by Robin Cook
Over an hour had passed since the event, but Jack was no more relaxed. In fact, now that he’d had time to think about this third attempt on his life he was more agitated than right after the event. He was literally shaking. In an attempt to hide this belated reaction from Shawn he clutched both hands to his knees.
Earlier, when the police cars and the ambulance had arrived at the restaurant, chaos had reigned. The police wanted everyone’s names and addresses. Some people balked, others complied willingly. At first Jack had assumed he’d be treated similarly, but then Shawn had informed him that Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano wanted to talk with him at police headquarters.
Jack had not wanted to go, but he’d been given no choice. Terese had insisted on coming along, but Jack had talked her out of it. She’d only relented once he’d promised to call her later. She’d told him that she’d be at the agency. After such an experience she didn’t want to be alone.
Jack ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. A combination of the wine and tension had made it as dry as the inside of a sock. He didn’t want to go to police headquarters for fear they might detain him. He’d failed to report Reginald’s murder and he’d been at the scene of the drugstore homicide. To top it off, he’d said enough to Laurie to indicate a potential link between Reginald and Beth’s murder.
Jack sighed and ran a worried hand through his hair. He wondered how he’d respond to the inevitable questions he’d be asked.
“You okay?” Shawn questioned. He glanced at Jack, sensing his anxiety.
“Yeah, fine,” Jack said. “It’s been a wonderful evening in New York. It’s a city where you can never get bored.”
“That’s a positive way to look at it,” Shawn agreed.
Jack shot a look at the policeman, who seemed to have taken his comment literally.
“I have a couple of questions,” Jack said. “How the hell did you happen to be there at the restaurant? And how did you know I was a doctor? And how is it that I have Lou Soldano to thank?”
“Lieutenant Soldano got a tip you might be in danger,” Shawn said.
“How’d you know I was at the restaurant?” Jack asked.
“Simple,” Shawn said. “Sergeant Murphy and I tailed you from the morgue.”
Jack again looked out at the dark city as it sped by and shook his head imperceptibly. He was embarrassed for having thought he’d been so clever to ensure he’d not been followed. It was painfully obvious that he was out of his league.
“You almost gave us the slip at Bloomie’s,” Shawn said. “But I guessed what you were up to by then.”
Jack turned back to the detective. “Who gave Lieutenant Soldano the tip?” he asked. He assumed it had to have been Laurie.
“That I don’t know,” Shawn said. “But you’ll soon be able to ask him yourself.”
The FDR Drive imperceptibly became the South Street Viaduct. Ahead Jack could see the familiar silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge come into view. Against the pale night sky it looked like a gigantic lyre.
They turned off the freeway just north of the bridge and were soon pulling into police headquarters.
Jack had never seen the building and was surprised by its modernity. Inside he had to pass through a metal detector. Shawn accompanied him to Lou Soldano’s office, then took his leave.
Lou stood up and offered his hand, then pulled over a straight-backed chair. “Sit down, Doc,” Lou said. “This is Sergeant Wilson.” Lou gestured toward a uniformed African-American police officer who got to his feet as he was introduced. He was a striking man, and his uniform was impeccably pressed. His well-groomed appearance stood in sharp contrast to Lou’s rumpled attire.
Jack shook hands with the sergeant and was impressed with the man’s grip. In contrast Jack was ashamed of his own trembling, damp palm.
“I asked Sergeant Wilson down because he’s heading up our Anti-Gang Violence Unit in Special Ops,” Lou said as he returned to his desk and sat down.
Oh, wonderful, Jack thought, concerned that this meeting might get back to Warren. Jack tried to smile, but it was hesitant and fake; he was afraid his nervousness was all too transparent. Jack worried that both these experienced law-enforcement people could tell he was a felon the moment he walked through the door.
“I understand you had a bad experience tonight,” Lou said.
“That’s an understatement,” Jack said. He regarded Lou. The man was not what he’d expected. After Laurie had said that she’d been involved with him, Jack had assumed he’d be more physically imposing: taller and more stylish. Instead, Jack thought he was a shorter version of himself considering his stocky, muscular frame and close-cropped hair.
