by Diana Kirk
His apartment resembled his office. Books and piles of papers strewn in random order. Even his shape indented his overstuffed leather chair.
Journal! He had a journal, but where?
The last few days before his death, Milton had been particularly euphoric. Was it recorded somewhere in this clutter? She sank into Milton's chair. The puffy leather groaned and molded around her. A pungent earthy-aroma drifted slightly upward; she liked the leathery smell.
"Andrea?" Gary called, jerking her out of her thoughts.. "Andrea?"
"What?"
"What do you think? Anything out of place, or unusual?"
Andrea smiled. Out of place? The whole apartment was out of place, but that was hardly unusual. Neat would've been unusual. And she would've been suspicious. She fought to keep her heavy eyelids open. She relaxed by slow degrees. It had been a hellishly long day. She yawned and stretched, drawing Krastowitcz's curious, interested stare.
"Gosh," she said, immediately flustered and hating it. "I'm so tired. It's probably past my bedtime." She jumped up and smoothed her skirts. "A few minutes more and that chair would've had me for a late night snack."
"Is that an invitation?" Krastowitcz smiled.
She tossed him a cool look. "Calm down, Sergeant, this is an investigation. Remember?"
Andrea strode to the bedroom. The place was nothing like the living room. Black and white silk drapes swirled around the floor boards. Black-satin pillows smothered the king-size bed.
"Wow. Fancy stuff," Krastowitcz said. "What sort of frou-frou did he do in here?"
"Don't know. I was never invited to partake. From the looks of this, I'm glad."
The whole thing struck Andrea funny. She was over-tired and punchy. "I must be getting loony, but everything here looks silly."
"Yeah, well, keep that smile on your face. It looks nice for a change."
"Thank you, Officer Krastowitcz. You're opinion is highly valued." She strode past him and stopped. "Wait a minute. I almost forgot."
"What?"
"Milton kept a journal."
"What kind?"
"A diary of sorts, only he recorded all his scientific work in it."
"Is that all?"
"All? He recorded absolutely everything. If we find the journal, we might find out what happened."
She stooped over and pulled out the picture serving as a bookmark in Robots and Empire. "Wow! Look at this." She held out a picture of Milton and Dwight Hardwyn. "Boy is that old. Milton has hair and Hardwyn's is black. Check the pose." She leaned close. Krastowitcz's shoulder, solid and warm, brushed hers. Again, that kinetic connection. She pulled away and focused on the picture. "Very chummy don't you think?"
Krastowitcz stared at her as though gauging her reaction. "I'm going to ask a question. Don't get angry again. I just need some information."
"What?"
"Could Grafton have been gay? I mean," he rushed on. "From the looks of this apartment, it's a strong possibility. And what about Hardwyn?"
"I don't know what to say, Gary. Hardwyn has been very good to me. He's married and for all purposes it appears a strong and stable marriage. His wife is a wonderful woman, very active with hospital charity work, a real political asset, too. And they have three children. That doesn't really mean anything, but there's never been any gossip about it. Nothing about Milton, either."
"Not even a hint?"
"No. I agree that this room sends off strange vibes, but I don't know if they're gay. Although, he did seem to dislike women. No offense, Gary, I admired Milton, but he was a worse male chauvinist than you."
"I don't hate women," Gary said. "I'm crazy about them under the right circumstances."
"I'll just bet you are." Beside the dresser she picked up a shoe-box filled with slides and pictures. She leafed through the photographs and gasped. Picture after picture was of Milton with young boys and men-friends-lovers in various poses: standing, sitting, laying, touching. These pictures were mingled with darker, more horrific shots of mutilated male torsos, similar to Milton's. She held her hand over her mouth to stem the nausea and dropped the box.
Krastowitcz bent down and picked up a picture and grimaced. "God I hate being right. Who's this?"
In the picture, Grafton's laboratory assistant nestled his head on his boss's shoulder and smiled flirtatiously at the camera. Andrea drew in her breath sharply.
"Peter Mueller. He's--he was one of Milton's research assistants. I knew he'd been with Milton for years, in Ohio, but I had no idea they were this close."
