by Robin Cook
Peter waved to indicate that he’d heard.
Jack climbed the stairs. With the Jefferson case sure to be completed by the Thursday deadline with what Calvin would consider a positive spin, there seemed to be a pinpoint of light at the end of Jack’s current tunnel of problems.
Back in the office, Jack ran into Chet, who was brimming with news of his previous evening’s experience at aerobics.
Not only had the girl with the curvaceous figure shown up, but she’d deigned to have a yogurt fruit drink with him after the class. Jack had to wait until he’d heard all about the woman before he could get a word in edgewise.
“Tell me, Casanova,” Jack said. “Would you know how to get ahold of any of those vets who gave that seminar you went to yesterday?”
“I think so,” Chet said. “Why?”
“I want to find out if and when they figure out what killed those rats. Also, whether any more of them had anthrax.”
“I’ll try to find out sometime today,” Chet said.
“I’d appreciate it,” Jack said, and quickly redirected his attention to his work spread out on his desk.
“Aren’t you doing any posts today?” Chet asked.
“I’ve taken an unscheduled paper day,” Jack said without looking up.
“Are you sick?”
Jack laughed. “That’s what George asked. I wish I were. It would be a convenient excuse. I’m just trying to eliminate one of the reasons the front office is always on my case, namely, being perennially behind getting my cases signed out.”
“One of the main reasons you’re always behind is because you take on too many cases in the first place,” Chet said.
“Whatever,” Jack mumbled as he began scanning a section of David Jefferson’s brain under his microscope.
After Chet left for the pit, Jack kicked the door shut to avoid the distraction of the casual visitor. Still, he found that he couldn’t truly concentrate. As preoccupied as he was about everything, he was unable to keep himself from glancing up at the clock every so often. Particularly as the time approached ten, he started to worry about the phone ringing. He fully expected Cheryl to call with the standard message that the chief wanted to see him ASAP. After all, by that time in the morning both Dr. Jim Bennett and Gordon Strickland would have had more than enough opportunity to phone their complaints about Jack.
As if on cue, the phone did ring at ten sharp. Despite Jack’s expecting it, its jangle unnerved him. For several rings he considered not answering. But recognizing the futility of putting off the inevitable, he picked it up. To his surprise, it wasn’t Cheryl. It was Peter Letterman.
“I’ve got some surprising news for you,” Peter said.
“Good or bad?” Jack questioned.
“I suppose you’ll think it’s good,” Peter said. “Connie Davydov did not have methemoglobinemia, but she does have botulinum toxin in all the samples you gave me, including her stomach contents.”
“Good Lord!” Jack said. “This isn’t some kind of sick joke, is it?”
“Not at all,” Peter said. “I ran several of the assays twice just to be sure. The results were strongly positive, suggesting the victim had a large dose. I can follow up with some quantitative tests, but that will take a while. I wanted you to know the qualitative results right away.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I owe you.”
“Glad to be of assistance,” Peter said before ringing off.
Jack hung up the phone slowly. He felt a mix of emotions. One was a kind of elation at the validation of his suspicions about Connie Davydov having been poisoned. The other was shock. Botulism probably was the last thing he expected.
Thrusting his chair back from his desk, Jack jumped up. Throwing open his door, he ran down to Laurie’s office. He wanted her to be the first to know the news, since botulism had been her suggestion. Unfortunately, her office was empty. She was undoubtedly down in the autopsy room.
Back at his desk, Jack’s mind churned over whom to call first. With a delicious sense of reprisal, he settled on Randolph Sanders. It took a few moments to get the doctor on the line. He’d been in the middle of an autopsy. Jack had insisted to the operator it was an emergency. When Randolph finally answered, his voice had an understandable urgency.
“Ah, hello, Randolph,” Jack said buoyantly. “This is your favorite colleague, Jack Stapleton.”
“I was informed this was an emergency,” Randolph growled.
