by B. C. CHASE
“I've never liked paramedics. They always seem so cocky.” Then she said quietly, “They're not like you.” She didn't look up at him. She just said it into the corpse, as she always did when she dropped a compliment.
Even though he noticed these little hints and even though he found her brilliantly attractive, he could never bring himself to reciprocate. The only time they really spent together was in the lab, cutting open cadavers. It just didn't seem right to make plays at her in that environment, especially since he was her superior. And he never saw her outside the morgue. So even though they hadn't exchanged romantic conversation, there had been plenty of romantic tension over the last eight months.
Doctor Burwell unzipped the body bag, revealing a woman with one eye wide-open, jaundiced, and staring at nothing; the other blood-red. Her throat had been slit, probably by the ER surgeon who had tried to get air in through her windpipe: clearly the situation had been desperate.
If a patient was unable to breathe via mouth because of an obstruction or fluid, it was sometimes possible to insert a tube directly into the trachea. Called a cricothyrotomy, this procedure was performed only on extremely rare occasions due to how dangerous it was. But Dr. Burwell was puzzled. He thought this patient had died in the ambulance. Surely the paramedics had not attempted a cricothyrotomy. Only experienced surgeons were qualified.
Her skin was pink, but upon closer inspection, he realized that this was because of millions of tiny blood spots that had come to the surface. Rupture of the capillaries. Doctor Burwell knew that this could occur in cases of untreated diabetes. He noted the symptom.
Even through his gloves, he could feel that the skin was warm. They had taken the body from the refrigerator. Five hours later, and still warm? The other tech must have left it sitting out of the fridge and then, noticing his mistake, slipped it in right before he and Sarah showed up. Gross incompetence. The kind of incompetence that deserved termination. That guy was getting more and more careless. Just last week he had—
“What the heck,” Doctor Burwell said, distracted from his thoughts. As he raised the body to look at the backside, something very strange became apparent. Although the time of death was over five hours ago, rigor mortis had not yet set in: the appendages were loose. He made a note of this and then, turning the body back over with Sarah's assistance, proceeded to make an incision on the front, down from each shoulder, to the sternum.
Next to no blood seeped from the tissue because there was no blood pressure: the heart wasn't pumping. From the sternum, he cut all the way down to the pubic bone. All the organs had the same red spotting that he had seen on the skin.
He used a special blade to saw off some of the ribs and began the methodical process of extracting the organs. As always, he would have to remove the throat and tongue by going up from the chest: families at the funeral didn't like to see their loved ones with stitched chins.
As he began the procedure, he noticed a major problem. The thyroid gland was missing. A butterfly-shaped organ that wrapped around the throat, it produced the hormones that regulated everything from metabolism to growth and development. But it simply wasn't there.
Perhaps she had been born without one. Congenital hypothyroidism occurred in one of 4,000 babies. If so, she would have been taking thyroid medication since birth.
However, when he further inspected her throat, it he realized something he should have in the very beginning. There was no blood at the site of the thyroid incision. These cuts had been made postmortem. No, the missing thyroid was not congenital. The gland had been removed, and recently.
Doctor Burwell shook his head. This was the most bizarre autopsy he had ever performed, without a doubt.
Doctor Burwell turned to Sarah, “I know I'm supposed to be the one with the experience here, but have you seen anything like this before?”
She shook her head an emphatic “no.”
He continued extracting the other organs. And as he did so, it became more and more apparent that, aside from the other strange findings, something was very, very wrong.
The note had said “Miscarried.” But Doctor Burwell was dumbfounded. Normally after a miscarriage, the cervix would have been open to allow the tissues to pass, but the uterus was empty, and the cervix was closed. There was no remnant of amniotic fluid, no sac, certainly no fetus . . . nothing. In fact, with the exception of Montgomery's tubercles around her nipples, there was no obvious evidence that this woman had been pregnant at all, and certainly not that she had miscarried.
Gobi Desert, Mongolia
His fingers trembling with fury, Doctor Ming-Zhen growled, “This is a scientific excavation, not a party.”
Jia Ling backed away from Chao, her head down, “Yes, Ming-Zhen jiàoshòu. Sorry, we are just so excited.”
Doctor Ming-Zhen nodded, “I'm sure you are.” At least even if Chao didn't have any sense, his Jia Ling apparently yet retained some of her faculties. He straightened his shoulders, “Now, let's see what else we can find.”
The skeleton was lying belly up, as if it had rolled onto its back when it died. They dug down past the coracoids to the upper ribs, and were now busy clearing out the chest cavity. Doctor Ming-Zhen was eager to see if the spine was there, because if it was they could trace it up to the head.
Most complete dinosaur skeletons that had been found exhibited opisthotonus, or the “death pose.” Head thrown back, tail raised up, as if in agony, the “death pose” occurred in any creature that died of brain damage, asphyxiation, or drowning, including humans.
So if they did find the head, it would probably be behind the vertebrae of the back.
