An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller

by Martin Sherwood

  Memories of the tub began to surface and float, leaving me panting for more. I fantasized about the next chapter—maybe a Friday night candlelit dinner and more. I yearned to go back to bed. Johanna would awaken me when she returned.

  I knew it wasn’t going to happen, and it was all Efron’s fault.

  Her distress call gave me no rest. My entire body felt heavy, my muscles barely moving, as if another part of me was being carried on my shoulder. Even my eyelids were leaden. But notwithstanding my fatigue, I knew that Efron’s shrieking, animalistic whimpering would continue to haunt me even under the comforter and drive me over the edge, despite my need for sleep.

  While I dressed and fumbled into my green coat, I recalled Efron’s explicit request—tube #12.

  I slipped one leg into my jeans and hopped back into the kitchen, making straight for the kettle. In my haste, I tried to do everything at once, but I would have needed four hands. In frustration I finished buttoning up my jeans first, then turned my attention back to the kettle. When I finally got its base unscrewed, I could only stand there and gawk. The tube was gone.

  I turned the kettle on its side, gave it a vigorous shake, and glanced at the element. The tube wasn’t there. I opened the drawers and rummaged inside. I knew it couldn’t have been there—however dizzy and wasted I felt, I was lucid enough to remember hiding the tube inside the double space at the base of the old kettle—but I checked anyway.

  Efron’s pleas had been for naught; I couldn’t bring her the tube even if I wanted to. But just as I was beginning to seriously consider changing back into pajamas, the Uber honked impatiently from the street below. It had arrived early. It made sense for the driver to be ahead of schedule—who else would need a ride on a night like this? Half the traffic lights were probably down because of the storm and the power outages.

  I looked pleadingly at the kettle. Milbert, you need to be determined. To demonstrate resolve!

  There was but one option left that I could live with in peace. She was experiencing major distress. With or without the tube, on a strictly humanitarian level, I had to try and help her. Okay, I decided. If I can’t find the tube now, I’ll just go without it. We’ll worry about it later, with no pressure.

  The Uber driver honked repeatedly. I rechecked my coat pocket. Maybe I was confused and had left it there after all? But all I fished out were expired coupons and the business cards of people I preferred to forget. I was always juggling tasks, my wallet forever swollen with quantities of old receipts and notes. Things had a habit of falling out of my pockets.

  Wilbur barked as I entered the stairwell.

  I was about to push the front door open when Judd reappeared upstairs, wobbly but all smiles. “Not to worry,” he said, leaping down the steps with Wilbur behind, “I’m only taking him for a quick walk before I pack and go. Please try to take him out again to the reservoir for a good run. I think he loves that curly lady across the pond.”

  “Soon, friend,” I assured him, kneeling to scratch his back fur. It would be a long day tomorrow, though. “I hope you don’t have a peanut-sized bladder.”

  ***

  Traffic wasn’t just sparse—it was non-existent.

  Everywhere there were traces of post-storm power outages. The car cruised in regal solitude along the avenue and passed the Language Center. As it made a left turn the water storage tank was to our right; it looked like an archeological mound floating on a bed of low clouds. The right turn to Brownsboro Road was blocked by a fallen tree and we had to detour. We kept moving north, the driver using all his skills to avoid the huge puddles, taking the shoulders and pumping his brakes. Lights flickered from the VA medical center up on the hill, probably utilizing its emergency generators.

  Just before reaching the Ohio River, the car climbed the ramp and continued north on Highway 71. The major interstate artery had relatively good drainage canals and the left lane was quite dry. Only the Thurman Hutchins Park separated us from the rushing, overflowing river. My driver preferred to take the longer route, and we headed east until Highway 71 met the 265 Gene Snyder Freeway. There we turned west toward the river and Harrods Creek. We turned right near Shadow Wood and were finally on River Road. The rain resumed its drum and firework concerto.