“And indeed it is,” Jack said. “Just this moment I’ve been informed that your case, Connie Davydov, which we had reason to discuss yesterday, apparently succumbed to a rather large dose of botulinum toxin.”
A pregnant pause ensued.
“How was this determined?” Randolph demanded.
“By my personal persistence,” Jack said. “I went to the funeral home, where the director graciously allowed me to take some appropriate body fluid samples.”
“I’d not heard that had occurred,” Randolph said with a voice that had lost a good deal of its edge.
“Really?” Jack questioned. “I’d assumed you had. Nevertheless, as a favor to you, since we hold each other in such high esteem, I’m calling you rather than rushing down and informing Dr. Harold Bingham.”
“I appreciate that,” Randolph managed.
“Of course there is a practical aspect,” Jack said. “Connie Davydov is a Brooklyn case. I would assume you’d like to get the body back as soon as possible. I’ll also leave in your capable hands the chore of alerting the proper authorities.”
“Of course,” Randolph said. “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Jack said, thoroughly enjoying himself. “It’s nice to know we can help each other out on occasion.”
Jack disconnected. He couldn’t suppress a broad smile. Revenge had been sweet. It had been easy to tell just how much Randolph had been squirming.
Next, Jack put in a call to Warren. Jack briefly explained what he’d found concerning Connie and asked for Flash’s work number. It took Warren a few minutes, but he found it and gave it to Jack.
Flash worked at a moving and storage company, and it took a few minutes for him to be located. When he finally came on the line he was out of breath. He’d been moving boxes around the storage facility.
“I got the answer about Connie,” Jack said after he’d identified himself. “As Warren suggested yesterday, I think you’re going to have to take your anger out on the basketball court and not Connie’s husband.”
“He didn’t kill her?”
“It doesn’t seem that way,” Jack said. “She apparently died of botulism. Have you ever heard of that?”
“I think so,” Flash said. “Isn’t that some kind of food poisoning?”
“Generally, yes,” Jack said. “It’s caused by a toxin that a specific type of bacteria manufactures. What makes this bacteria particularly dangerous is that it can grow without oxygen. You used to hear about it mainly in connection with canned goods when the food wasn’t heated enough during processing to kill the spores. But in your sister’s case, the important thing for you to understand is that it appears that foul play wasn’t involved.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just got the report back from the laboratory,” Jack said. “The technician assured me they checked the results. I’m personally confident she died of botulism, and except for a few apocryphal stories of the toxin being used to assassinate Reinhard Heyrich, one of Hitler’s cronies, back in World War II, I’ve never heard of the agent being used in a deliberate poisoning. The stuff is not easy to come by. The idea of Connie’s husband using it would be giving him more credit than he deserves.”
“Damn!” Flash exclaimed.
“I tell you what,” Jack said. “Warren and I will let you win at basketball the next time we’re on opposing teams.”
Flashed laughed halfheartedly. “You’re too much, Doc! As competitive as you and Warren are, I can’t see you guys throwing a game, no-how. Anyway, thanks for looking
into this mess for me. I appreciate it.”
“I’m glad to have been able to help,” Jack said. “Now I have a question for you. What’s Connie’s husband’s name?”
“Yuri,” Flash said, practically spitting the name. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid I have to call him up,” Jack said. “With Connie passing away with botulism, Yuri is certainly at risk.”
“I couldn’t care less,” Flash said.
“I can appreciate that,” Jack said. “And as your friend, I couldn’t care either. But as a doctor, I feel differently. Would you mind giving me his phone number?”
“Do I have to?” Flash asked.
“I suppose I could look it up,” Jack said. “Or get it from the Brooklyn office. But it would just be easier if you gave it to me.”
“I feel like I’m doing the turd a favor,” Flash complained before giving Jack the number.
Jack wrote it down. They talked for a few more minutes about possibly playing ball that evening before saying goodbye and hanging up.
