Vinnie coming out of the pit. Jack asked the mortuary tech to get him a bunch of sample containers for various body fluids, a mask, rubber gloves, a clutch of syringes, a couple of scalpels, and a nasogastric tube.

  “What the hell are you going to do?” Vinnie asked. He eyed Jack suspiciously.

  “Probably going to get myself in hot water,” Jack said.

  “Are you going out of house?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You want me to come along?” Vinnie asked.

  “Thank you, but no,” Jack said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  It didn’t take Vinnie long to get the material, and by the time he reappeared Jack had gotten a small satchel he used to carry an extra set of underclothes back and forth between work and his apartment. Especially during the summer, he sweated profusely on his morning bicycle commute and had to shower and change.

  Jack threw all the supplies into the satchel, thanked Vinnie, and headed back to the loading dock. He found Warren and Flash on the sidewalk. They were again arguing about whether Flash should go out to confront his brother-in-law.

  As they piled into the car the two lifelong friends behaved as if they were angry with each other.
Jack got into the spacious back seat, while Warren and Flash climbed into the front. The car was a five-year-old Cadillac.

  “Can’t we make this a pleasant trip?” Jack asked, hoping to ease the tense atmosphere.

  “He’s crazy!” Warren complained throwing his hands in the air. “He’s going to get himself in big trouble or killed, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, but it was my sister who was murdered,” Flash shot back. “If it were yours, you’d feel the same way I do.”

  “But you don’t know she was murdered,” Warren said. “That’s the whole point. That’s why we’re here talking to the doc.”

  “Listen, Flash,” Jack said. “I’m reasonably confident I’ll be able to tell if there was foul play, but you might have to be patient. I might not be able to say definitively for a couple of days.”

  “How come a couple of days?” Flash asked. He swung around in his seat to glare at Jack. “I thought you could tell if you just looked at her.”

  “That might be,” Jack said. “But I kinda doubt it, since Randolph didn’t see anything. He’s not that bad an ME. What I’m concerned about is some kind of poison.”

  “Like what?” Warren asked. He looked at Jack in his rear-view mirror.

  “Cyanide, for instance,” Jack said. “Of course that doesn’t fit, since the oxygen level in her blood was low. Still, it’s something to think about.”

  “What else?” Warren asked.

  “Carbon monoxide has to be considered,” Jack said. “But the trouble with that is that she was described as being cy-anotic, or blue, by the EMTs.”

  “Is that all?” Warren asked. “No other poisons?”

  “What is this, a test?” Jack asked.

  “No, I’m just interested,” Warren said.

  “Well, now you’re pushing me,” Jack said. “But I suppose I’ll be thinking about barbiturates, benzodiazepines, like Val-ium, ethylene glycol, and stuff like that. What all these agents have in common is they cause respiratory depression, which apparently Connie had.”

  “How could her husband have killed her with carbon monoxide?” Flash asked.

  “Did they have a car?”

  “Yeah,” Flash said. “They even had a garage.”

  “Well, he could have gotten her drunk or drugged enough to put her in the car while it was running in the garage,” Jack said. “Or better still, with the exhaust piped directly into it. Then when she was nearly dead, he could have carried her into the bathroom and called nine-one-one.”

  “He couldn’t have carried her anyplace,” Flash said. “She was about three hundred fifty pounds.”

  “I’m just giving you a hypothetical situation,” Jack said. “Jeez, you guys! Come on, let’s go!”

  “You gotta tell me where to,” Warren said.

  “Kings County Hospital,” Jack said. “It’s southeast of Prospect Park over in Brooklyn.”

  “Should I take the FDR Drive?” Warren asked.

  “Yes,” Jack said. “And go over the Brooklyn Bridge. Then get on Flatbush Ave.”

  Warren started his car and they set off.

  “Flash,” Jack called from the back seat as they were heading along the East River. “What are the chances that your sister could have committed suicide?”

  “No way!” Flash said without hesitation. “She wasn’t the type.”

  “Was she ever depressed?”

  “Not in the usual sense,” Flash said. “But maybe a little. It could have been why she ate so much. She knew she’d married a mental case.”

  “How so?” Jack asked.

  “The dude did nothing,” Flash said angrily. “He’d come home from work and drink in front of the television. That was it, at least until a few months ago, when he started spending all his time in the basement.”

  “Doing what?” Jack asked.

  “Tinkering around, I guess,” Flash said. “Connie didn’t tell me what he did. I don’t think she knew.”

  “Did she drink a lot herself?”

  “Nope,” Flash said. “Provided you’re talking about booze. Milkshakes are another story.”

  “What about drugs?” Jack asked.

  “She wasn’t into drugs,” Flash said. “Never was.”

  “Where in Brooklyn did she live?” Jack asked.

  “Fifteen Oceanview Lane,” Flash said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Brighton Beach,” Flash said. “She lived in a kinda cute area with a bunch of small wooden cottages. In the summer she could walk to the beach and take a swim. It was pretty nice.”