  The driver nearly missed the left turn into Mayfair and the Concourse. I suspect he gave it a sour gaze—already thinking about his drive back—since the road was a mosaic of dark curves and narrow, frothy margins. We arrived at the water line. All vegetation was buried under the flood. As we drove, I opened the window a crack, inhaling clean air. The wind dispelled a fan of raindrops over the trees and the foundation poles of the riverfront houses and huts along the way.

  The open space was now completely dark, and the car’s headlights scanned the horizon like glowing insect antennae. The wind picked up as we approached Transylvania Beach. The driver glanced at the GPS, which insisted that we’d arrived at our destination. He stopped and we both looked around, seeing only the complete jet black of nothing.

  For a second our gazes locked, and I didn’t like the vicious glint in his eye. Had the idea of leaving me right there crossed his mind? Possibly, but I wasn’t going to surrender easily.

  He tensed as if to turn around to talk, but then I heard him sigh. He reversed the car a few yards, into the last intersection, a relatively dry island in the midst of squelching mud.

  Perhaps his paternal heart…? No—we had missed the entrance because the access road was obscured by two huge bushes with broken branches. Now, from the other direction and behind a screen of drizzle, we could see a glittering swinging sign labeled ANDROMEDA, with a tiny vertical arrow above.

  I took advantage of a lull in the storm, paid the driver, got out of the car, and ran to the other side of the path. My night-blindness gave me no choice but to keep my head low and follow the gravel. It was slippery, but it kept me on track, allowing me to rely more on my tactile than visual senses.

  Across the slope, beside a raging creek, the guard’s booth came into view. It was empty. The pack of cigarettes left on the table and the small TV, which was on, suggested he was nearby—perhaps on his rounds. Should I wait for him? I decided against it.

  I noticed that the underground parking gate was not completely closed, and I squeezed through the gap and encountered a warmer, less windy garage. Unlike summertime, when underground parking could be suffocating, tonight I found it cozy. There were three cars in the lot. No Kias here—only affluent people lived in this place. I crossed the asphalt and found two modern elevators.

  I stepped into one of them, clicked Efron’s code on the shiny board, and pressed the button for 5W. It sped silently up without stopping. The door opened straight into Ms. Efron’s living room.

  The light was glaring, striking me blind. I recognized her at first just by her silhouette. She stood in the heart of her living room, her hands clasped at her bosom. Her shoulders shook, her body trembled violently.

  Only when I blinked did I notice that her eyes were swollen from crying, and saw the startled look, the immense fear in her eyes—which were not aimed at me. She gave a stifled shriek as a muscular arm grabbed me from behind, gripped my neck, and pinned me against the wall.

  He drew his mouth to licking-distance from my ear and growled, “Mr. Greene, I presume. Professor Efron and I were starting to wonder what was keeping you so long.”

  20

  He released his grip.

  I turned to face him. He had yellowish-red helmet-shaped hair with streaks of gray, tightly screwed to an armadillo neck peeking over a tight, well-worn windbreaker. He was a head taller than I; a man who filled the space around him with a physical presence.

  “Let’s have the tube,” he said, “and we can tell the professor goodnight and let her go to bed.” He seized a golf club that was propped against the wall and leaned lightly on it.

  “I don’t have it.”<
br />
  “Milbert! I told you to bring it.” This time it was Efron herself, her tone between reproof and supplication. “I explicitly asked you.”

  “And I was going to.”

  The redhead’s expression changed with striking swiftness, as if he were switching masks on his face.

  “Milbert, you obviously do not understand—” She was shaking vigorously.

  “I swear, I was about to take it from where I stashed it, but by God, it wasn’t there. It was gone.” My shoulders squeezed out an apology. “I decided to come anyway—with or without it—because you sounded distressed and in urgent need of help. I figured we could look for it later.”

  “You still don’t get it. I wanted you to bring the tube. Mr. Gibbons came here tonight from Medionetyx expressly to collect it.”

  A blow caused half my face to go numb. My glasses flew off and a white screen rose ten inches from the tip of my nose. I felt my cheek swell rapidly, and the mandible rattled under my earlobe like a loose shelf.

