by Melissa Yi
Chapter 11
"That was really nice of you, to make friends with Lawrence's widow," said Summer, taking the hospital stairs carefully beside me. She'd volunteered to show me the way to my passes, but she was wearing scarlet high heels, which made navigation more difficult amongst the throngs of scrub-clad workers and at least one elderly woman wearing a Fitbit. Personally, I only wear high heels for Christmas formals, and I kick them off after a few hours.
"She kind of made friends with me," I admitted.
"I'll talk to Tom about raising money for her situation. I mentioned it to Susan this morning, and she suggested I bring it up at the meeting, but—"
I nodded. Awkward to bring it up in front of Joan.
Summer lifted her hand off the rail. "It was good of you to reach out to her. I'm glad you're here."
"You are?"
"Yes! I'm the only woman. It gets lonely."
Working in medicine, I'm used to being surrounded by guys. Even though med school is over 50 percent women now, there are still plenty of times where I'm the only one with ovaries. But she was working with Tom, Chris/Jesus, Pothead/Mitch, the Middle Eastern guy who worked on something unpronounceable, and the Chinese man I still hadn't met. "What about Dr. Hay?"
Summer laughed. "You must be joking. She's in the lab next door."
True. And yet, still only forty feet away.
When we reached the foot of the stairs, Summer pointed to the left and then paused. "I know you must be getting a lot of questions about this, but are you sure it was Lawrence?" She took a deep breath. "Especially if he had a bag over his head?"
It was a strange question. Not the ones I expected, which were more visceral: what did it look like, how did it feel. I said, "I didn't identify him. I—we—happened upon him. It was someone else who identified him later, probably the police."
Summer twisted away from me. When she turned back, her face was carefully neutral. "Of course. Sorry I bothered you."
"You didn't bother me," I said. "I mean, it's not like you're the media. I've had some of them calling me, especially this one guy, Jonathan Wexler. The police asked me to keep quiet, though. I guess it's like, if we have a case of sexual assault in the emergency department, we try not to interview them multiple times. We leave it to one person on the sexual assault team, so the story doesn't get told and retold in a way that looks bad in court." I paused. "But if it were the other way around, I would totally be asking you questions."
She smiled for what felt like the first time.
My turn to be intrusive. "Were you good friends with him?"
"Oh." She turned red and averted her eyes. "I didn't know him that well. He worked with Dr. Hay."
And yet that was not an answer. "Did you meet him at lab meetings?"
"Of course. Plus, we had a party in September, kind of a mixer, where I met his wife." Her eyes met mine again, guileless, but there was obviously something she wasn't telling me.
"Did you know what he was researching?"
"Sure. Dr. Kanade's work on influenza A is pretty famous.
Or infamous."
"Is that your area, too?"
"No, I'm the research assistant at the stem cell lab, not virology. They've got their own R.A. I'm a jack of all trades, depending on what needs doing. Right now, I'm working on transplanting mesenchymal stem cells to reduce age-related osteoporosis in the mouse model. Dr. Hay is a virologist. She recruited Stephen Weaver from the University of Southern California, Davis."
"Hang on. Who's Stephen Weaver?"
"You don't know about his work on Rift Valley disease?"
Hell. I'd never even heard of Rift Valley disease. You don't have to know much about infectious diseases to pass med school in a very cold country where people don't travel or emigrate a ton. "Was Stephen Weaver at the meeting?"
"Yes. He's the guy with glasses. Tall, skinny, very short hair, in his 30s, kind of looks like Steve Jobs but with a plaid shirt?"
I scanned through my memory. I couldn't remember anyone like that. It bugged me. I like to at least look at everyone in the room. Part of my control freak OCD since 14/11. I feel like I'm safer if I've sussed out the danger. Of course, her description wasn't exactly stand-out.
I wanted to pull out my phone and look him up, but first I turned sideways to avoid a bunch of students with hot coffee in their hands. "Did Stephen know Lawrence before coming here?"
Her eyes widened. "I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"
"They were both in California, right? Lawrence was at Stanford." I didn't know state geography well, but I knew that much, and that virology probably isn't that big a world.