“Can I ask you a question?” Jack asked.
“By all means,” Lou said, spreading his hands. “This isn’t an inquisition. It’s a discussion.”
“What made you have Officer Magoginal follow me?” Jack asked. “Mind you, I’m not complaining. He saved my life.”
“You have Dr. Laurie Montgomery to thank for that,” Lou said. “She was worried about you and made me promise that I would do something. Putting a tail on you was the only thing I could think of.”
“I’m certainly appreciative,” Jack said. He wondered what he could say to Laurie to thank her.
“Now, Doc, there’s a lot going on here that we’d like to know about,” Lou said. He steepled his hands with his elbows on his desk. “Maybe you should just tell us what’s happening.”
“I truly don’t know yet,” Jack said.
“Okay, fair enough,” Lou said. “But, Doc, remember! You can relax! Again, this is a discussion.”
“As shaken up as I am, I’m not sure I’m capable of much of a conversation.”
“Maybe I should let you know what I know already,” Lou said. Lou quickly outlined what Laurie had told him. He emphasized that he knew that Jack had been beaten up at least once and now had had an attempt on his life made by a member of a Lower East Side gang. Lou mentioned Jack’s dislike of AmeriCare and his tendency to see conspiracy in the recent series of outbreaks of infectious disease at the Manhattan General. He also mentioned that Jack had apparently irritated a number of people at that hospital. He concluded with Jack’s suggestion to Laurie that two apparently unrelated homicides might be linked and that preliminary tests had substantiated this surprising theory.
Jack visibly swallowed. “Wow,” he said. “I’m beginning to think you know more than I do.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Lou said with a wry smile. “But maybe all this information gives you a sense of what else we need to know to prevent any more violence to you and others. There was another gang-related killing in the vicinity of the General this afternoon. Is that anything you know about?”
Jack swallowed again. He didn’t know what to say. Warren’s admonition reverberated in his mind, as did his fleeing from two crime scenes and abetting a murderer. He was, after all, a felon.
“I’d rather not talk about this right now,” Jack said.
“Oh?” Lou questioned. “And why is that, Doc?”
Jack’s mind raced for answers, and he was loath to lie. “I guess because I’m concerned about certain people’s safety,” he said.
“That’s what we are here for,” Lou said. “People’s safety.”
“I understand that,” Jack said. “But this is a rather unique situation. There are a lot of things going on. I’m worried we might be on the brink of a real epidemic.”
“Of what?” Lou asked.
“Influenza,” Jack said. “A type of influenza with a high morbidity.”
“Have there been a lot of cases?” Lou asked.
“Not a lot so far,” Jack said. “But I’m worried nonetheless.”
“Epidemics scare me, but they are out of my area of expertise,” Lou said. “But homicide isn’t. When do you think you might be willing to talk about these murders we’ve been discussing if you’re not inclined at the moment?”
“Give me
a day,” Jack said. “This epidemic scare is real. Trust me.”
“Hmmmm…” Lou voiced. He looked at Sergeant Wilson.
“A lot can happen in a day,” the sergeant said.
“That’s my concern too,” Lou said. He redirected his attention to Jack. “What worries us is that the two gang members who’ve been killed were from different gangs. We don’t want to see a gang war erupt around here. Whenever they do, a lot of innocent people get killed.”
“I need twenty-four hours,” Jack repeated. “By then I hope to be able to prove what I’m trying to prove. If I can’t, I’ll admit I was wrong, and I’ll tell you everything I know, which, by the way, is not much.”
“Listen, Doc,” Lou said. “I could arrest you right now and charge you with accessory after the fact. You are willfully obstructing the investigation of several homicides. I mean, you do understand the reality of what you are doing, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” Jack said.
“I could charge you, but I’m not going to do that,” Lou said. He sat back in his chair. “Instead I’m going to bow to your judgment concerning this epidemic stuff. In deference to Dr. Montgomery, who seems to think you are a good guy, I’ll be patient about my area of expertise. But I want to hear from you tomorrow night. Understand?”
