Fatal Reaction

by Hartzmark, Gini

  The waiter appeared with salads and refilled our glasses.

  “I found out who called Danny the day he died,” I continued once the waiter had retreated out of earshot. “Who?” '

  “Michael Childress. He’s a crystallographer who works on the ZK-501 project at Azor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re trying to find the next generation of anti-inflammatory drug, one that’s more effective than cortisone but with fewer side effects. Michael Childress is a senior investigator on the project.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “I should have pulled his curriculum vitae for you, but I didn’t think of it. All I can really tell you about him so far is that he’s famous and despised.”

  “Despised?”

  “I really don’t think that’s too strong a term. Stephen and I took him out to dinner once. I found him extremely unpleasant—arrogant, self-centered, abrasive. I gather he has something of a reputation for expropriating other people’s work.”

  “So what was his connection with Danny?”

  “That’s the big question. At the time he died, Danny was working almost full time on the ZK-501 project, trying to find a source of outside funding to keep the project afloat. I’m sure they must have had some dealings, but I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

  “I’ll have to check him out.”

  The waiter came and took away our salad plates, materializing a few seconds later with our entrees.

  “You know,” I said, cutting into my steak, “while we’re on the subject, there’s somebody else I think you should check out.” As we ate I explained to him about Danny’s friendship with Takisawa’s son-in-law, Hiroshi Toyoda.

  “The plot thickens,” remarked Elliott, taking careful notes as I spoke.

  “Not necessarily,” I replied. “At this point I have no reason to assume Hiroshi was even in the country on the day Danny died.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. But if he was the one with Danny when he died, we don’t have to go looking too far for the reason he wouldn’t want anyone to know he was there.”

  “Before you get too excited you’d better think about what’s on the videotape,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I think the guy in the raincoat looked too big to be Japanese.”

  As the doorman flagged down a cab Elliott helped me with my coat. Both of us had drunk enough cabernet to constitute an excuse for just about anything. Standing in the darkened cloakroom, his hands lingering on my shoulders, I would not be honest if I said I didn’t consider the possibilities. But I was not drunk enough to guarantee that I wouldn’t bolt as I had the last time, nor stupid enough not to foresee the burden of any indiscretion, like a piece of awkward baggage, that would then have to be carted around.

  We parted as we had so many times before, with things unsaid or deliberately ignored. I must confess that the whole ride home I thought nothing of Danny or Takisawa or Azor Pharmaceuticals’ predicament. Once inside the apartment I found Claudia’s suitcase sitting in the entrance hall and a message waiting for me on the answering machine. Whoever called must have done so after Claudia had gone to bed. My roommate’s sleep is much too precious to her to allow a phone in her bedroom. Instead she sleeps with her beeper on the pillow.

  I pushed the button to rewind the tape and kicked off my shoes, willing the circulation to come back to my feet. The lights were off in the hallway that (led to the back of the apartment and everything was quiet except for the whir of the machine. Finally the tape clicked and a female voice filled the room.

  “Ms. Millholland? This is Dr. Julia Gordon with the Cook County medical examiner’s office. I’ve been trying to reach Stephen Azorini, but I see your number is also in the file, so I thought I’d try you as well. I was hoping that one of you would be available to come and see me at my office tomorrow. Morning is best for me, but I’m sure I could accommodate you anytime that is convenient for you. I’ll be in at eight and I think you’ll have an easier time the earlier you arrive. I’m afraid the media has become a permanent fixture outside our building, but they’re not generally out in full force until after ten o’clock. I’ll leave your name at the front desk so that they’ll know I’m expecting you. If there’s a problem...”

  I waited for the end of the message. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed Stephen’s number. It was after eleven o’clock and I was afraid I might wake him, but the phone just rang until the answering machine picked up. I tried his office and got no answer. I tried his car phone with the same result. Walking back to my bedroom I was filled with curiosity. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Stephen. It wasn’t like him to be unreachable. I also could not imagine what was so urgent that Dr. Gordon was trying to track Stephen down after hours. In my experience, doctors seldom came chasing after you except with bad news.

  The next morning I tried Stephen again, to no avail. Instead I arrived at the Robert J. Stein Institute for Forensic Medicine a few minutes after eight o’clock. While a number of white news vans were parked haphazardly on the curb like so many beached whales, my arrival did not seem to stir their interest. A tall fence topped with cyclone wire had been erected around a portion of the parking lot where it abutted the loading dock. Beyond it could be glimpsed Stanley Sarrek’s infamous refrigerated trailer.

  I hadn’t been to the ME’s office since they’d moved into their new building. Once I was inside it struck me as a kind of Marriott for the dead. Even the dove-colored lab coats worn by the pathologists were of the same soothing shade of gray as the carpeting. In deference to the newly deceased, the temperature of the building was kept almost as low as that in Borland’s meat locker. But one thing all the new carpet and boring lithographs could not disguise was the stale stench of death that no amount of air freshener could mask.