Now, though, they unexpectedly ran into a round dome-like fossil within the lower rib chamber.
As his young students chipped away at the debris around the domed fossil, Doctor Ming-Zhen watched closely to be sure they didn't damage it. They were using dental picks and brushes, but fossils were very delicate and you couldn't be too careful.
It was definitely a domed skull from something; most likely the deinocheirus' last meal. This was exciting because it could reveal something about the extinct creature's diet, but at this moment he couldn't remotely identify what it was from.
They continued to work, and by the time the forward facing eye sockets, nasal cavity, and top row of teeth were revealed, the truth was so obvious that Jia Ling dropped her pick with a sudden gasp, pulling away in revulsion.
Evident even to an untrained eye, this was the skull of a mammal, a primate. And not just any primate. The familiar, disconcerting gaze which stared back from the gaping eye sockets conveyed the irrefutable truth to every person staring back: this was Homo sapiens.
From his knees where he had fallen, Doctor Ming-Zhen gazed at the long-dead human and was overcome with a strange horror. Flashing through his mind was a giant, long-fingered hand clutching a man, the claws curled around to gore him through the chest, and immense jaws swooping down towards his head.
But this was impossible, he thought. Dinosaurs and man were separated by millions of years of evolution.
His mind spinning, he remembered that a team of his colleagues had identified a cat-sized mammalian fossil that contained a tiny dinosaur in its stomach. At the time, scientists the world over had admitted that it overturned the premise that early mammals of the Cretaceous had been timid little animals that lurked in the shadows of the much more advanced dinosauria. This premise had of course been based on the necessity of evolution taking time. The cat-sized animal provided an image of a more powerful, more evolutionarily advanced Cretaceous mammal.[5]
Even so, a small mammal here or there did not equate to a human being. Not by a long shot. This was impossible.
And yet, here it was, before their very eyes.
Still gazing at the fossil, he said quietly and slowly, “It is fortunate that you came, Chao. It seems we require the expertise of a paleoanthropologist after all.”
If only he really was an expert, he thought with repugnance.
China Academy of Sciences
Doctor Ming-Zhen and his team made the journey back to Beijing as soon as they had completed excavating and packing all the large chunks of earth. Then they began the painstaking work of cleaning the rock from the fossilized bone. Jia Ling, of course, devoted more time to this than anyone. One day as he entered the lab, he caught her quickly stashing something in her pocket. He approached her and her eyes shifted away from him.
“Ming-Zhen jiàoshòu. Isn’t it exciting?” she said with a high pitch, staring at the fossil.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Is everything going okay?”
“Yes,” she nodded emphatically.
“Not that you would think of doing this, but you do know it is illegal to take pieces of the fossil for your personal collection.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I know.”
“Very good,” he said.
“It’s a picture of Chao,” she said. “In my pocket. I know you don’t like him.”
“I want the best for you, Jia Ling. He is not worthy of your trust.”
“He does respect you.”
“Does he? He doesn’t show it very well.”
“But he does. He is insecure, is all.”
Doctor Ming-Zhen raised his eyebrows. “Be very careful. You have very much promise. I would hate for him to distract you.”
“I will.”
When every last bone had been cleaned and studied, they began work on a paper for publication. Knowing that their discovery would likely attract a great deal of scrutiny, they left no stone unturned and took a full year to document the find.
When they had finished clearing the stomach cavity, every piece from the unfortunate human was accounted for. It appeared the dinosaur had swallowed him in three chunks; fairly dainty dining for something with a ten-foot mandible. And the evidence was proof positive that the deinocheirus had swallowed the man: the teeth of the dino perfectly matched indentations on the human's bones.
As for the deinocheirus itself, the truth of the creature proved paleontology to be totally mistaken in its classification as an “ostrich dino.”
Representing an amalgamation of features from several dinosaur families, the complete deinocheirus skeleton defied belief. Its head was nearly twice the length of tyrannosaurs, and the jaws contained an extremely formidable set of teeth; the longest tooth measuring in at over a foot from jaw line to tip. It turned out to be the largest carnivorous dinosaur ever found; sixty-five feet in length.
Clearly, t-rex was going to fall to be bottom of little boys' toy chests. This skeleton had proven deinocheirus not only to be the new “king” of the dinosaurs, but also, given the contents of its belly, the king of men.
They documented all of it, every last detail.[6]
But it was all for nothing. In the end, he wished he never would have found it.
94 Golfpointe Road
Wesley's eyes opened. He couldn't believe he had actually been sleeping. It had been two days since Sienna died, and he hadn't slept a wink until now. He brought the recliner upright and yawned, orienting himself. He was in the sitting room of his mother's house, a five-bedroom, lakeside colonial. In the room was a sandstone fireplace surrounded by white shelves filled with those bounded vestiges of the past that nobody knew how to get rid of.
For a few moments, Wesley just stared at the flames as they licked off the logs. Why his mother had a fire blazing in near-summer weather, he didn't know. Probably just the ambiance. He almost felt like he might doze off, but then it happened again.