“I understand,” Jack said. Jack looked from the lieutenant to the sergeant and then back. “Is that it?”
“For now,” Lou said.
Jack got up and headed for the door. Before he reached it, Sergeant Wilson spoke up: “I hope you understand how dangerous dealing with these gangs is. They feel they have little to lose and consequently have little respect for life, either their own or others’.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said.
Jack hurried from the building. As he emerged into the night he felt enormous relief, as if he’d been granted a reprieve.
While he waited for a taxi to appear in Park Row in front of the police headquarters, he thought about what he should do. He was afraid to go home. At the moment he didn’t want to see the Black Kings or Warren. He thought about going back to see Terese, but he feared endangering her more than he already had.
With few alternatives Jack decided to find a cheap hotel. At least he’d be safe and so would his friends.
31
WEDNESDAY, 6:15 A.M., MARCH 27, 1996
The first symptom Jack noticed was a sudden rash that appeared on his forearms. As he was examining it, the rash spread quickly to his chest and abdomen. With his index fingers he spread the skin at the site of one of the blotches to see if it would blanch with pressure. Not only did it not blanch, the pressure deepened the color.
Then, as quickly as the skin eruption appeared, it began to itch. At first Jack tried to ignore the sensation, but it increased in intensity to the point where he had to scratch. When he did, the rash began to bleed. Each blotch was transformed into an open sore.
With the bleeding and the sores came a fever. It started to rise slowly, but once it got past a hundred degrees, it shot up. Soon Jack’s forehead was awash with perspiration.
When he looked at himself in the mirror and saw his face flushed and spotted with open sores, he was horrified. A few minutes later he began to experience difficulty breathing. Even with deep breaths he was gasping for air.
Then Jack’s head began to pound like a drum with each beat of his heart. He had no idea what he’d contracted, but its seriousness was all too obvious. Intuitively Jack knew he had only moments to make the diagnosis and determine treatment.
But there was a problem. To make the diagnosis he needed a blood sample, but he had no needle. Perhaps he could get a sample with a knife. It would be messy, but it might work. Where could he find a knife?
Jack’s eyes blinked open. For a second he frantically searched the nightstand for a knife, but then he stopped. He was disoriented. A deep clang sounded again and again. Jack could not place it. He lifted his arm to look at his rash, but it had disappeared. Only then did Jack realize where he was and that he’d been dreaming.
Jack estimated the temperature in the hotel room to be ninety degrees. With disgust he kicked off the blankets. He was drenched in sweat. Sitting up, he put his legs over the side of the bed. The clanging noise was coming from the radiator, which was also steaming and sputtering. It sounded like someone was striking the riser with a sledgehammer.
Jack went to the window and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had been nailed shut. Giving up, he went to the radiator. It was so hot he couldn’t touch the valve. He got a towel from the bathroom, but then found the valve was stuck in the open position.
In the bathroom Jack was able to open a frosted window. A refreshing breeze blew in. For a few minutes he didn’t move. The cool tiles felt good on his feet. He leaned on the sink and recoiled at the remembrance of his nightmare. It had been so frighteningly real. He even looked at his arms and abdomen again to make sure he didn’t have a rash. Thankfully, he didn’t. But he still had a headache, which he assumed was from being overheated. He wondered why he hadn’t awakened sooner.
Looking into the mirror, he noticed that his eyes were red. He was also in dire need of a shave. He hoped that there was a sundry shop in the lobby, because he had no toilet articles with him.
Jack returned to the bedroom. The radiator was now silent and the room temperature had dropped to a tolerable level, with cool air flowing in from the bathroom.
Jack began to dress so he could go downstairs. As he did so he recalled the events of the previous evening. The image of the gun barrel came back to his mind’s eye with terrifying clarity. He shuddered. Another fraction of a second and he would have been gone.