  I consulted with the woman at the reception desk, a stately black woman whose hair had been swept up and arranged into a single coil, who directed me to Dr. Gordon’s office on the third floor. On my way several people raced past me, their looks of focused determination speaking volumes about the current crisis.

  Dr. Gordon’s door was open and I found her behind her desk, eyes closed, dictating into a small handheld recorder, the twin of the one I use. I knocked softly on the door frame. Her eyes shot open and her sagging shoulders snapped to attention as I announced myself.

  “Ms. Millholland,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’m so glad you received my message. Please come in. I’ve been getting into the office so early on account of this Sarrek business, I’ve missed seeing you at Starbucks.”

  Hyde Park, where both of us lived, is essentially a small place. Surrounded by the ghetto, it is ruled by a kind of siege mentality that fosters a small-town friendliness you wouldn’t normally expect in an inner-city neighborhood. For the last several months Julia Gordon and I had found ourselves on parallel schedules, running into each other as we stopped for coffee on the way to the office a couple of mornings a week. I was hoping this sense of neighborliness would help her to be forthcoming.

  Julia Gordon was a small woman in her late thirties with a loose cap of blond curls and the wide blue eyes of a China doll. On the credenza behind her desk sat a framed photograph of her two daughters, smiling girls who looked to be about four and six years old. Behind the photo hung a poster showing the characteristics of wounds made by unusual bullets illustrated with color photos. I wondered whether she brought her daughters with her on Take Your Daughter to Work Day or whether they visited the hematology lab with her husband.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called,” she said, searching through the clutter on her desk for something. She shifted through the piles until her hand lit upon a file.

  “I’m actually surprised you even have the time,” I replied.

  “We are a bit stretched, I’ll give you that,” she said, smiling weakly. “The Sarrek case presents a tremendous challenge. The work of identifying his vic
tims is especially painstaking, because so far the inside of the truck is the only crime scene we have. Even though we’re receiving a great deal of help from the FBI, it’s offset by the amount of coordination that must be managed among the various law enforcement agencies. Since it looks as though there’s a good chance the case will be tried in our jurisdiction, we’re anxious not to give up too much control over the investigation. Of course, dealing with the media has been a nightmare in and of itself. The day Sarrek was arrested I actually found a reporter hiding in my garage.”

  “They’re jackals,” I said in a simple statement of fact.

  “Unfortunately, cases like this have, an appeal, an entertainment value if you will, that somehow manages to transcend the enormity of the taking of human life.”

  “I know by comparison Danny Wohl’s death must seem terribly inconsequential,” I said apologetically.

  “No death is inconsequential,” replied Dr. Gordon with sudden fierceness. “No matter what the media would like us to believe, the circumstances of a person’s death in no way alters the meaning of their life.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to serve up a lecture, but I’m afraid that what I’ve seen from the media since Sarrek’s arrest has sometimes made me wonder which of them is the bigger monster.

  “Now, about Mr. Wohl. As you know I was not the pathologist who visited the death scene, nor the one who actually performed the autopsy. Under normal circumstances the way it works in our office is that whichever pathologist goes to the scene also performs the postmortem exam. Unfortunately, with our resources spread so thin on account of the Sarrek deaths, one pathologist went to the scene and another actually performed the autopsy. Complicating matters is the fact that neither of the forensic pathologists who examined Mr. Wohl is permanently assigned to this office. Dr. Barrows, who took the unattended-death call and went to Mr. Wohl’s apartment, was on loan to us from the DuPage County coroner’s office. Dr. Breuner, who actually performed the autopsy, is an assistant medical examiner from Lake County in Wisconsin. Both men have subsequently returned to their own jurisdictions, though I have talked to Dr. Breuner several times on the phone.”

  “So what killed Danny?” I asked. “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know if you realize it, but what you’re asking is actually two separate questions. Before I answer let me explain some things. As a medical examiner I’m actually interested in three things: cause of death, mechanism of death, and manner of death. The cause of death is the event which sets into motion the mechanism of death.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me give you an example. Yesterday I performed an autopsy on a thirty-one-year-old, Caucasian male who had been shot at close range in the chest and bled to death before the paramedics could get him to the hospital. The cause of death in this case was a gunshot wound to the chest. The mechanism of death was exsanguination—he bled to death.”

  “Like Danny.”

  “Yes. Even though the two deaths—your friend’s and the man who was shot—were completely dissimilar in their cause, the mechanism was the same. While there are a huge number of possible causes of death, there are only a handful of mechanisms: respiratory arrest, cardiac arrhythmia, myocardial infarction.”

  “What’s the manner of death, then?”

  “The manner of death is a description of the circumstances of death. This is indicated on the death certificate by checking off a box at the bottom. The choices are: natural, homicide, suicide, accidental, and undetermined.”

  “So what was the manner of death in Danny’s case?” Instead of answering my question, Dr. Gordon reached for a file on her desk and began reading to me from it.

  “Daniel Allen Wohlinski, age thirty-two, height one hundred eighty-six centimeters, weight seventy-six kilos. Found in his apartment by the building engineer. The victim had obviously been dead for some time; rigor was already beginning to pass off in the upper extremities so he was pronounced dead at the scene, which, if the photographs are any indication, was pretty grisly.

