by D P Lyle
“Not everyone. Just the ones who need it,” I said.
Claire shook her head. “You’re a child.”
“You didn’t think so last night.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“He started it.”
“Why didn’t you just stick your tongue out and go nah-nah-nah-nah-nah?” Claire said.
“Thought about it.”
She stopped walking and turned to me. “You think pissing off a police sergeant is a good idea?”
The morning sun lit up her red hair. She tried to put on an angry face, but it wasn’t working. I knew her too well. She actually enjoyed me poking a stick in the eye of jerk weeds like Furyk. Would never admit it, but she did.
“Seemed so at the time,” I said.
“Jesus,” Claire said. “You’re a moron.”
I slipped an arm around her. “And you love me.”
She slapped my butt. “Yes, I do. But you can be such an ass.”
“Important thing is, this is the third time Talbert’s popped up on the radar screen,” T-Tommy said.
“Once is an event,” I said. “Twice a coincidence. Three times a conspiracy. Let’s give Talbert a drive-by.”
We climbed into T-Tommy’s car, the Porsche too small. Claire rode shotgun; I sat in back. We drove past Gate 9 to the Redstone Arsenal/Marshall Space Flight Center complex, through Cummings Research Park, and right past Talbert Biomedical. It was a long two-level building, half of the lower level sunk into the ground. A fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence embraced both the building and its adjacent parking lot. As we passed, I saw a black Lincoln parked near the front of the building.
T-Tommy rolled to a stop. “Well, well, look who’s visiting.”
We moved on. T-Tommy pulled off the road and rummaged through the center console. He pulled out his digital camera and handed it to me. He made a U-turn and gave Talbert another slow pass while I snapped photos. I saw two uniformed guards just inside the glass-fronted entrance. One slouched behind a desk; the other stood with a cup of coffee. They laughed as if sharing a joke.
Two blocks down, T-Tommy parked along the edge of Farrow Road near its junction with Slaughter Road. I held the camera over the front seat, giving T-Tommy and Claire a view of the small screen, and scrolled through the pictures.
“We need to get inside and look around,” T-Tommy said. “Doubt we have enough for a warrant, though.”
“Just as well,” I said. “If the cops show up, anything incriminating would disappear.”
I went through the pictures again. Talbert wasn’t wide open, but it wasn’t exactly a fortress, either. The chain-link fence was a hundred or so feet from the building. The upper floor windows were about four feet wide by six feet tall, the lowers similar in width but only two feet high. All were the metal-framed, push-out type. A small white sign with red lettering said, Protected by Gorman Security.
“I guess we could break in. Doesn’t look very high-tech, and the guards seem disinterested.”
“Might work,” T-Tommy said.
Claire sighed. “You guys are low-functioning idiots.”
“Because we want to dig into Talbert?” I asked.
“No. Because testosterone is a dangerous drug. You would butt a door down even if you had the key in your pocket.”
“And you propose what?” I asked.
Claire rolled her eyes and took her cell phone from her purse. “What’s Talbert’s number?”
T-Tommy gave it to her, and she punched it in, waited a second, and then said, “Mr. Talbert’s office, please. . . . This is Claire McBride, Channel 8 News. Is Mr. Talbert available? . . . I’d like to arrange a meeting with him. . . . I’m working on a story about minimally invasive surgery. I got Mr. Talbert’s name from Dr. Liz Mackey over at Memorial Medical Center. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him if he has the time. I’ll only need about fifteen minutes or so.” She covered the phone and said to us, “She’s checking.” Then into the phone she said, “That would be great. I’ll be there at three. Thanks.” She closed the phone. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She can be such a smart-ass sometimes.
CHAPTER 61
MONDAY 2:52 P.M.
THE TWO GUARDS WE HAD SEEN BEFORE GREETED CLAIRE AND I when we pushed through the front door of Talbert Biomedical. Since I’d seen Austin’s car here earlier, letting Claire go in alone was not open to discussion. She called me a ninny but gave in. I think she liked the fact that I was concerned. The cover? I was helping her with her story on minimally invasive surgery.