She made a face. "I have no idea. I guess they knew each other pretty well after working together for a month, especially with the funding—" She bit her lip.
I gave her a questioning glance. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"What happened to the funding?" I said. I'm not good at beating around the bush.
"Well, I don't know much about it. Lawrence was supposed to have independent funding when he came here, but it might have dried up. Dr. Hay was going to look into using some of her overall lab funds to make up the difference." Now she was seriously chewing her lip. "I'm not supposed to know anything about it."
"I won't gossip. I don't even know anyone here," I said, but my mind was whirling. The little I knew about research is that funding sucks. It was never great—governments chip away at things that don't have big voting power and don't pay off immediately—but it's gotten so bad that some scientists have taken to Kickstarter and other crowdfunding sites to get work done.
Was that a motivation to kill someone? I didn't think so. None of the lab people struck me as murderers. But then, of the killers I've met, almost none of them looked wacko from the start. It's kind of like a pulmonary embolism: you have to keep a high index of suspicion because they can be silent killers.
In fact, I found myself looking at Summer a little differently already. She was a few inches taller than me, a bit more muscular, and nimble enough to navigate in high heels. I couldn't imagine her overpowering a full-grown man, but maybe that was part of the point. How had someone managed to incapacitate Lawrence and possibly suffocate him?
It was a bit like a chicken and egg. Which came first, death or the bag? Did someone kill Lawrence and then put a bag over his head, or put the bag on first and wait for him to die?
Or was it all suicide?
That would be tragic. Heartbreaking. Eviscerating. But it didn't necessarily mean another person was responsible and had to be held to account.
Was he drunk or on drugs when he ended up in the ditch? That was the most likely explanation. Then it wouldn't take a whole lot of strength to incapacitate someone. I remembered knocking a teenager out with Propofol. She slurred, "That is some good shit." After I popped her shoulder back in its socket, she sat up and said "Thank you!"
With Ketamine, they don't thank you. Their pain is not their own. They may have their eyes open, theoretically watching you, but their focus is somewhere over the rainbow in Wonderland, and they don't care what you're doing to their arm or leg.
Personally, I like to give both Ketamine and Propofol together.
Some people call it Ketofol.
"Did Lawrence like to party? Like drink or take drugs?" I asked. If anyone would know, it would be another young person. Maybe not a work colleague, but it didn't hurt to ask. Also, I'd better change the subject away from grants and revisit it another time.
"Oh, yeah." She laughed before she caught herself. "Well, I don't know."
Which one was it? Instead of arguing, I said, "What did he take?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. He asked, but I'm not really into the club scene."
I didn't believe her. She seemed like she could party to me. Which meant that she wasn't telling me the whole truth. I couldn't take anything she said as gospel, but at least she was willing to talk. There's a fairy tale about the princess who lies all the time, the pri
ncess who tells the truth every time, and the princess who only lies about her family. I was pretty sure I'd met the one who lies part-time, but I'd have to compare stories to make sure.
Summer glanced around and said, "I'll tell you later. You'll have to buy me a drink first."
A small price to pay. "After work?"
"Yes! We usually go out on someone's first day."
So they must have gone out on Lawrence's first day. That made me feel bittersweet. I pushed it aside, along with the fact that I was already feeling slightly poor after the Timbits. "Where should we go?"
"Petra's. It's a tradition."
"Okay." So I looked at an agenda like this: 1. Go out with Summer and possibly the rest of the crew, 2. Drag Ryan to a dinner party with the widow tomorrow, plus the omnipresent 3. Worry about Tucker.
I paused. It felt like the breath got sucked out of my lungs and bronchial tree.
I was doing it again.
I'd left Montreal and Tucker and detective work, but as soon as I came across a dead body, boom. Back to my old tricks.
"Are you okay?" said Summer. "We're almost there."