  At last Milbert got it.

  The redhead hoisted me by my coat lapels like a garbage bag and tossed me on the kitchen counter. “My boss doesn’t like playing games, asshole.”

  I tried to open my mouth; even the gentlest movement hurt. But I saw he was waiting for me to speak and I didn’t want to upset him anymore, so as I slipped back to the floor, I blurted, “Just wait, okay? Yesterday the professor gave me a tube for safekeeping.” I searched for her eyes, and she nodded vigorously. “I hid it in my kitchen, inside the electric kettle.”

  The redhead was beginning to lose his patience. His fingers fidgeted, he clenched and unclenched his fists, but still he said nothing.

  I rushed on. “I went for it soon as you called, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the…” The last part, “electric kettle,” was a whisper.

  “Electric kettle,” Gibbons muttered, moving his head from side to side. His chubby knuckles blanched around the golf club. “You take me for an idiot?”

  He moved restlessly. Suddenly the club rose and landed right next to me on the counter. A chip of wood detached and fell to the floor. Now I noticed Efron’s right foot, blue below the knee and swollen horribly.

  “I wanted to bring it,” I said, cold sweat creeping between my shoulder blades. Efron echoed my words with short, low wails. As the tremors spread throughout her body, it seemed to become difficult for her to utter whole words. I looked at her and shivered.

  God almighty! What was going on here? Who was this man? What had he done to Efron? And what was he planning for me? Why had I rushed here instead of thinking rationally? No one knew my whereabouts but the drowsy Uber driver.

  I should have recognized the danger in her voice. She had cried, tried to warn me. And I, smartass “Gilbert,” didn’t catch on. Anyway, what was this shtick with the tube?

  Inside my head, the thoughts whirled fast. Like a ball in a roulette wheel, I experienced a surreal awakening—into a strange apartment in the middle of the night, with someone who stopped at nothing, and he was after something that Efron had asked me to keep for her. If she had anticipated problems, why hadn’t she called the police?

  Now her predicament seemed less than innocent.

  “This is a big mistake. I’m not involved in any of this. I know nothing, I swear.” My tongue wandered over my lips. I was terrified by the itch at the corner of my mouth, like the aftermath of a dentist’s anesthetic. The guy had a lot of strength in his hands. Heaven forbid he decided to endow me with a free nose job. I searched for an iota of reason in his eyes. “Tricked, get it? She tricked me.”

  “Who did?”

  That was Efron. Her bloodcurdling shriek made it obvious that she’d lost control. Gibbons’ eyes bounced nimbly between us. I didn’t like the way he continued to clench his fist and growl like an angry bear. The strain created a bright stripe on his forehead.

  Hold on! All this time I’d forgotten that Johanna wasn’t my only visitor. Sometime tonight Judd had also entered my apartment. How long had he been there? What did he hear? How much did he know? Did he really have a power failure or was it just an excuse to steal the test tube?

  I didn’t know Judd well at all. He had rented the apartment across the hall last summer, an art student who spent his time attending spiritual workshops and came home high. He never had guests. He was acting strange. How far can you trust someone who names his poodle after his stepfather?

  I’m such a sucker. I had been about to blame Johanna in an affair she had nothing to do with. But if that was so, where did she go, and why hadn’t she called?

  Gibbons leaned forward, but I drew back from his whiskey-saturated breath. “Look, I don’t know who you are. I’m just a medical student. All I want is to get through these last two months with no trouble.”

  He inhaled deeply. I was running out of time.

  Who was this character? I tried to place his accent. South African, Scots, Irish—all have a similar rolling R. What had he said his name was? Gibbons?

  What had Efron got herself into?

  My pulse raced at an Olympic pace. I looked around, unable to avoid the scene of destruction in the living room—shattered glass, holes in the windowpanes with cobweb cracks. The apartment was brand new, with that new smell. Cardboard boxes lined the wall and corridor. The black sofa was still covered in polythene. Curtains hung in some windows, but there wasn’t a single ceiling light; only naked bulbs illuminated the kitchen and hallway, and there were two standing halogen lamps that almost blinded me.

