by Meg Perry
“Hi. Sorry if I was staring. It’s just that I haven’t seen you here before.”
She laughed. “Yeah, this is a little early for me. I’m usually here on my lunch hour. But today I have a lunch meeting, so…” She tipped her head and regarded me, looking at me like…was she flirting with me?
Time to go. I turned for the men’s showers. “Cool. Nice to…um…” We hadn’t met, so I couldn’t say nice to meet you. “Hope you enjoyed it.”
She raised her chin, flipped her hair back and her towel over her shoulder, and gave me a little smirk. “Oh, I did.” She sauntered off.
Good grief.
In spite of two hot showers, I was still feeling a little short of breath. When I got to the office, I took a puff from my rescue inhaler. Usually the dusty library smell didn't bother me, but today it was. My airways were hypersensitive to everything right now.
I had forgotten until I opened the door to my office that I didn’t have a computer. Damn. I needed to get my head back in the game. I hadn’t heard back from Detective Blake yet. I moved my keyboard and mouse to the side, opened my laptop, and got to work.
The first thing I did was to email Dr. Oliver. I told him that I would like to take him up on his offer of more information about his research, and I wondered if I could arrange a tour of his lab. I also mentioned that I had a friend who was interested in giving to a foundation that funded stem cell research and asked if I could bring said friend along.
He answered very quickly. Yes, he'd be happy to give me a tour of the lab, and yes, by all means, bring my friend. Would Wednesday morning at 9:00 work?
I sent Pete a quick text. "Stem cell lab Wed 9 am. Oliver says fine to bring you. OK?"
He answered quickly. "Fine. Will pick u up 8:30."
I rolled my eyes at Pete’s text-speak spelling, then turned back to the computer and answered Dr. Oliver. "9:00 is fine; we'll see you then. Thank you."
Then I turned to my real work.
About an hour later, IT Andy was at my door.
“Hey, Dr. B. Sorry for the delay. I finally got free to work on your computer.”
I’d forgotten to tell IT that I’d turned the computer over to the police. “Oh, hey. Actually, I turned my PC tower over to the UCLA police, the computer crimes guy, on Friday afternoon.”
Andy looked shocked. “You did? Why?”
“Because some other weird things have been happening to me, and I thought the hacks to my computer might be related to that. If the cops can figure out who’s been messing with my computer, they may be able to find out who’s behind the other attacks.”
Andy paled. “Attacks? What attacks?”
“My tires got slashed the other day, and someone tried to break into my apartment Saturday night.”
“Wow.” Andy looked worried. “Well, I guess that’s cool, but I’m gonna have to tell my boss about it.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. The detective will probably contact him anyway.”
“Okay…well, I’ll have to bring you a new tower. It might take a couple of days. We don’t have that many to go around with the budget cuts.”
“Sure, that’s fine. I can improvise until you can bring me a new one.”
Andy agreed and left. The rest of the morning was uneventful, and I was getting ready to eat lunch when I saw an email from Karen Lewis.
Jamie - here is your Welsh language article. Have fun translating. -Karen
I opened the article. It was six pages long, and had several tables. I copied the article, opened Google Translate, and pasted the article into it. The translation popped up in the second window. I moved the translation into a Word document. It looked to be just as scrambled as the citation had been. Great. The unscrambling would take forever.
I saved the Word doc to Dropbox. Then, it occurred to me to change all my passwords to every app and site where I had an account, making them as complicated as I could. Until I knew what was going on, I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone who might be looking for anything by or about me. I also changed the password on my laptop. Just in case.
We were busy at reference, but it was starting to let up some. Clinton barely had to wait when he arrived at 1:30.
“Hi, Clinton.”
“The word for the day is velleity.” He bowed and walked away.
Liz looked the word up. “Willpower in its weakest form. That would be me with ice cream.”
That would be me with Pete, I thought.
I was settling back in to my office after my reference shift when Harley Buhrman showed up.
Harley was a throwback to the days of traveling encyclopedia salesmen. He was in his sixties, pear-shaped, with a dyed combover, a cheap suit, and scuffed loafers. He had an ingratiating manner and wore far too much cologne. Drakkar Noir cologne.
Oh, shit. I should have met him outside.
I jumped to my feet. Harley started to step into my office. “Dr. Brodie, good afternoon! I brought…”
I didn't hear the rest. Harley was drenched in Drakkar Noir, as usual, and it was attacking my airways. I grabbed my inhaler from my desk drawer and waved Harley back. "Get out! Get out! You can't…” I had to stop and try to take a breath. I took a puff from the inhaler, with no relief. That inhaler was empty now. I tossed it on my desk.
"Harley! Get out! NOW!" I shoved him out the door and almost ran down the stairs to the circulation desk. It was getting much harder to breathe, and my chest hurt. I grabbed the top of the circulation desk to steady myself. Liz had stopped there and was staring at me.
"Are you okay?"
