Geoff removed his hands from his lab coat and held them in front of his face. They were shaking. He tried to slow his breathing, keep from hyperventilating.
Geoff’s sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his chest like a damp rag, made him acutely uncomfortable, so he removed his lab coat, set it down on the bench. He unbuttoned his shirt to cool off. Slowly, he looked around the familiar lab. There were many pieces of information he needed. He had to prioritize them in case he was interrupted and security returned to close up.
Geoff walked down the aisle between two cluttered lab benches, directly toward Balassi’s office. He wasn’t going to waste any more time. He was going to go right to the source, the main computer. Geoff tried the door, but it was locked. He rattled the knob in frustration, remembered Balassi’s routine. Balassi always locked his personal office when he left for the night.
Geoff tried to gather his thoughts. He didn’t believe Balassi’s story about the bad isotope. He wanted to check the isotope maintenance log. Any other information he stumbled across was gravy. First things first.
He walked over to Walter’s desk, situated in an alcove outside Balassi’s office, checked the file drawer, expecting it to be locked. Amazingly, it wasn’t. Geoff searched underneath the stack of files and papers for the log. Nothing.
Next, he looked through the neatly organized pile of papers and notebooks in the middle drawer. A notebook caught his eye, the type of binder Geoff knew was used to log in the isotopes synthesized in the cyclotron.
Geoff grabbed the familiar green binder and checked the inclusive dates on the cover. This was the one. Anxiously, he flipped through the pages to the date in question, 3 July, 2010. He found the entry he was looking for. At the top of the page, clearly underlined in Walter’s distinct Germanic script was the entry: “C-11 Carfentanil.” The next column indicated the amount synthesized—100 nanolitres, enough for five or six scans—and the following column, the time, 0730. The time was right, just before Jessica’s final scan was done. So far it all fit.
Then Geoff’s eyes jumped to the comment inscribed in the final column: O.K. He ran his finger down the page, looking for any indications of a failed isotope, just to be sure. Nothing. He flipped the page back and forth and checked again, in case there was an entry out of sequence. It all checked out. The isotope was not defective as Balassi had tried to tell him. Walter was compulsive. He’d never screwed up an isotope before. Jessica’s bizarre scan was real.
He put the log book back in the stack of papers where he found it and closed the middle drawer, trying to make it appear as if it were never removed.
Geoff looked up from Walter’s desk and found himself staring at his old work station, the place he’d spent so much of his time the last year. Long days, longer nights. Experiments sometimes ran late into the night. On those nights, he would often nap on the old, green couch in Balassi’s office after having dinner alone with his favorite rhesus monkey, Jezebel. When the experiment was completed, he was often the only one left in the lab and would lock up, sometimes as late as two or three in the morning.
Geoff had been the only one Balassi trusted to stay in the lab unsupervised, the only one he trusted to lock up besides himself, the only one given a spare key to the inner sanctum. He had free reign in the lab and in Balassi’s office, his personal computer files included.
When had things changed?
Geoff tried to think back. He could not pinpoint an event in particular, but it seemed as though Balassi became more guarded when the group from NIH started coming around asking questions and auditing lab results. He became secretive, wouldn’t share things with Geoff the way he had before. They stopped going out for happy hour beers at the The Palomino. “Can’t make it tonight, Geoff. Too busy,” was often the excuse. “Have to work on that grant pretty late.” Things weren’t the same in subtle ways, ways Geoff couldn’t put a handle on at the time.
Then Walter was moved into the lab from the PET scan room to supervise endorphin isotope research, and things got even worse. Geoff had been totally shut out from that point onward. Balassi become ever more distant, and it was not unusual for sparks to fly between Geoff and Walter.
Now, as a total outsider—worse yet almost a criminal—Geoff could hardly believe he had once been such an integral part of the lab team. He couldn’t help but wonder whether or not it was all a lie from the beginning. Why, he had no idea. It just didn’t make sense.
The spare key.