  “I’ve no reason to lie to you,” I hissed, trying to overcome my trembling voice. “I don’t need the fucking tube. I honestly don’t know where it is.”

  Where was Johanna? Why hadn’t she called? Had Gibbons already found and killed her? No, it couldn’t be that—he was still looking for the tube. Unless she had hid it before he finished her off? In which case, we were in deep shit.

  No, Johanna wouldn’t betray me. After we’d become intimate, I was convinced she had feelings for me. I had no doubt what I felt for her. If she’d trapped me, there would be some explaining to do.

  And anyway, I wasn’t sure she had taken the tube. It could have been Judd. I knew I’d better not mention her, to avoid getting her in trouble without good reason. She would have to explain why she hadn’t made the coffee. Yes, the least Johanna deserved was a chance to explain herself. But if she didn’t call in the next few minutes, I would be obliged to name my two suspects and hope for the best.

  Silence except for the whistling of the wind.

  “Where did you go after I gave it to you?” Efron snarled, her face contorted with pain. As frail as she was, the professor seemed to be trying to transmit to the psychopath that I was just a confused child.

  “Straight home.”

  “You didn’t stop anywhere on your way?”

  “No.”

  “Milbert, please, think again.”

  My brain was sluggish as it retraced my path from Barb’s room in the ACB, to my broken-down Kia in the medical school’s parking lot, to Johanna’s questioning in her car, and finally, to the bathtub.

  “I didn’t stop anywhere en route,” I repeated defiantly, debating whether to continue with the rest of the details.

  “Milbert, you must focus. Did you have a drink?”

  “What?”

  “Because you look weird. You’re acting weird.”

  I saw Gibbons calculating the parabola of the next golf ball, via the window. Maybe he was figuring out Efron’s route and mine. After all, we were on a cliff, high above the Ohio River. Could be he wasn’t listening to anything we said, but it didn’t matter. The direction was crystal clear—the bottom of the river. I saw his neck muscles tense like the spring of a nail gun.

  I gave a nervous chuckle. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you got high or something, it
’s fine; it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business how you spend your nights.”

  I had a flash of anger that I could not hold back. “You know what time it is? You pulled me out of bed in the middle of the night for your shitty tube. What the hell is wrong with #12? You asked me for a favor, but you weren’t honest with me.” I recalled the files on tube #12 that had been completely deleted from the hard disk in the lab’s computer. It was clear now why she had received the bad news so stoically: She had done it herself.

  I had to discover quickly what the game was; right now, it was my neck on the line, too. “You didn’t tell me because you were afraid I would refuse you the favor.” The last word now had the connotation of a curse. “Professor, what have you gotten me into?”

  Efron burst into tears. Gibbons launched another whistling bullet through the window. He seemed to be deliberating over how to proceed, preferring in the meantime to listen to us bickering from the sideline.

  Nevertheless, he decided to make sure I wasn’t playing games. Compared to him I looked like a wimp, but appearances can mislead. Maybe I was a shrewd tube merchant.

  Gibbons ripped off my green coat and turned out the pockets. My cellphone fell into his hands. He studied the main menu briefly, turned it off, and pocketed it. Then he opened my wallet and poured out my credit card, SS card, and driver’s license. With them tumbled out my U of L library card and two ten-dollar bills, followed by three fives and some coins.

  Gibbons picked up my driver’s license and inspected the details closely. Then he tore open my plaid shirt and patted down my left chest pocket.

  He shoved me and I hit the counter again, collapsing to the floor. I tried to reach out and lean on the wall, but he blocked my way. Then he tugged my pants down without bothering to unbuckle the belt. I crawled away from him, but his firm grip kept me on a tight leash. My underwear slid halfway down, and I reached down, trying to pull them back and cover my genitals. He noticed my attempt, uttered a merciful tut-tut, then yanked my underwear all the way down and tossed them far away.