"No!" I had to stop. I only had breath enough for one word at a time. "Asthma..." breathe... "call..." breathe...
But Liz was already dialing the campus emergency number. I leaned on the counter and concentrated on breathing. Slow down, don't panic, slow down... But it wasn't working.
Dr. Loomis appeared. "Jamie! What on earth..."
"He's having an asthma attack. I called the paramedics." Liz moved over so I could see her face. "Is there any other medicine in your office? Is there anything else we can do?"
I pointed at Harley, who had overcome the shock of being shoved and was nearing the desk. "Keep..." breathe... "him..." breathe... "away..." breathe... "from me." Breathe. "Cologne."
"Oh my God." It occurred to me that I’d never heard Dr. Loomis say that. "Mr. Buhrman, please leave the premises.”
Harley was sputtering. “But…but…I didn’t know…”
"Dr. Brodie has a warning sign posted on his door. I can’t imagine how you missed it." Dr. Loomis took Harley by the arm and nearly dragged him to the door. "Get out of the building and stay out. Do not come back today. Do not come back at all unless you clear it through me personally. Liz, please retrieve Mr. Buhrman’s briefcase."
Harley was still sputtering. “Now, wait just a minute…”
Dr. Loomis lost her cool a little. If I’d been well enough, this scene would have been entertaining. "Mr. Burhman, I will have no more of this. Are you going to leave now, or should I have security remove you?" She opened the door for Harley, who stumbled out of it. "I want to see you heading for the parking structure. NOW."
She closed that door, and opened another for the paramedics. I was gasping for breath, but the attack seemed to have slowed in its progression. I wasn't going to pass out this time. The paramedics got me hooked to oxygen and the monitors and strapped me onto the stretcher.
Dr. Loomis was in full charge mode. "Liz, please, take Dr. Brodie's briefcase and jacket from his office and accompany him to the emergency room. Please report back as soon as possible." She turned to me and patted me on the arm. Somewhere, in the still-oxygenated part of my brain, I was shocked again. "Do what the doctors tell you. Take as much time as you need. I don't want to see you back here until you are well."
I nodded weakly. "Yes..." breathe... "ma'am." She nodded, and turned to the paramedics. "Off you go, gentlemen."
Off we went. It only took a few minutes to get
to the UCLA Medical Center ER, at the south end of campus. The paramedics rolled me back to a cubicle, and the nurse clipped a pulse oximeter to my finger. I scooted my butt over to the ER bed, and a nurse and one of the paramedics helped me get my shirt off over the IVs the paramedics had started. A very young guy in a short white coat that was way too clean stepped around the curtain. "Mr. Brodie? Dr. Waverly. How are you feeling?"
Oh, hell, no. I glared, and pointed at him. "Intern."
"Uh, yeah." The intern looked nonplussed. "So - what happened?"
The nurse brought the bed's head up to a nearly 90 degree position and propped pillows behind me, then patted them. I leaned back, and she slipped a mask over my face. Oxygen, and something moist. No medication in it yet. I glared at the intern again. "Cologne." Breathe. "Asthma." Breathe. "Boom."
"Okay." Dr. Intern was writing. "So you had previously been diagnosed with asthma?"
I made an exasperated sound and looked at the nurse beseechingly. She laughed. "Dr. Waverly, why don't you see if Dr. Suzuki is available?"
"Right." Waverly gave me a dirty look and left. I snorted. The nurse chuckled. "Yeah, he thinks he's all that. He'll learn."
"Not..." breathe... "on me."
The nurse grinned. "Nope, not on you. Here comes the real doctor."
I’d seen Dr. Suzuki before and was glad to see him now. Suzuki walked in, carrying my chart.
"Jamie! What happened to you?"
"Cologne." Breathe. "A lot of it."
"Does this feel like a typical attack for you?"
I nodded. Suzuki turned to the nurse. "Can we get an albuterol nebulizer set up, please?"
"On it." The nurse headed out.
"Had you been feeling short of breath before today?"
I nodded. “Thursday. Funeral. Outdoors. Flowers. Smog. More. Inhaler. Since. Then.” The effort of talking was wearing me out.
"Okay." The nurse arrived with the nebulizer. "Let's get this on you."
As soon as the medication started flowing, I felt my chest easing. Sweet relief. "Better..." breathe... "already."
"Good." Suzuki smiled. "You just hang out and breathe. We'll check your oxygenation again in about 15 minutes."
"Thanks."
Suzuki left; the nurse was cleaning up my arm around the hastily-inserted IV. “Do you need us to call someone?”
“Brother. Card in wallet.”
She handed me my wallet. I pulled Kevin’s card out and handed it to her. “Homicide detective. Wow.”
“Yeah. Scary.” I tried to grin. “Use my phone.”
She dialed, listened, and mouthed “voicemail” at me. “Detective Brodie, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER. Your brother is here as a patient and he asked that we call you first. I’ll call his next contact.” She hung up and turned back to me. “Who’s your next contact?”