A memory.
They were at the department store exit, sunshine glistening off the pavement outside the glass doors. He was pushing a cart with the new crib and a couple of baby supplies. She was scampering in front wearing little shorts and a carefree t-shirt. The doors slid open and she spun around with a smile, “This is going to be one spoiled baby!”
“You've got that right,” he said, laughing.
And the memory froze as he felt a sharp pain deep within him. That sweet smile, radiant with her sparkling eyes.
Dead.
But the memories. They were alive and well. Each one brought a new kind of pain, laid another stone on his monument of grief.
His cell phone rang. The caller ID read, “CDC 202-342-3993.” He welcomed any distraction, so he answered immediately.
St. Joseph's Medical Center
“So what's our verdict, John?” Doctor Kingsley asked into his phone. “What does the lab have for us?”
Doctor Burwell had been receiving calls like this from Kingsley ever since the Sienna Petersen case had come down to the morgue. Kingsley had been the woman's OBGYN, so it was understandable he was concerned. Doctor Burwell said, “Whatever it was, it wasn't good; they sent it to the CDC.”
“They did what?” Doctor Kingsley's voice was suddenly tense. Then, “I'm sorry, where did you say they had it sent?”
“They sent it to the Centers for Disease Control. Her death was definitely not related to the miscarriage.”
“Are you sure about that? Miscarriage can cause all kinds of secondary problems.”
“Well you know what I said about the miscarriage. She didn't have one.”
“I know what you said, but you know there's no other alternative.”
“I sent pictures to a friend. A gynecologist.”
“You could have sent them to me.”
“I'm sorry; I know she was your patient. I didn't want to upset you.”
“What did your 'friend' say?”
“He said never. He said that, as recent as it was, the cervix would have been open and there would have been some blood at the very least.”
“Hmm. Well, I still think she flushed it,” Doctor Kingsley asserted. Then he changed the subject, “So admin is sectioning off the fourth floor?”
“Yes, they're putting Sarah and me in quarantine. They asked us to go voluntarily until the Maryland authorities decide what to do. They also said the CDC would need an executive order to enact a quarantine. You know how bureaucracy is.”
Doctor Kingsley grew serious, “But John, this is ridiculous. The woman had a miscarriage and died. There isn't any kind of pathological threat. You're seriously not going to stay there are you?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“I'm going to fight this for you. It's not right.”
“Richard, I know you're upset. This was your patient. You feel responsible. But it should make you feel good to know she didn't die of a miscarriage. She was sick.”
“You know I think of you as a son. You've been my protégé around here. But I'm telling you, she miscarried and died. And I'm going to tell the CDC, too.”
94 Golfpointe Road
Travilah, Maryland
“Is this Mr. Wesley Peterson?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Doctor Phillip Compton, Director of the Centers for Disease Control. I wanted to speak with you personally because I want you to know how seriously the CDC is taking this situation. I understand you lost your wife unexpectedly and I know that this must be a very terrible time for you. Please accept our condolences.”
“Thank you,” Wesley said, a little surprised at the call. The man's tone said 'I am important, I'm used to being in charge.'
“I am very sorry for your loss, as is everyone here at the CDC.”
“Thank you.”
“And I know our people have held interviews with you, to get information about her case . . . but has anyone given you her cause of death? Anyone from Maryland, I mean?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, while I cannot give you any specific information, what I can tell you is that it was not the miscarriage which caused it. It was a disease.”
Wesley was incredulous. While he agreed it wasn't a miscarriage directly, a “disease” seemed awfully far-fetched. In fact, to Wesley, this sounded like some kind of cover to keep him from the truth. “A disease? She was fine until that night.”
“So I understa
nd. However, a disease definitely was the cause of death.”
“What disease?”
“That I cannot say.”
“You don't know or you cannot say?”
“I know more than I can say, but I don't know everything—far from it. And that is partly why I am calling. Between then and now, whom have you had contact with?”
“Well, I'm staying with my parents. I drove over here from Towson.”
“Did you stop anywhere along the road? A toll booth or anything at all?”
“No.”
“Didn't even go to the bathroom?”
“No.”
“And you haven't seen anyone else?”
“No, I just drove straight here.”
“Okay, thank you. It would be wise for you to isolate yourself until we find out more about this and you can be tested. Since we don't know everything, we need to stay on the safe side.”
“Yes, so I've been told. What about my mother? Should she be quarantined, too?”
“At this point, I cannot impose a quarantine on anyone. It will be up to your local authorities in Maryland to determine that. And I also should stress that there has been no evidence that this has spread to anyone beyond your wife. However, you might think it wise to alert your mother that she should stay out of contact with others.”
“So we had a funeral scheduled in two days. What about that?”
“I would cancel it.”
“What about her body? The hospital said they won't sign the death certificate until they can put a 'cause' on it.”
“I'm afraid that her remains will not be accessible to you for the time being.”
“I see. So if I cancel the funeral, people are going to ask why.”