Geoff ran over to his old work station and reached underneath the stainless steel sink, his hand probing frantically for the magnetic key box he had hidden. Could it still be there? He ran his hand all around the bottom of the basin, expecting to feel the sharp metal edges of the small black box, but there was nothing.
Balassi was too careful to leave an extra key around, especially one that someone he obviously no longer trusted knew about. Geoff bent down to look into the cabinet and around the underside of the sink, just to be sure. Gone. The acrid fumes of phenol made his eyes water, his nostrils flare. He leaned back to stand up and hit the back of his head soundly on the edge of the cabinet.
“Shit.” Geoff rubbed his head, but he was not too dazed to notice what was directly beneath him on the bottom of the cabinet wedged between two large brown chemical bottles.
“Bingo!” He reached down and picked up the familiar key box, shaking it with anticipation like that of a young boy on Christmas morning. Smiling, he pried the rusted edges of the box open. Inside was the now-tarnished brass key.
Geoff ran over to Balassi’s outer office door and, just as he had done countless times before, slid the key into the lock. Geoff turned the key and felt the familiar click. He paused for a moment, opened the door just a crack, and peered into the black abyss of the outer office.
Leave now, and no harm done. But his cover was already blown. There was nothing left to lose.
Geoff cautiously entered the room. He switched on the light, looked around the outer office. The familiar moth-eaten green couch sat in the corner, its musty smell permeating the room. The computer table was overflowing with data printouts. On the other side of the room was the refrigerator, the one Balassi used to store his most recently synthesized compounds. Geoff bypassed the computer printouts and decided to open the refrigerator. A sample or two for Suzanne to analyze in the path lab would be perfect. Geoff removed the tray marked endorphins from the second shelf and examined the vials, each labeled with a six-digit number and a Greek letter. He removed one marked “Beta- 279823” and a second similar-appearing vial marked “Sigma-346891.” Geoff paused and stared at the label. Sigma.
Geoff placed both vials in the small compartment of his fanny pack, returned the tray to the refrigerator and moved to the computer table. He picked up the most recent stack of printouts and flipped through the pages. What might appear to the untrained eye to be pages upon pages of mathematical equations, Geoff identified as permutations of amino acid sequences for new isotope configurations. He knew these were probably significant—new compounds—but realized he didn’t have the time to sift through it all. He had to get want he needed and get out of there.
Geoff sat down at the computer terminal. He removed the black flash drive from his pocket and plugged into a USB port on the front of the computer. He booted the computer and waited for the prompt. He hoped Stefan knew what he was talking about.
Geoff entered Balassi’s Traumanet ID, PETJFB. The computer cursor blinked, requested the password. Geoff waited for what seemed like an eternal ten seconds. The response came.
Access denied. Please confirm correct ID and password.
Geoff checked the connection, made sure the flash drive indicator light was on. It was. He looked at the screen one more time. He had misspelled Balassi’s ID. He keyed in PETJEB. He waited.
Welcome to the Traumanet System, Dr. Balassi.
/> Stefan’s decoding program worked!
Using Balassi’s ID and password, Geoff pulled up all of the PET scan files, including Romero’s. All patterns were the same—the blazing red horseshoe—all the patients’ brains super-saturated with endorphins. He didn’t have time to check the medical records in any great detail, but verified both Romero and the rabbi had been patients on the neurosurgery service at the NYTC. Whoever was trying to cover their tracks hadn’t done a very thorough job.
An icon flickered in the upper right corner of the screen. Balassi had just received an e-mail. Geoff debated whether or not to check the message. He could be thrown in jail for such an invasion of privacy, at the very least thrown out of the program. Geoff clicked on the icon. A strange screen appeared, not like any e-mail he had seen. The words at the top of the screen were bright red, flashed a warning.