The guards were midforties, pizza and donuts lapping over their belts. The rounder of the two escorted us along a hallway, one wall windowed, security cameras near the ceiling at the far end. Halfway down, we entered Talbert’s office.
Harmon Talbert, fiftyish, maybe five ten, one sixty or so, blue suit and red tie over a white shirt. Gray tinted his light brown hair at the temples, and his eyes were an intelligent blue.
We introduced ourselves and shook hands across his desk. We sat in two straight-backed chairs facing him. His gaze floated over Claire. Pervert.
Elbows on his desk, fingers tented, he said, “Ms. McBride, I’m a big fan. Watch your segments on Channel 8 religiously.”
“Thank you.”
Talbert smiled. His teeth were perfect. His gaze kept dropping to Claire’s chest. I didn’t like him. “I understand you’re working on a medical story and feel I might be able to help you.”
“That’s correct. Mr. Walker is assisting me with the story.”
He looked at me. “I’ve seen you on TV and read a couple of your books. Very good. Even recommended them to my friends.”
“Thanks.” Maybe he wasn’t a pervert after all.
“Dark stuff. Serial killers. Psychopaths.”
I shrugged. My books were dark and definitely dealt with dark people.
“I particularly liked the new one,” he said. “The one on how serial killers are made.”
He meant Multiple Murderers: Nature or Nurture? One of my best if I said so myself. “I like it, too.”
His gaze bounced down toward Claire’s legs and back up. Pervert again. “You learned about us from Dr. Mackey over at Memorial?”
“That’s right. When I interviewed her, she mentioned that your company makes many of the instruments they use over there. I thought seeing how they’re made might add an unusual twist to my story.”
Talbert nodded. “Is this for Channel 8 News?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought you’d have a cameraman or something. You know, get some footage for TV.”
“This is a preliminary interview. Just to get a little background. That way we can streamline the process. Take up less of your time when we come back with a full crew.”
“What’s the slant you’ll be taking on this?”
“This story concerns the post-operative, healing-phase psychological problems of people undergoing surgical procedures of all types,” Claire said. “I want to compare the reactions of people subjected to traditional surgery with the reactions of those who have procedures done by the minimally invasive technique.”
Where did that come from? She was good. Better than good.
“Fascinating.” He stood. “Why don’t we head over to the research area? My partner, Dr. Kincaid, is there. He can probably answer your questions better than I.” He smiled warmly. “I’m the manufacturing side. He’s the medical guy.”
We exited the office and walked farther down the hallway until we came to a bank of windows that looked into a well-lit room where twenty or so people stood around a long metallic table. They were clad in head-to-toe white suits equipped with hoods, clear faceplates, gloves, the whole deal. They appeared to be sealing instruments into sterile packages.
Talbert stopped and gestured toward the window. “This is where we prep our products for shipment.”
“Looks clean,” Claire said.
“Completely steril
e. The air is filtered, and there are laminar flow blowers near the door. Helps keep the bugs at bay.” He laughed softly.
“Do you make the instruments here or just finish them?” Claire asked.
“After we perfect the design, they’re made in Pennsylvania. Here we polish them, do our quality control, sterilize, package, and ship them.”
“This building seems even bigger than it appears from the outside,” she said. “I’m turned around. Are we on the first or the second floor?”
“Second. All our offices, design, and research areas are on this level.”
“What’s on the lower level?”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “Mostly storage. We also do the final crating and prep for shipping down there.”
We moved farther to another bank of windows that also looked into a rectangular room. A tall man in surgical scrubs, mask, and cap stood over a cadaver that lay on a waist-high table. He appeared to manipulate a metal rod, twisting and angling it into the corpse’s chest. A smaller man stood next to him and appeared to be assisting with the procedure.
Talbert rapped a knuckle on the window.