Once they did, Jack immediately dialed the Brighton Beach number. As the call went through, he mentally outlined what he’d say. He wondered if Yuri Davydov would have an accent, and if he truly was the ogre that Flash believed he was. But Jack didn’t get through. The line was occupied.
In a significantly more buoyant mood, Jack returned to his paperwork. With enhanced efficiency, he completed yet another of his cases. After placing it on top of the completed pile, he tried the Brighton Beach number again. He got the same busy signal.
Jack wasn’t surprised. He imagined the man had a lot of calls to make in the aftermath of his wife’s death. But as the morning wore on, and Jack continued to try to place the call with the same lack of success, he finally lost patience. He dialed the operator and asked for Yuri’s telephone to be checked. A few minutes later the operator returned to say there was no conversation on the line.
“What does that mean?” Jack asked.
“It’s either off the hook or out of order,” the operator said. “I can connect you to repair if you’d like.”
“Never mind,” Jack said. He realized that Yuri was most likely at home but unwilling to talk to anybody. As understandable as it might be for the man to take his phone off the hook, it still frustrated Jack not to be able to get through; sometimes it seemed that nothing was easy. All he wanted to do was contact the man to warn him about possible botulism infection. Having put the case back in Randolph Sanders’s lap, he expected the Brooklyn office to follow up with the case as they were legally bound to do. That meant alerting the Department of Health and ultimately Jack’s nemesis, Dr. Clint Abelard, the city epidemiologist. As Jack had been duly informed on several occasions, it was Clint’s job to do the follow-up, which, of course, included contacting Yuri Davy-dov. Yet, as a physician, Jack felt honor-bound to notify the widower himself.
Jack absently played with the telephone cord while pondering the situation. There was always the chance that the Brooklyn office could run into trouble by not getting the body back. After all, Jack reasoned, the body could have been cremated. If that was the case and no further samples were available to confirm the diagnosis, a delay would be inevitable. What it all boiled down to was that Yuri Davydov might not learn about his risk in time to make a difference.
Pulling open one of the drawers of his desk, Jack took out a map of New York City. He opened it to the Brooklyn section and searched for Brighton Beach. The assumption it was somewhere on the waterfront helped; he found it next to Coney Island, jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean.
Jack estimated that Brighton Beach was about fifteen miles away. He’d never ridden out to that area on his bike but he’d been as far as Brooklyn’s Prospect Park on several weekend occasions and remembered how to get there. From the map he could see that Brighton Beach was a straight shot down Coney Island Avenue from the base of the park.
Checking his watch, Jack decided a bicycle jaunt to Brighton Beach would be a nice way to spend his lunch hour, even if it turned out to be a two-hour-plus trip. Although Yuri Davydov’s health was his main reason for wanting to go out there, he could also justify the outing as a reward for having made a significant dent in his paperwork and for coming up with a compelling alibi for the previous day’s escapades. But what really clinched the decision was the knowledge that it happened to be a particularly gorgeous Indian summer day with strong sunshine, warm temperature, and gentle wind. As Jack explained it to himself, it might be the last great day weather-wise before winter’s onslaught.
Before he left, Jack looked for Laurie again to tell her about the botulism, but he was told that she was still in the autopsy room. Jack decided he’d see her when he got back.
The trip was even better than Jack imagined it would be, especially going over the Brooklyn Bridge and riding through
Prospect Park. The Coney Island Avenue portion was less stimulating but still enjoyable. As he passed Neptune Avenue, he noticed something he’d not expected: all the business signs were written in the Cyrillic alphabet.
As soon as Jack saw Oceanview Avenue, he pulled over and asked directions to Oceanview Lane. It wasn’t until he’d asked three people that he found someone who could tell him where to go.