“TOP SECRET/EYES ONLY”
52-08-02-02-12-06-03-20-18-27-05-12-05-03-12-27-04-26-22-04-04-22-28-27-12-16-28-17-18-12-03-118-17-12-04-22-20-26-14-12-01-03-28-23-18-16-05-12-22-27-19-22-25-05-03-14-05-18-17-12-15-10-12-14-20-18-27-05-12-19-03-28-26-12-22-20-04-12-28-19-19-22-16-18-12-26-28-27-22-05-28-03-22-27-20-12-04-22-05-06-14-05-22-28-27-12-16-25-28-04-18-25-10-12-27-18-06-05-03-14-25-22-13-14-05-22-28-27-12-28-03-17-18-03-18-03-18-17
There were no other words on the page. The message was entirely encrypted, some sort of numeric cipher.
Geoff knew something about encryption. All mission directives were received encoded. There was a chance he might be able to break this code, but it would take time to analyze. He printed the message, and put it in his pack. He’d examine it later.
Geoff checked his watch. 11:51 p.m. Time to get moving. Randall Johnson would be back, wondering why it took him so long to pick up a chart.
Geoff removed the flash drive and was signing off the system when he was startled by a strange sound coming from Balassi’s inner office. Geoff approached the door and listened, his sense of hearing hyper acute. Another sound. At first he thought it was the sound of his own blood pulsing through his inner ear. He remained still, listened further. It was more like a creaking sound, back and forth, like a rocking chair on a squeaky, old floor.
Geoff put his ear to the door. The sound was louder, reminding him of a hammock blowing in the wind. No voices, no footsteps, no drawers opening or closing. Was someone asleep in there?
Slowly, carefully, Geoff turned the doorknob. He could see the corner of the room illuminated by the dim glow of the monitor. Above that annoying creaking sound he could hear the hum of the computer.
Someone was in there. Must be asleep at the terminal. Had Balassi stayed late tonight? Geoff had to find out, even though his instinct told him to get the hell out of there. Now.
He opened the door a little farther. A dim shadow moved back and forth like a pendulum. All of Geoff’s years of training could not have prepared him for what he saw as he entered the room.
Above Balassi’s desk, suspended from the sprinkler pipe by a rope around his neck was Howard Kapinsky, eyes bulging and mouth open wide from what must have been his last, agonal gasp for air. Pink, frothy saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and nostrils, landed on the floor below.
Geoff covered his mouth, then not able to hold back, heaved until his gut was emptied.
Chapter 25
Geoff tapped his foot nervously as he sat in the wing-backed chair in Pederson’s office. He had been up the entire night being questioned by the homicide squad. He thought he had handled himself well. In fact, he was so jazzed up from the encounter he didn’t feel fatigued in the least, yet. He didn’t have the time to be tired now. The crash would come later when the adrenalin stopped flowing.
He was prepared to tell Pederson everything he knew: about his strange e-mail messages, Suzanne’s discovery of the new endorphin on autopsy, Kapinsky’s wild theory, the strange deaths of his patients, Balassi’s evasive behavior regarding the bizarre PET scan, and the peculiar Dr. Zelenkov from PETronics, who frankly gave Geoff the creeps.
Everything indicated to Geoff that something strange was happening on a level far beyond his capacity as chief resident to understand or investigate. He needed a powerful ally and felt he could trust Dr. Pederson, if he could only convince him this wasn’t all some paranoid delusion.
To Geoff, the interrogation session had been like something out of the movies, cops with their guns strapped in shoulder holsters, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burnt coffee, phones constantly ringing, people yelling.
The head of the investigation was a Captain O’Malley, a recent transfer from the tactical response unit to homicide. At first he looked vaguely familiar to Geoff, but after pleasantries were exchanged, Geoff realized he had seen him briefly in the NSICU just a week before visiting Jessica in the hospital.
“How’s that little girl doin’, doc? Last I seen she was comin’ around pretty good,” O’Malley asked as he wedged a piece of Juicy Fruit in his cheek.
“She died a couple of days ago.”
“Shame.” O’Malley’s green eyes shimmered with sadness, betraying his tough exterior.