The tall man looked up, nodded, and then continued his manipulations. After a minute, he stepped back, examined his work, and said something to the assistant. He came around the table, tugged off his surgical gloves, cap, and mask, tossed them into a trash bin, and pushed through the door into the hallway.
“This is Dr. Robert Kincaid,” Talbert said. “Bob, this is Claire McBride and Dub Walker.”
“I understand you’re doing a story on us,” Kincaid said as we shook hands.
“That’s right,” Claire said.
Talbert excused himself, saying he had a couple of phone calls to make and would catch up with us shortly.
Kincaid faced me. “Harmon and I were talking about you earlier. We’re both fans of your books. I find all that forensic and psychology stuff fascinating.”
“Thanks.”
“You and my assistant, Aden Slade” —he motioned in the direction of the younger man still working over the cadaver—”have something in common. Like you, he attended medical school but had to drop out due to a family crisis.”
I had been three months from finishing when my sister was abducted. Jill was never seen again. I never returned to med school. I didn’t like talking about it, so I didn’t.
Claire jumped in and repeated the explanation of her story for Kincaid. She concluded with, “Besides the more rapid healing and less pain involved with the buttonhole surgery, there seems to be less depression, a more rapid return of self-confidence, and a stronger sense of well-being in those patients undergoing this less traumatic type of procedure.”
Did I mention she was good at this?
“That’s true,” Kincaid said. “Those kinds of things plus fewer infections and shorter hospital stays are the reasons this approach has gained so much popularity.”
Claire pointed at the window. “What’s all this?”
“Aden and I are working on an improved chest cannula. It has a slightly different curve and is more easily manipulated. Better for reaching some lung lesions as well as the back of the heart during bypass procedures.”
“You use cadavers for that?” Claire asked.
“Sure. We use a few dozen a year. It’s the only way to make sure any new equipment does what we intend.”
“I have a silly question,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’ve thought I might donate my body to science one day. Would I end up here?”
Kincaid laughed. “You might. We buy our cadavers from a company that supplies many medical schools and medical-related businesses.”
“I heard they use them for crash test dummies, too.”
Kincaid laughed again. Good. He was dropping his guard. “Yes, they do. Sounds awful, I know, but it saves lives.”
“Can just anyone buy a corpse?” Claire asked. “I wouldn’t want some perv to buy my body.”
Kincaid flashed his pearly whites. Quite the charmer. “No. It’s a tightly regulated industry. The procurement and disposal of cadavers are closely watched.”
“So, you don’t just toss them out with the trash when you’re done?”
“No. As I’m sure Mr. Walker knows, they’re treated as infectious waste. They have to be sealed in biohazard bags and then shipped to companies that dispose of them properly.”
Claire glanced at the cadaver on the table. “This is all so cool. Maybe I’ll donate my bod after all.”
“I’m glad you like our facility.” His gaze traveled down her body and back up to her face. “And we would welcome your body.”
I wanted to shoot him.
“As soon as I’m done with it, it’s yours.”
“As young and healthy as you appear, it’ll be a long wait. But it’s the thought that counts.”
“Does this mean I need a tattoo? You know, on the bottom of my foot or somewhere. One that says, Property of Talbert Biomedical.”
Talbert laughed and clapped his hands together. “You are delightful. I’m so glad you came by. We need a little more humor around here.” He looked at her cleavage.
Back off, slimeball.
Aden Slade came out of the room and walked toward us. Now, with his mask and cap removed, I could see a thin, angular face, framed by white-blond hair. His skin was pale as if he rarely ventured outdoors and never when the sun was up. Though he cast his gaze downward, I saw that his eyes were an almost translucent blue.
Kincaid introduced us. Slade was maybe five nine, one forty tops, and seemed nervous, never looking either of us in the eye. Maybe he was simply shy. Maybe he was uncomfortable around women. Maybe he was checking out Claire’s cleavage. I wanted to shoot him, too.