"What about this one?" Krastowitcz held up one of a man in a black suit and white priestly collar. It was vaguely familiar.
"Let's see. . . Oh no. It's Father Jamison, the Dorlynd chaplain. He administers last-rites to AIDS patients. He's. . . I mean, was, a close friend of Milton. He couldn't be involved," she said and turned her face up to Krastowitcz's, "could he?"
"Don't know. These others. The mutilations, they're familiar. I've got copies posted all over my bulletin board. Milton didn't get these from the cops. Only the killer had access to these poses."
"You're not suggesting--" Andrea picked up the pictures and sorted through them.
Krastowitcz gently retrieved them. "See if you can find more pictures. Looks like I need to check out Grafton's whereabouts during the last few months. Especially with the Omaha gay community. Always my favorite stomping--"
"Oh my God, no. He couldn't be. He tried to save lives not kill."
"What are these?" Krastowitcz picked up a small glass square and held it to the light.
"Let me see." She reached out and examined one, then another, and another. "They're lecture slides. Serology smears."
"Any connection? Why the gory snapshots mixed in with lecture slides?"
Andrea sorted through the box and grimaced. "I--I don't know. Milton lived in organized chaos, but knew where every-thing was. When he needed something, he'd go right to it. Please--He wasn't a murderer, he was a genius; the world will never have another like him, and right when he was on the verge of something fantastic in his research."
Krastowitcz searched the rest of the room. The thought of never seeing Milton again saddened Andrea. Aimlessly, she rumbled through the box. At the bottom was a small book, she pulled it out and flipped through the pages. Strange, cryptic writing mingled with English filled its pages. She hid the book in her purse. She'd check it later, when she wasn't so tired. Then, she'd tell Krastowitcz about her find.
"The funeral is day after tomorrow," Krastowitcz said, and turned in her direction. "I've got to take this box of pictures and go over them in detail with the crime lab. I'll check some sources, then we'll go to the funeral, check out the mourners, and see who shows up."
"That would be fine, Gary, but I have patients and I've been neglecting them for several days. Administration won't give me much time off. Hardwyn is a sweetheart, but there's a limit to everyone's patience. I want my faculty appointment."
"Why?"
"It's a job. Administrator's don't like women who talk back. They're like you. They want the same type you do on the force. Hardwyn likes me, but he can't protect me against those who think women don't belong in academia. He disagreed with Mil-ton's unorthodox research methods. If this comes out, they'll assume I knew something. But I didn't. . . I--" Andrea rubbed her palms over eyes.
"Look, Andrea, I was a little insensitive at the restaurant." He covered her hands with his. "I don't hate women or their minds, especially doctors. I have the greatest respect for what you've accomplished. And you could be a real asset to me if you'd, sort of, act as a technical advisor."
She gazed into his eyes. Was he serious, or merely feeling guilty for his earlier comments? His gaze was strong and clear and steady.
"I can't. You've got professionals to gather evidence."
"I know, I've got the coroner to help me, but he's not an AIDS expert--" The corners of his lips turned up slightly.
"I'm no expert."
"But yo
u're a doctor, you worked with him, and with Graf-ton dead and possibly a serial killer--"
"No!" The sergeant had put her worst fears into words. She pulled her hands from his and covered her eyes, again.
"You're the closest to what he was doing. I've got a funny feeling on this one. I need your help."
Andrea lowered her hands and walked through the doorway. He grabbed the box of pictures and followed her into the living room. She plopped into the leather chair and closed her eyes. She sensed his stare and opened her eyes to his intense gaze and the electric sensation surrounding them.
"You need to know what you're up against," she said. "You need to be aware of the patients we treat. AIDS is an insidious disease. It takes seemingly healthy persons and, in a matter of time, reduces them to a dried up shell. Then, the slightest infection comes along and kills them. I want you to see what I'm talking about. Accompany me on rounds tomorrow."
Krastowitcz hesitated. His eyes widened but his gaze never faltered. The guy was homophobic, she was sure of it. "All right. What time?"