Like my problem was walking for ten minutes down a hospital corridor. I nodded, unable to speak for a second. We'd ended up next to the gift shop selling balloons, so I stood there for a minute, studying the Mylar "Get Well Soon!" rainbow bubble and the "It's a Boy!" and "It's a Girl!" blue and pink circles like they were ancient scrolls.
Breeeathe.
Summer still looked concerned, but slightly eager. I met the new girl, and she was so nuts, let me tell you …
My phone rang. I seized it. Tucker?
No. It was an unfamiliar 613 area code number. A local caller, but not my parents or Ryan. Still, it was better than the pity and curiosity mingled on Summer's face, so I pushed on Accept. "Hi, this is Dr. Hope Sze." I'm used to identifying myself because I get so many calls from the hospital, and most of them don't pronounce my name right.
A woman's voice said, "Hello, Dr. Zee. This is the coroner's office."
Chapter 12
"The coroner?" I repeated, in a strangled voice, and Summer pivoted toward me, nearly sparkling with excitement.
I took two steps backward, so I was now beside the display of wide-eyed stuffed animals. I lowered my voice and turned away from Summer. "Uh, yes?"
"Dr. Koja would like to interview you about your experience last night."
"Dr. Koja," I repeated. It's a stalling tactic, and not a great one. "Yes, Dr. Koja is the coroner taking charge of this case."
"The coroner—" Of course this was a coroner's case. It was a suspicious death. My throat tightened. I couldn't speak anymore.
The secretary sighed. "Dr. Koja is a medical doctor who has special training in death scene investigation. She would like to speak to you as soon as possible." The secretary obviously thought that I was questioning Dr. Koja's credentials, which was better than impeding the investigation, but not by much.
"Um, I'm at the research lab near Ottawa U this month."
"She can meet you there. It shouldn't take more than half an hour."
Half an hour! That sounded like forever to me. If I spent half an hour with an ER patient, the staff doctor would knock on the door and ask if I'd drowned in there. Unless I was trapped with a psycho hostage-taker. That's a different skill set.
"I'm doing my orientation today. I won't be able to meet her."
Summer watched me, her eyebrows dancing. A coroner wanting to quiz Hope! O Happy Day! "You can take time off from lab safety. Most of the stuff is online," she said, but I shook my head and tuned into the tinny voice.
"Dr. Koja can adapt to your schedule. She can even meet you, since you're located close to the scene. How about Thursday at 1 p.m.?"
"I'll have to talk to the lab supervisor."
Summer was making faces to show that I didn't need Tom's permission, but I waved her away.
"I'll pencil you in, and you can call me at this number to cancel, should the need arise." Someone had obviously told Dr. Koja's staff it was a better strategy to book an appointment than to let the interviewee waffle around.
I felt like holding my head in my hands, but I finished my errands with Summer and beat it back to the office so I could do my lab safety modules.
While Summer strolled back to her Domo-kun bench, I sneaked a look at my phone.
I'd missed a text from Tucker: Don't worry.
I barraged him with replies. No answer, and I couldn't call him to yell at him because Mitch was working two cubicles down, almost in straight sight of me.
I texted Ryan before I started pestering Tori Yamamoto, another St. Joe's resident and actual sane person. I needed my trustworthy doctor friends right now. The Volvos, Hondas, and Toyota friends. The ones who had the wherewithal to answer me, I'm fine. How are you, Hope?
I wrote right back. I'm worried about Tucker.
After a short pause, she texted, Yes, he wanted me to tell you that he's fine.
Fine is a boring word. A tea and crust of bread word. Tucker would never use that word. What happened to him?
A longer hesitation before He doesn't want you to worry. He says he's handling it.
I glanced up because I heard footsteps. Mitch was heading toward the door to the lab. When he saw me watching him, he looked away, but I said, "Hey, are you coming to Petra's tonight?"
"Probably. If I get my work done."
"What about the virology lab? Are they coming, too?" He shrugged. "Not usually."
"I'd like to invite them. Could you let me in?"
"You want to talk to them in person?" He looked surprised, but I said, "It'll only take a minute, and I don't have their e-mail addresses."
He shook his head. "I don't have access to their lab, but you can call their R.A."