“Dr. Kincaid was telling us about all the wonderful work you’re doing here,” I said. “Very impressive.”
“Thanks.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.
“How long’ve you been here?”
He started to answer, but Kincaid stepped in. “As I said, Aden was in medical school but had to drop out. We were lucky enough to hire him. Sent him through surgical assistant training, and he’s been part of the team for . . . how long now? Nearly six years?”
“That’s right,” Slade said.
Kincaid continued. “Aden is very gifted. Good hands, sharp mind. He would have made a fine surgeon had he been able to complete his medical training.”
Slade offered Claire a quick nod and maybe a faint smile. I couldn’t be sure.
“You ever try out your instruments on living subjects?” I asked Kincaid.
“No. We’re not equipped for that.”
“Then how can you be sure they’ll work the same way in the operating room as they do here?”
“We have arrangements with several teaching hospitals—UAB, Mayo, Brigham, Duke, a few others. Once we’re sure we have the instrument right, they try it out in their ORs. They then give us feedback, and we make modifications and back and forth until it’s right.”
“Sounds risky,” Claire said. “To the patient.”
“Not really,” Kincaid said. “We have each instrument finely tuned before we let the surgeons have it. The changes that follow are always minor. We don’t begin manufacturing any instrument until it’s perfect. And then only if the surgeons say it really makes their work easier. They’re the final judges. If they don’t like it, they won’t buy it.”
Claire smiled. “I’ve heard that surgeons can be a bit finicky.”
Kincaid laughed. “Yes, we are.”
Claire asked several more questions. How did Talbert Biomedical get started? What led them into the buttonhole surgery arena? How many innovative instruments had they brought to market? What projects were on the drawing board?
To that final question Kincaid responded, “We have several interesting things on the horizon. I can’t talk about most of them.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t want to tip off the competition. One area is improved instruments f
or this buttonhole surgery. We see a strong future there.”
“On that note,” I said, “Dr. Mackey mentioned that many of the instruments used in these types of procedures are also used in robotic surgery. Are you involved in any of that?”
“No. We haven’t entered that arena.” He glanced at Slade. “We’ve talked about it, though.”
“Dr. Mackey says it’s a rapidly growing field. She wishes she had one.”
Kincaid nodded. “That’s why we’re looking into it. We might consider developing some instruments for these robotic-type devices.”
“Not the robot itself?” Claire asked.
“That’s a huge and expensive undertaking. Not in our area of expertise. Not yet, anyway.” Kincaid turned his palms up. “Who knows what the future might hold.”
We thanked Kincaid and made our exit. Back in the car, I called T-Tommy. He had let us go in first, so Talbert and Kincaid would be relaxed and more open, but then he wanted to chat with them. Officially. Ask them directly if any of their instruments might be missing. How they accounted for them. Could an employee sneak them out? Mainly, he wanted to pressure them. Let them know they were on the HPD radar. Fear made people do stupid things. Let’s hope.
CHAPTER 62
MONDAY 6:04 P.M.
THE SUN FLATTENED ALONG THE WESTERN HORIZON AND PAINTED the bellies of the clouds that clabbered above it. I sat at the patio table, going over my notes again and shooing away Kramden and Norton. Attracted by the paper clip that held the pages together, they kept pecking and yapping. Relentless little bastards. I gave up. Kramden snatched the clip, and off they went.
Buddy Guy wailed “Feels Like Rain” from the outdoor speakers.
Claire worked on a glass of wine, her laptop, and her cell phone. She was digging into Talbert, Kincaid, and Aden Slade.
My notes were now officially boring. I had read them a dozen times, hoping something new, something I had overlooked, might jump out. Nothing did. I put them aside, picked up this morning’s Huntsville Times, and reread the above-the-fold story on the bodies. Brief and mostly accurate, the piece contained some quotes from Furyk. There was a photo of an excavation team working in Maple Hill. The byline was Blaine Markland, the city editor.