"Seven o'clock sharp."
"A little early isn't it? It's two o'clock in the morning."
"Disease doesn't wait until the time's convenient. Better get going so you can get some sleep," she said, forcing herself up.
HE WATCHED the two of them leave Milton's apartment.
Did they find the journal? God, he had to know! At the very least, they'd see Milton's bedroom. Did they wonder? Were their secrets exposed? Did they know about the bodies?
That conniving bitch.
She wormed her way in everywhere. Now she'd even searched among his private things, things that must remain a secret.
Running up the stairs hurt. His lungs burned. Still, he trudged up eleven stories and slipped the key into the lock. Now, he'd find out what she'd violated and then he would violate a few things, himself. The thought was simply delicious. Pay her back for the way she'd treated him and the others on rounds.
SUZANNE LOVED the musky smell of sex. She gathered the sheets up around her face and breathed deeply. A wide smile of satisfaction played on her lips. Others probably considered her a loose woman, but it was just that she had healthy appetites. Too bad she hadn't lived in the sixties: the sexual revolution: free- love, communes, orgies, and no AIDS.
What would it have been like to be a flower child? Would she have ironed her hair? Worn mini-skirts? But of course! She did that now. Would she have wanted someone like Trent back then? She didn't know. But she wanted him, now, and for a time she had him.
She traced her fingers along the outline of his slackened jaw skidding along his stubbled cheek until they stopped in his cleft. Soon, he would glide a razor along the same route her fingers traced. She wanted to do that, slice closely, caressing him daily on a sensuous travel along his face, stopping at the tip of his lips and circling round his larynx. Her lips traced her finger-path with small kisses and her heart swelled with thoughts of him. He was wonderful.
Trent smiled, mumbled something, and rolled over, trapping her arm in his. She nestled behind him. Wow! Maybe, just maybe she could grow to love this man. Finally, after all this time, her body wasn't merely performing a function. She actually felt something deep inside. And it wasn't lust. She knew that much. No, it had to be love; what else could it be?
Andrea would say her glands were overactive, again, but this really was different. Trent seemed to care about her, too. He seemed sincerely interested in her welfare. She'd often wondered if she'd ever form a real attachment. Maybe this was it. Maybe not. A long sigh drifted through her lips, ruffling Trent's hair. Oh well, she wouldn't assume anything. She'd enjoy it for what it was worth. If things lasted, great. If not, she'd simply go on.
She always did.
Chapter IX
. . . I WILL FOLLOW THAT METHOD OF TREATMENT WHICH, ACCORDING TO MY ABILITY AND JUDGMENT, I CONSIDER
FOR THE BENEFIT OF MY PATIENTS . . .
"Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome is the end result of infection with the human immunodeficiency virus, or HIV, as it is commonly called. Can anyone tell me what is the biggest problem with this virus?"
Andrea's voice was strong and she was clearly in control. This time, Krastowitcz felt awkward and disadvantaged. Touché'. The woman had managed to switch the environment as easily as he channel surfed on his days off.
The small group of medical students eagerly hung on every word.
"Mr. Harrison?"
A nervous young man scratched his head and gazed at the floor. "Since AIDS represents only one aspect in the prolongation of infection, we have to consider the whole spectrum, not just AIDS."
"Very good. Gentlemen and ladies, this is Sergeant Krastowitcz, from the Omaha Police Department. He will be joining us for rounds today and I certainly hope you have your case presentations ready."
Great! He'd have to listen to some mumbo-jumbo he couldn't understand.
"Case presentations?" Surprised voices chimed in unison. "How many case presentations?"
"You present all your patients. First to the intern, then to me. You'll be expected to use the standard, three minute SOAP for-mat."
"Doctor Pearson?"
"In case you've forgotten, that's Subjective: meaning gathering a history; Objective: the physical exam, lab work, x-rays; your Assessment is derived from information gathered during the history and exam; and finally, the Plan will include your recommendations for treating the patient."