Damn. I was going to have to call Pete. I found his number in my phone and handed it to the nurse. She dialed; I heard him answer. “Hey.” He thought it was me.
“Um, hi, Mr. Ferguson, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER…” She paused. I could hear Pete’s voice, but not his words.
“Yes, he’s going to be fine, but he’s had an asthma attack. He’ll have to be here a bit longer, but he’ll need a ride home eventually. I tried his brother’s cell but he doesn’t answer.” Another pause.
“Will do. Thank you.” Carol hung up. “He said he’ll be right here. Where’s he coming from?”
“Santa Monica.”
“Okay, then it shouldn’t take too long. How are you feeling now?”
“Better.”
“Great. I’m going to go get a couple of things, and I’ll be right back. You just relax.”
Easier said than done, but I was feeling better. Liz came in for a few minutes to drop off my jacket and computer bag. She was still there when Dr. Suzuki came in again and listened to my lungs, then ordered another dose of the nebulizer. He turned to Liz for a minute. “Do you happen to know what brand of cologne caused Jamie’s attack?”
Liz made a face. “It was Drakkar Noir. My uncle used to wear it. I always hated it.”
Suzuki nodded and made a note in my chart. The nurse arrived with the nebulizer, and Liz said goodbye.
I was resting, nebulizer mask on my face, when Pete arrived, looking frantic. “What happened?”
I made a face. "Sales rep. Nasty cologne.”
"Oh, for God's sake. Did he not see the sign on your door?"
I shrugged. "He’s an. Idiot." I relaxed a little, and scrunched up my face at Pete. "Sorry."
He shrugged. "Not your fault. You'd have been fine if not for the salesman, right?" I nodded.
"They won't keep you overnight, will they?"
"Doubt it."
"I've got a 6:45 class. I'll call and get Jane to put a note on the door. Tell them to log into the course website instead. I'll post something on there for them to do." He looked me over. "Your color is not too bad."
I nodded. "Feeling better."
"Thank God." Pete sighed in relief. "Where’s Kev?”
"Didn’t answer. Busy.”
“That shit happens.” He looked at me gravely. “I’m glad you called me.”
I shrugged. “You’re on. Short list.”
He laughed. “Good.”
I had to stay in the ER for nearly five more hours. My own doctor, Dr. Weikal, stopped in at some point to see me. He read over my chart, listened to my lungs, and left instructions to make an appointment to see him within 48 hours.
My phone rang a couple of times. Once it was Kevin; Pete talked to him. The second time was a number I didn’t recognize, so we didn’t answer it, and it went to voice mail. Dr. Suzuki wouldn’t discharge me until my peak flow was back up to 80%, and it took a while. Finally, by 9:00, we were making the short drive to my apartment in Pete’s Jeep with a couple of new prescriptions and an appointment with my primary care doctor for Wednesday.
When we pulled into the parking lot, we saw the fire trucks.
“Oh, shit.” I just knew it was our apartment.
Pete tried to be logical. “It’s not necessarily your place.”
But it was.
A firefighter stopped us as we walked toward the building. I showed him my driver’s license to prove that I lived there, and he allowed us through. I walked into the door of the apartment and stopped so fast that Pete ran into me. The place was completely trashed. Every cabinet door in the kitchen was open, and everything had been pulled out, opened and dumped or broken. Flour, cereal, and fragments of plates and glasses coated the counters and floor. The refrigerator was open, and everything in it had been emptied. Every piece of furniture had been overturned, and those with any padding had been slit open. The TV and stereo were smashed. Kevin stood in the middle of the room, his face white with fury. His partner, Tim Garcia, was talking to him and a firefighter, and a couple of crime scene techs were dusting for fingerprints and sifting through the mess.
But that was nothing compared to the scene in my bedroom.
All of my books, clothes and shoes, and the towels from the bathroom, had been piled on top of my bed and set on fire. The fire was out, but the smell was atrocious, a mix of burning rubber and something else equally noxious. Everything was destroyed, down to the box spring under my mattress. I was in such deep shock that I didn't even notice that my breathing was starting to be affected until Pete leaned in behind me and said, "Hey, we’ve got to get you out of here. You can't be breathing in this crap."
I turned and looked at him. The look on my face must have frightened him. He took my arm and guided me back into the living room. The firefighter spotted us and walked over. “Lt. Evers. I’m an arson investigator. You’re Detective Brodie’s brother?”
“Yes, sir. This is Pete Ferguson.”
Evers shook Pete’s hand. Pete asked, “What happened?”
Evers turned back and looked at the room. "They came in through the sliding glass door in the bedroom. So far we
haven't found much in terms of evidence. We know accelerant was used, but we’re not sure what yet, except that it wasn’t gasoline." He turned back to me. "It’s hard to see if anything is missing because of the mess. Kevin hasn’t noticed anything yet. We’ll need you both to take a closer look at some point."