O’Malley then proceeded with questioning, making it all seem pretty routine. He asked Geoff a lot of questions about Kapinsky’s personal and professional life, but very little about his own or the antagonistic nature of their relationship that would suggest Geoff was a suspect. In fact, it seemed like the cops were already calling it a suicide. There were no visible signs of a struggle—though the autopsy had yet to be performed—and a suicide note was said to have been found in Kapinsky’s apartment. O’Malley finished the session. “We may need to ask you a few more questions in a couple of days.” And that was it.
Suicide? thought Geoff, as he sat stiffly in the chair. Kapinsky was too much of a self-centered asshole to commit suicide. Kapinsky had to be on to something. His behavior had become nervous, his reasoning erratic. He had spouted his wild theory of a mercy killer in the hospital just the day before.
If he had stumbled onto some proof, why hadn’t he told anyone? What was he doing in Balassi’s office, and how the hell did he get in without the guards knowing, without setting off the alarm?
Though there was no sign of a struggle, Geoff was sure Kapinsky was murdered. The whole thing seemed to have been carefully contrived, but he dare not mention that to the police for fear of drawing suspicion to himself. He didn’t tell them about any of the strange happenings at the hospital either. They wouldn’t understand, and they probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.
So here he sat in the same chair he had started out in as chief resident a week ago, more anxious about his meeting with Pederson than he had been during his interrogation by the cops. It was reminiscent of his meetings with his commanding officer in the Navy, Major General Payne.
Geoff’s wandering thoughts were interrupted by the shrill, but muffled tones of Lynne Evers. “Yes, Dr. Pederson, he’s inside.”
Geoff stood and turned towards the doorway.
Pederson smiled sympathetically as he entered the room. “Sit down, Geoff. Sit down.” He motioned with his hand. “You’ve had quite a long night, I hear.”
Geoff sat down, studied Pederson. His brow was deeply furrowed, his hooded lids heavier than usual, dark circles beneath them. His eyes did not radiate their usual glimmer. He looked aged beyond his years, like a general who had fought and won many battles in his day, but had stayed in command for one bloody battle too many. Geoff felt sorry for him.
Maybe it was the feeling as if the entire weight of what had happened was on his shoulders as head of the department. Or the paternalistic way in which he related to the residents. Or maybe it was Geoff’s own feelings he had let him down with all of this by not filling him in along the way. He had to tell him everything. Geoff nodded his head. “Yes,sir. It has been a most interesting twenty-four hours.”
/>
“A poor choice of words. Tragic might be more appropriate.”
Suddenly, the full weight of what had happened struck Geoff. He had been so distracted by surrounding events—his own brush with the security guards, his night with the cops—he hadn’t really faced the enormity of what had happened. Was it denial?
His mind flashed back to the image of Howard Kapinsky in the lab the night before. The creaking noise of the pipe as his body swayed back and forth. Geoff’s mind’s eye scanned slowly upward from the shadows below. Howard was wearing running shoes, old jeans, his frayed Columbia t-shirt. He was off duty. Must have been at home before he came to the lab. No white coat. No I.D. badge. How did he get past security dressed like that?
Ashen skin, cool to the touch. The jaw froze open in anguish, the blood-tinged frothy saliva, the eyes popping from their sockets. Geoff’s shock, his wave of nausea. He’d doubled over and vomited, then recovered.
Standing on top of the desk, he’d untied the rope from the pipe and set Kapinsky down on the floor. He was struck by the weight and stiffness of the body. Quickly, he checked for any respirations or pulse: none. He checked his pupils: pinpoint and non-reactive. No use doing CPR. He was long dead. How long, Geoff was not sure. Maybe half an hour. Dead. Howard Kapinsky was dead.
“Yes, tragic,” Geoff replied softly.
Pederson leaned back in the chair and swiveled, looking out his window at the Hudson River. “You know, I never really understood what made Howard Kapinsky tick. On paper, he was a brilliant physician, but he just couldn’t put it all together when it came to people.”
The Endorphin Conspiracy Page 15