by Karl Tutt
Chapter 7
I found a piece of two-day old pizza in the fridge next to some wilted lettuce. What the hell? It looked like dinner to me. I poured a glass of Cabernet and pulled out “old trusty”, my dog-eared spiral notebook. No “Orange is the New Black” tonight.
I made notes in a hasty scrawl. I had to meet this Bijet, or at least see what he looked like. We had to protect Henri, no matter the time or cost. Grace was right. She couldn’t lose another son. This “Kiss of Death” puzzled me. Was the Mondatti a real disease or was it some sort of curse, a psychological doll with pins stuck in it? I Googled it, but it didn’t exist as far as the internet was concerned. So far we only knew what Bugsy had said and Grace’s tale of Jacques’ rebellion and suffering. Two things were certain. The teenage boy was dead and the next victim might be his baby brother.
The next morning I decided to contact Dr. Paul Galliano. He was a friend of my Dad from the old Lake Norman days, a retired medical examiner now on the faculty at FAU in Boca Raton. His knowledge of pathology and current diseases that lay outside the norm was esoteric and legendary. We often consulted him when I was with the Fort Lauderdale PD. He was the “go to guy” when our experts were simply baffled. I phoned Captain Sullivan and he gave me the doc’s private number.
I called the good physician and asked if Ricky and I could come by his office on campus. He remembered me and put us down for a 3:30 appointment. We arrived about thirty minutes early and parked in the visitors’ lot.
We saw some kids playing Frisbee on the lawn. They were taunting each other playfully and flipping the disc like a red flying saucer. A couple of fresh, beautiful young girls sat on a blanket with their books propped open. They giggled and talked much more than they studied. I am always a bit awestruck by a college campus. There is a sense of peace and order that just doesn’t match the world outside its borders. The kids exist in an enclave that is safe, a place they can grow, and hopefully prosper, without the taint, and sometimes the horror of reality. It always creates a longing in me. Unfortunately, my flirtations with innocence are MIA. That is definitely missing in action.
Dr. Galliano’s office was on the third floor of a stately brick building that I’m sure the alumni were still paying for. His door was closed, but when Ricky knocked, a quiet “Do come in” followed. The room was small, but warm. The left wall was all book shelves, the spines displaying the titles. I noticed everything was in alphabetical order by author. It wasn’t exactly your New York Times best seller list. THE DOCTOR AS A MECHANIC, EPIDEMICS OF THE 19TH CENTURY and IDENTIFYING DISEASES THROUGH SIMPLE OBSERVATION. There were hundreds of them, nothing you’d choose for a lazy afternoon at the beach. But that was why we were here.
He looked very much the professor, thinning gray hair, a bit longer at the temples. He had a pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck, draped over the lapels of a brown corduroy coat with patches at the elbows. No tie. His blue shirt was open at the neck and slightly wrinkled. A bit of academic paunch was wedged against the desk. It was almost a little too much uniform, but it seemed to go quite well with the décor. There was a sort of ragged kindness in his face and his blue eyes held a hint of gold dust.
“Detective Rabow, welcome. I remember you well and your partner Mr. Fuenes. I hope your current endeavors are proving fruitful. Please, sit down.” His voice was soothing like an ancient river.
“Thank you, Dr. Galliano. We don’t want to take too much of your time, but we are trying to save the life of a boy.”
He put his hands together, forming a spindly steeple which rested on his lips. “Tell me,” he said quietly.
I left out some of the details that might be incriminating, but focused on the disease, if that’s what it was.
“So are you familiar with this Mondatti?”
“African diseases go by many names. Folklore, magic, psychological phenomena, and legitimate viral infections are closely intertwined. The Shaman, or Witch Doctor, if you will, is powerful in many unsophisticated societies. Certainly, if one believes he is ill, he is quite correct. Man often has the power within him to live or to die. It is a function of his will, and sometimes his superstitions.”
“According to his mother, Jacques was undoubtedly ill. But the sickness couldn’t be identified, only the vaguest of symptoms, no treatment, no origin except this so-called “Kiss of Death.”
He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to the window. I could still see the Frisbee flying back and forth between the energetic students. No words from him. I thought for a moment that the interview had concluded. Then the base of the chair squeaked as he swiveled back toward us.
“Of course, I can only speculate without tests and examinations that the circumstances prevent me from performing. But your tale has a certain currency to it. I am sure you are familiar with the outbreak of Ebola that has afflicted countries on the African continent. It is quite serious, perhaps more so than we in North America can fathom at this time. The disease is passed from host to victim through the exchange of bodily fluids. This can happen through open wounds, through sex, even through something that may seem as harmless as a kiss. Many have died, some even in this country. To date, there have been no carriers of this disease who, having transmitted it, escape its deadly conclusion. It is possible that you have found one.”
At first, it didn’t quite register. I quickly ran the facts through my mind, still hesitating. I wasn’t sure any of it made sense, but this was not a time to dismiss any possibilities. The scenario had a certain ring of credibility that I couldn’t deny and this man was the expert. I looked at Ricky. He was still digesting the things we knew, and things we might suspect.
“Thank you, Doctor. You have been very generous with your time.”
“It is certainly my pleasure. If you come into any hard information, I would appreciate the opportunity to investigate this matter further.”
He rose and shook my hand, then Ricky’s. We caught the elevator down, with little knowledge of what we did -- or didn’t -- have.
I’m not sure why. Maybe the uncertainty was hammering me, but I was exhausted, and the idea of Henri in real danger gnawed at me. Ricky was meeting Evelyn for drinks and dinner. Actually, I was glad I wasn’t invited. I went back to Cooley’s and slinked into the v berth. Sleep came quickly. I didn’t dream.