  “Physical examination of the body revealed several indications consistent with AIDS. Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions on the upper thighs, evidence of thrush in the victim’s mouth, and some slight lymphatic abnormalities. Blood-alcohol levels were not taken because the technician was not able to draw an adequate sample. The same for toxicology.” Dr. Gordon turned the page. “Stomach contents were essentially zero, which is not surprising considering he vomited up almost his entire blood supply. Dr. Breuner located evidence of severe arterial erosion caused by a gastric ulcer. In other words, he had a hole in his stomach big enough to stick your finger through. Unfortunately, it was in a place where the wall of an artery was compromised as well.”

  “Which is why he bled to death.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why aren’t you ready to check the box at the bottom of the form that says ‘natural’ and be done with it?” I asked, knowing that if the circumstances of Danny’s death were as clear-cut as that we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “In reviewing the case I’ve come across some rather unusual findings.”

  “Unusual in what way?”

  “Well, for one thing, some curious abnormalities have showed up in the microscopic slides of organ tissues.”

  “What kind of abnormalities?”

  “There are pervasive thrombi in the glomeruli of the kidneys. In lay terms that means that there are lots and lots of blood clots in the filtering apparatus of the kidneys.”

  “Big clots?” I asked, without thinking. “I take that back. How big can they be if you have to use a microscope to see them?”

  “It’s not the size that’s the issue, but rather their pervasiveness that makes me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “Well, for one thing, D.I.C.”

  “What’s D.I.C.?”

  “It’s short for disseminated intravascular coagulation. It’s a clotting syndrome that’s usually associated with things like massive thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, cardiogenic shock, liver failure due to cirrhosis, snake bite, anaphylaxis. You also see it in some end-stage cancers.”

  “Could Danny have had one of those things?”

  “Dr. Breuner found no evidence of them at autopsy and these are things that would be hard to miss. Dr. Breuner just assumed that D.I.C. had followed the erosion of a blood vessel by the gastric ulcer. Certainly that is possible, but it would have occurred over a much longer period of time than is consistent with the blood evidence at the scene. However, since Dr. Breuner was not the pathologist who examined the body in situ he had no way of knowing that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Judging from the condition of the apartment, D.I.C. must have occurred very rapidly—too rapidly to have been the result of an ulcer.”

  “And AIDS couldn’t have caused it?” I asked.

  “I’ll grant you that AIDS poses some special issues for forensic pathologists. For example, lung cancer can kill in only so many different ways, all of which are recognizable. HIV, on the other hand, offers a seemingly endless range of scenarios depending on which organ system is set upon by the virus and which of a wide array of microbes breaches the immune system first. I think that’s why Dr. Breuner initially discounted the abnormal tissue findings. He sees many fewer cases of AIDS in his jurisdiction than we see here and I think he just assumed that the virus was in some way involved.”

  “So what does all this mean?”

  “Unfortunately, Ms. Millholland, there is no cookbook that tells us how to figure out how people die. Some things are clear-cut—gunshots, dismemberments, strangulation— but sometimes the footprints that death leaves behind can be very subtle. I don’t usually take my work home with me, but in this case I took the liberty of showing Mr. Wohl’s tissue slides to my husband, who as you probably know happens to be a hematologist.”

  “What did he say when he looked at the slides?” I asked.

  �
�He took them back to his lab, where they have a setup that allows them to photograph microscope slides. He took these and suggested that Dr. Azorini have a look at them.” She handed me a manila envelope.

  “Why Stephen?”

  “I understand that Azor Pharmaceuticals is currently trying to get a new artificial blood product approved by the FDA.”

  “So?”

  “So Hugh seems to think there’s a good chance that a substance being used at Azor in one of their labs might have been the cause of D.I.C. in Mr. Wohl.”

  CHAPTER 18

  As soon as I arrived at Azor I went straight to Stephen’s office. I didn’t even bother to take off my coat. I wanted to show him the pictures that Julia Gordon’s husband had made of Danny’s tissue. I needed to know what explanation, if any, he could offer for its appearance.

  Blessedly he was in. I found him deep in conversation with Michelle Goodwin. Anxiously I hovered in the doorway, hoping for a good opportunity to interrupt. I didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. Whatever it was must have been important—to Michelle Goodwin, at least. Her entire body sang with intensity as she leaned forward to make a point with the keenness of a runner straining for the finish line. She had shed her customary shyness. Her manner was animated, her skin flushed with excitement. For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of what the lecherous Nobel prizewinner had seen in her.

  I also couldn’t help wondering, once again, where the myth of the cool and unemotional scientist had come from. From my brief experience at Azor it was obvious that nothing could be further from the truth. I had come to see firsthand that a laboratory is a frustrating place from which to view the world. It took passion, obsession even, to see an investigator through the daily grind of making experiments work.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” I said, having no choice but to just break in on them, “but I need a word in private with Stephen.”