I felt dumb as I scooted back to the little purple-walled alcove. No answer from Dr. Hay's secretary, so I called the lab instead. A young, brown-skinned woman wearing a white head scarf and blue robes pushed open the door for me.
I showed her my ID badge. "Hi! I'm Hope Sze. It's my first day at the stem cell lab. Do you want to come to Petra's at seven?"
She shook her head and hurried into the hall, toward a woman's bathroom across from the elevators. I didn't even catch her name.
Oh, well. I'd already wedged myself into the door, so I headed into the lab. I wasn't invited, but I wasn't not invited, either.
Dr. Hay's lab was smaller than Tom's. It was the same layout, in a mirror image, but more like a kiddie pool instead of a full-sized swimming pool, reflecting her smaller number of students. Because of this, the office section and the lab both shared part of the frosted glass wall facing the elevators, whereas the Zinser lab was so large that the office took up all of that front glass wall, with the lab behind it. It meant Dr. Hay's office had more light, between the frosted glass hallway and the wall of windows on the opposite side.
It also seemed more spare. The shelves weren't crowded with as many things, and the lab benches held less equipment. There was a central aisle between the lab benches as well as an aisle on either side of them, instead of the two lab benches squashed cheek to cheek in Tom's lab. Dr. Hay had fume hoods, fridges, freezers, and what I now recognized as incubators and shakers, like Tom, but it felt emptier and colder, somehow.
People always say that you look like your pets, and vice versa. Well, I'd say Tom and Dr. Hay looked like their labs. One a busy, crowded little town bursting with personality, the other a small oligarchy or dictatorship.
Even at half the size, Dr. Hay's office section seemed empty except for one guy working on the far right, even though it was only four o'clock. I glanced over the cubicle walls and saw that the door to the corner office, presumably Dr. Hay's, was closed.
Dr. Hay's door swung open in front of my eyes, revealing an office wallpapered in framed degrees of all sizes as well as a black poster with a green virus on it. I tried to read the closest degree, but it seemed to be from McGill, which does its degre
es in Latin. Dr. Hay glared at me and my box of Timbits.
"Sorry to bother you, Dr. Hay, but I was wondering if your lab might join my lab in a get-together tonight at Petra's." Inside, I was quaking. She sure didn't seem like the party type, but this was my chance to check out Lawrence's lab bench, if she stopped looking down her nose at me like I was a butterfly she'd pinned onto a block of wood.
Dr. Hay gave a tiny shake of her head. "Who let you in here?"
"Oh. I knocked on the door, and a young woman with a head scarf—"
Dr. Hay's nostrils flared. "I'll have to speak to Ducky."
"I don't want her to get into trouble. I kind of insisted." That was an exaggeration, but better I took the hit. I really didn't like the vibe from Dr. Hay. "Are we talking about the same person? I didn't catch her name, but she looked Middle Eastern or something like that. I'm pretty sure her name isn't Ducky."
"Her name is hard to pronounce. She said we could call her whatever we wanted."
I licked my lips. Asians are no strangers to taking on new names for assimilation. My parents didn't give me or Kevin a Chinese name at all.
The hall door swung back open, and the person in question scurried to the closest bench, fussing with her flasks. I said, "Well, I should invite her, too. Thanks for talking with me," and stalked through the lab, to her side.
"Ducky" cringed when she saw me, and I could feel Dr. Hay watching both of us. I said, "Hi. I'm Dr. Hope Sze, the medical resident from the stem cell lab next door. Would you like a Timbit?"
She shook her head, looking down at her equipment. She touched her pipettes, one after the other, like she was counting them.
"What's your name?" I said.
"Ducky," she said, almost too softly for me to hear.
Even though I didn't look up, I could sense Dr. Hay stirring in her doorway.
"Do you have another name?"
"Safar."
That didn't sound anything like Ducky, so I presumed it was her last name. "Oh. And do you have another given name? First name?" I didn't want to say Christian name, since I was pretty sure she was Muslim. In French, you say prénom, which would also translate as first name.