Three times in twenty-four hours Jack had come close to death. Each episode made him realize how much he wanted to live. For the first time he began to wonder if his response to his grief for his wife and daughters—his reckless behavior—might be a disservice to their memory.
Down in the seedy lobby Jack was able to purchase a disposable razor and a miniature tube of toothpaste with a toothbrush attached. As he waited for the elevator to return to his room he caught sight of a bound stack of the Daily News outside of an unopened newsstand. Above the lurid headlines was: “Morgue Doc Nearly Winds Up on the Slab in Trendy Restaurant Shoot-out! See page three.”
Jack set down his purchases and tried to tease out a copy of the paper, but he couldn’t. The securing band was too tough to snap.
Returning to the front desk, he managed to convince the morose night receptionist to come out from behind his desk and cut the band with a razor blade. Jack paid for the paper and saw the receptionist pocket the money.
On the way up in the elevator Jack was shocked to see a picture of himself on page three coming out of the Positano restaurant with Shawn Magoginal holding his upper arm. Jack couldn’t remember a picture being taken. The caption read: “Dr. Jack Stapleton, a NYC medical examiner, being led by plainclothes detective Shawn Magoginal from the scene of the doctor’s attempted assassination. A NYC gang member was killed in the incident.”
Jack read the article. It wasn’t long; he was finished before he got back to his room. Somehow the writer had learned that Jack had had run-ins with the same gang in the past. There was an unmistakably scandalous implication. He tossed the paper aside. He was disgusted at the unexpected exposure and was concerned it could hinder his cause. He expected to have a busy day, and he didn’t want interference resulting from this unwanted notoriety.
Jack showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He felt a world of difference from when he’d awakened, but he did not feel up to par. He still had a headache and the muscles of his legs were sore. So was his lower back. He couldn’t help but worry that he was having early symptoms of the flu. He didn’t have to remind himself to take his rimantadine.
When Jack arrived at the medical examiner’s office, he had the taxi drop him off at the morgue receiving bay to avoid any members of the press who might b
e lying in wait.
Jack headed directly upstairs to scheduling. He was worried about what had come in during the night. As he stepped into the room, Vinnie lowered his newspaper.
“Hey, Doc,” Vinnie said. “Guess what? You’re in the morning paper.”
Jack ignored him and went over to where George was working.
“Aren’t you interested?” Vinnie called out. “There’s even a picture!”
“I’ve seen it,” Jack said. “It’s not my best side.”
“Tell me what happened,” Vinnie demanded. “Heck, this is like a movie or something. Why’d this guy want to shoot you?”
“It was a case of mistaken identity,” Jack said.
“Aw, no!” Vinnie said. He was disappointed. “You mean he thought you were someone else?”
“Something like that,” Jack said. Then, addressing George, he asked if there had been any more influenza deaths.
“Did someone actually fire a gun at you?” George asked, ignoring Jack’s question. He was as interested as Vinnie. Other people’s disasters hold universal appeal.
“Forty or fifty times,” Jack said. “But luckily it was one of those guns that shoots Ping-Pong balls. Those I wasn’t able to duck bounced off harmlessly.”
“I guess you don’t want to talk about it,” George said.
“That’s perceptive of you, George,” Jack said. “Now, have any influenza deaths come in?”
“Four,” George said.
Jack’s pulse quickened.
“Where are they?” Jack asked.
George tapped one of his stacks. “I’d assign a couple of them to you, but Calvin already called to tell me he wants you to have another paper day. I think he saw the newspaper too. In fact, he didn’t even know if you’d be coming in to work today.”
Jack didn’t respond. With as much as he had to do that day, having another paper day was probably a godsend. Jack opened the charts quickly to read the names. Although he could have guessed their identities, it was still a shock. Kim Spensor, George Haselton, Gloria Hernandez, and a William Pearson, the evening lab tech, had all passed away during the night with acute respiratory distress syndrome. The worry that the influenza strain was virulent was no longer a question; it was now a fact. These victims had all been healthy, young adults who’d died within twenty-four-plus hours of exposure.