Jack was surprised by the neighborhood. Just as Flash had described it, there was a whole section of small wood-frame houses jammed together in a cheek-by-jowl hodgepodge. Some were reasonably maintained while others were dilapidated. Fences constructed of a melange of materials separated individual properties. Some yards were clean and planted with fall flowers, while others served as junk heaps for doorless refrigerators, TVs with their guts hanging out, broken toys, and other discarded refuse. Roof lines angled off in bewildering juxtapositions, a testament to the uncoordinated way the original structures had been enlarged. A forest of rusted TV antennae sprouted like dead weeds from the ridgepoles.
Jack slowed and looked at individual buildings. Some still had definite Victorian embellishments. Most were in sore need of paint and repair. About half had freestanding garages. There were a lot of dogs that barked and snarled as Jack rode past. Very few people were in evidence and no children save for a few infants in the care of their mothers. Jack remembered that it was a school day.
The area had a grid of normal streets, but also numerous lanes, some named, some not. The lanes were narrow, some so narrow that they permitted only pedestrian traffic, and the houses on them could only be reached by foot. Across all the lanes stretched a spiderweb of telephone and electric wires.
Jack located Oceanview Lane with the help of a handpainted sign precariously nailed to a telephone pole. He turned into the lane and immediately had to pay attention to the large cracks in the concrete pavement or his bike would have toppled over.
Few of the houses had numbers on them, although Jack did see number thirteen written on a garbage can. Assuming the next building was fifteen, he continued until he was abreast of it. The structure was similar to the others although it sat on a full foundation rather than the more typical cinderblock piers. It also had a two-car garage. The roof was asphalt shingle; a number of the shingles were missing. The screen door was torn. The downspout at the corner was broken, and the top part angled off precariously. The whole thing looked as though it might fall over if the front door was slammed hard enough.
A waist-high chain-link fence separated the tiny, overgrown front lawn from the concrete alleyway. Jack locked his bike to it. He opened the gate and approached the door. Venetian blinds in the windows on either side of the door were closed shut, so Jack couldn’t peek in.
After vainly searching for a doorbell, Jack opened the torn screen door and knocked. When there was no response, he knocked harder. After one more attempt with sustained knocking, Jack gave up. He allowed the screen door to close with a thump. He was discouraged. After making such an effort to get there, he still was not going to be able to contact Yuri Davydov.
Jack was about to walk back to his bike wh
en he became aware of a continuous, low-pitched hum. Turning back to the door, he listened. Now that he concentrated on the sound, he realized that it wasn’t continuous but rather modulated, like a very distant helicopter or a fan with very large blades. Jack eyed the house warily. It didn’t seem large enough for the size fan that would yield such a vibration.
Jack glanced around at the other houses in the immediate neighborhood. All seemed shuttered as if their owners were at work or at least not at home. The only person in sight was an elderly gentleman sitting in his yard who was totally unconcerned about Jack’s presence.
Jack walked across the lawn to peer down between Yuri’s house and his neighbor’s. The separation was only about six feet, and it was bisected by the chain-link fence. After another glance at the elderly man, Jack walked between the buildings to emerge in Yuri’s tiny backyard. There he found what looked like a metal furnace vent issuing forth from a recently patched hole in the house’s foundation. The vent angled upward to extend higher than Jack could reach. By touching the vent and feeling the vibration Jack could tell he’d at least found the exhaust for the fan. Considering the size of the house, the kind of furnace the vent suggested seemed like overkill.
Jack continued to circle the cottage. On the side facing the garage was another door where Jack again knocked. Cupping his hands around his face, he peered through one of the small glass panels. He could see an L-shaped room that served as both living room and kitchen.
Leaving the door, Jack walked along the garage toward the front of the house. As he arrived at the patch of lawn, a bearded man appeared walking along the alleyway carrying a bag of groceries. Jack hadn’t seen him until the last possible moment because the garage had blocked his view.
This sudden appearance of the individual within arm’s reach made Jack start. He hadn’t realized quite how uneasy his trespassing had made him. But as startled as Jack was, it was apparently less than the stranger. The man dropped his groceries while trying vainly to get his right hand out of his jacket.
“I beg your pardon,” Jack intoned.