  “Hmmm,” Jack commented. He wondered what the place looked like. He couldn’t imagine cottages within the New York City limits.

  Parking around Kings County Hospital was a nightmare come true, but it didn’t rattle Warren. In the trunk he had an old beat-up ash can with the bottom cut out. All he did was find a spot in front of a fire hydrant, park, and then cover the hydrant with the modified garbage can. Jack marveled at the adaptations that city living required.

  Outside of the medical examiner’s office both Warren and Flash paused.

  “Maybe we should wait out here,” Warren said. He looked at Flash. Flash nodded.

  “Fine by me,” Jack said. “I’ll try to make it fast.”

  Jack entered the building. He flashed his badge to the receptionist, who’d never seen him before. Duly impressed, she buzzed him in.

  Not wanting to waste time, Jack went directly to the mortuary office next to the autopsy room and walked through the open door. A mortuary tech was at the desk.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Jack Stapleton from the Manhattan office,” Jack said with alacrity. He showed his badge as he’d done with the receptionist.

  “Hello. I’m Doug Smithers. What can I do for you?” The man was plainly surprised. Exchange visits were not the norm.

  “A couple of things,” Jack said. “First, as a courtesy, would you page Dr. Randolph Sanders for me? Ask him if he wouldn’t mind coming down here.”

  “Okay,” Doug said with a tinge of uncertainty. It wasn’t part of a mortuary tech’s job description to dictate to the MEs. He picked up the phone. When he got the doctor on the line, he relayed Jack’s request verbatim.

  “Perfect!” Jack said. “Now I’d like you to find a body for me and wheel it someplace where I can take a look at it.”

  “Would you like it on a table in the autopsy room?”

  “No,” Jack said. “I’m not going to be suiting up. I merely want to take a peek at the corpse and take a few body fluid samples. So just find someplace with adequate lighting.”

  Doug Smithers got to his feet. “What’s the accession number?”

  “That I don’t know,” Jack said. “The name is Connie Davydov. She came in, I believe, early this morning.”

  “That body’s not here,” Doug said.

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. It went out not that long ago: maybe a half hour.”

  “Damn!” Jack yelled with a shake of his head for emphasis. He tossed his satchel onto the desk with a clatter. His face reddened.

  “I’m sorry,” Doug said. He hunkered down as if he expected Jack to take a swing at him.

  “It’s not your fault,” Jack snapped. He cracked his knuckles in frustration. “Where did the body go?”

  Doug warily bent over the ledger book on the desk. He used his index finger to scan down the column. “It went to Strickland’s Funeral Home.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “I believe it’s on Caton Avenue over near Greenwood Cemetery.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Jack muttered. He began to pace while he tried to think what to do next.

  “Dr. Stapleton, I presume,” a voice said with a distinctly condescending air. “Aren’t you wandering a little far afield?”

  Jack glanced up at the doorway. Framed between the jambs was Dr. Randolph Sanders. He was a bit older than Jack with mostly gray hair brushed back from his narrow face. He wore thick-rimm
ed black glasses that gave him an owlish appearance. In the hierarchy of the medical examiner’s office, he was far above Jack, with almost twenty years of experience.

  “I thought I’d dash over here and give you some very needed help,” Jack shot back.

  “Oh, please!” Randolph remarked contemptuously.

  “Why in hell’s name did you send the Davydov body out when you knew I was coming over here?”

  “I got a mysterious message that you might pay us a visit, but there was no request to keep the body here.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since an IQ of fifty or more would have been necessary to have presumed as much.”

  “I don’t have to listen to your juvenile slander,” Randolph said. “Have a nice trip back to Manhattan.” He spun on his heels and disappeared from view.

  Jack stepped out into the hall. He called out to the retreating Randolph. “Well, let me tell you something. Connie Davydov did not have either asthma or allergies. She was an entirely healthy woman who suddenly experienced respiratory failure without having a heart attack or a stroke. If that’s not the kind of case that deserves an autopsy, I don’t know what is!”

  Randolph stopped at the elevators and faced around.

  “How do you know she didn’t have asthma and allergies?” he demanded.

  “From her brother,” Jack said.

  “Well, let me tell you something,” Randolph said disdainfully. “My source of the woman’s history happens to be this office’s most experienced forensic investigator. You can believe whomever you wish. I’ll rely on a professional.”

  Randolph turned and calmly pressed the elevator button. He glanced back briefly to give Jack a condescending smile.

  Jack was about to counter angrily Randolph’s last statement when it dawned on him how ludicrous it was for him to be arguing with such a blockhead. Besides, a confrontation with this ME would do nothing to advance his looking into Connie Davydov’s case. Shaking his head, Jack went back into the mortuary office and grabbed his satchel from the desk. Doug looked at him curiously but didn’t say anything.

  Still fuming, Jack stalked out of the Brooklyn ME’s office and strode down the sidewalk toward Warren’s car. Warren and Flash were leaning up against the Caddy’s fenders. They looked at Jack expectantly as he approached, but Jack didn’t say a word. He just climbed into the back seat.