She offered no other explanation. Krastowitcz wondered what the students thought. They stared at him with a mixture of awe and discomfort. These people certainly seemed impressed with Andrea. Hell, Krastowitcz himself was impressed. The white coat she'd hastily thrust at him was too tight for his massive arms and put way too much pressure on the tiny white seams. He felt self-conscious. She, on the other hand, seemed so in control of the situation. Of course, they were on her turf now.
During Andrea's lecture, she seemed unaware of his discomfort. Walking down the west wing of Dorlynd Medical Center, Krastowitcz tuned out the drone of voices. How many future serial killers walked these hallowed halls?
Sunlight peeked through one of the many skylights dotting the ceiling, blinding his tired eyes. Seven o'clock was too damned early for him. With only three hours of sleep, he was in no mood for the sick and dying, especially ones with AIDS. In fact, he wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with the living, either.
The faint odor of disinfectant hit Krastowitcz. Lysol mixed with urine, feces, starch, and sickness made his stomach roil.
This was a place of death.
The team approached the first patient's room.
"Be aware that AIDS usually progresses from the initial acute infection stage, which may mimic mononucleosis, through an asymptomatic phase, then to an AIDS related complex characterized by generalized lymphadenopathy and, finally, active AIDS. The last stage, which we will see today, is characterized by fever, weight loss, diarrhea, dementia, neuropathies, and secondary infections. These secondary infections can be centralized in the lungs with an atypical parasitical infection, toxoplasmosis, myocardiosis, or bacteremia.
"In the case of Mr. Randolph, we will observe a secondary cancer in the form of Kaposi's sarcoma which is manifested by purplish lesions covering his extremities. Any questions?" Andrea placed her hand on the knob.
Krastowitcz wanted to ask her if the guy was contagious, but kept it to himself. No one else seemed to be too concerned. He'd been told time and again, he couldn't catch AIDS unless there was an exchange of bodily fluids. But was that really true, or did physicians make it up because they didn't know exactly how it was transmitted? Or maybe the government covered up how easily it was really caught and didn't want a mass panic?
"Everyone gown and glove. For Mr. Randolph's protection, not ours." She pointed to a cart next to the door. On it were a stack of gowns, a box of rubber gloves, and a tray of masks. "Since Mr. Randolph has no immune system left, what would happen if even a slight cold virus
were introduced?" She pointed toward a tall female medical student.
"Possibly pneumonia and then, death."
"Thank you, Sharon. That's correct. We gown for Mr. Randolph's protection. We glove for ours."
They proceeded, and a sandy-haired medical student raised his hand. "Doctor Pearson? Does this patient manifest any other secondary infections?"
"Yes, Mr. McDermott. Mr. Randolph has been diagnosed with the parasite Pneumocystis carinii. The patient is literally being suffocated by the millions of tiny parasitic animals living in his lungs, causing a rare pneumonia. Other manifestations include intestinal parasites, amebiasis and giardiasis, which flourish in the gay bowel syndrome, rampant yeast infections, shigellosis, and a papovavirus that causes warts. The list is endless and each patient manifests different and more resistant diseases."
"Why is that, doctor?" Krastowitcz asked and glanced around the room for a can of Lysol.
"The AIDS infection wipes out the body's all-important T cells, leaving it virtually defenseless against infection. The infection ultimately kills the patient."
She opened the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Randolph," Andrea cheerfully greeted the emaciated skeleton on the bed. Her manner had shifted, somehow. Krastowitcz watched her with growing interest. She was poised, forceful, and in control.
Calm and confident.
Everything he despised in a woman. Somehow, though, on Andrea, he almost liked it. She was different than she'd been the past few days. But, of course, she wasn't a woman now, she was a doctor.
"Would you mind, Mr. Randolph, if I bring a few colleagues to examine you today?"
"No, ma'am." He wheezed, but a violent coughing fit stopped him. It sounded as though he hacked up pieces of his lungs. Randolph spit into the basin, and Krastowitcz almost gagged. There were parts of his lungs in there. Krastowitcz swallowed hard.
"Now, observe Mr. Randolph's lesions." She picked up the skeletal arm and beckoned her students to crowd around the patient.