by Chris Taylor
Becoming more and more curious, Alistair conducted further research via the Internet. More than an hour later, he’d discovered the trade in human tissue was not only allowed in the US, but flourishing. Like Charles had stated, it was illegal to buy and sell the tissue, but it appeared millions of dollars were made by compensating those people supplying, storing and processing it—and there appeared to be little, if no, government scrutiny.
Though tissue banks were required to be registered with the FDA, it meant no more than filling out a form and waiting for an inspection. From what Alistair had read on the Internet, at least thirty-five percent of active, registered US tissue banks had never been inspected and of those that had been, the FDA had yet to shut a single one down over concern about illicit activities.
Could it really be that simple? Human tissue went to waste in Alistair’s hospital every single day. For a long time, he’d mourned its loss, frustrated that nothing could be done. Was this the answer he’d been searching for? Illegal or not, the process ensured that any useable tissue would be recycled and used again.
Like Charles Shillington had said, it meant making the blind see, helping lame people walk… And that was only the beginning. It might not help Alistair’s mom, but someone would get the benefit. Many someones. How could he not want to be part of that?
And if he made a little—okay, a lot of money—on the side, where was the harm in it? Desperate people got the transplants they needed and he got to put his kids through school with less financial strain than otherwise. It seemed like a win-win situation. Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t already broken the law in the name of the greater good.
The idea of harvesting organs in addition to those they had consent to remove, struck him late one night when he was suturing closed a legal donor’s chest. He’d silently bemoaned the fact that so many useable organs were heading straight for the grave and wondered what could be done about it. It was late May. Winter had been fast closing in and with it came a naturally occurring increase in the number of deaths. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It was then that the idea formed into a plan. By early July, he’d recruited Richard and had been acting on it ever since.
When Samantha mentioned she’d noticed the rise in the number of donor bodies, he’d almost choked on his Diet Coke. While most of the bodies he illegally harvested from went to funeral homes and crematoriums scattered around the inner city, a small number of them ended up in the Glebe Morgue. He’d hoped that they’d slide by unnoticed; that with the number of forensic pathologists on staff, the rise in donor bodies wouldn’t cause anyone to become alarmed, but it appeared he hadn’t been so lucky.
Either that, or Richard Davis hadn’t done as he’d promised. The deputy coroner had assured Alistair at the outset Richard would make certain the bodies Alistair handled would personally be autopsied by him. That way, none of his staff would be any the wiser. After Sam’s comment, it was now obvious that hadn’t happened. The last thing he needed was to have his own sister asking questions, or even thinking about it, at all.
If he accepted Biologistics’ offer, he’d be forced to illegally harvest the tissues of many more patients in the future. The company expected him to sign a contract and a quota would be specified. Now that Samantha’s suspicions had been raised, it would be safer to ignore the autopsy cases and concentrate his efforts only on the bodies being sent directly to the funeral homes and crematoriums. There was much less likelihood an undertaker would put his mind to the fact that he was seeing way more bodies with surgical scars than he had in the past—if he thought about it at all. As well, there was no call for any paperwork to accompany those bodies.
The more Alistair pondered it, the more it seemed like a good idea. He’d have done it from the outset if Richard hadn’t promised he’d look after him, in return for a small fee and Alistair hadn’t taken him at his word. As far as Alistair had been aware, the arrangement had worked and they’d both walked away satisfied. Alistair had quietly and illegally set about increasing the donor rates and Richard had endorsed them and collected his money.
But for now, with Samantha possibly asking questions, it was just too risky to continue to involve the city morgue and its staff. He’d call Richard and tell him the deal was over and hopefully that would be the end of it. The deputy coroner might wonder about Alistair’s change of heart, but if Alistair threw in a couple extra thousand in the final payoff to his friend, it would hopefully do the trick and keep the man quiet. So far, the deputy coroner had gotten more than ten thousand dollars out of him—money Alistair’s family could have used. The man had no cause for complaint.
* * *
“What do you mean, you’re quitting?” Richard Davis demanded several hours later.
Alistair looked quickly around him at the dozen or so patrons scattered around the dimly lit, inner city bar, but thankfully, no one appeared to be listening to them. “Keep your voice down!” he ordered in a harsh whisper. “We don’t want the whole world to know.”
Richard glanced to his left and right and then leaned closer over the small round table that separated them. “I’m not ready for you to quit. I need that extra money. You can’t get me involved in this and then, out of the blue, tell me you’ve had enough. It isn’t fair. I won’t let you do it!”
Alistair stared at the man and saw the weakness in his chin. Why hadn’t Alistair remembered what a poor excuse of a man the deputy coroner really was? He bit down hard on a sigh. It was too late for regrets.
“If you stop, I’ll go to the police.”
Richard’s words penetrated Alistair’s brain. He tensed. How the hell had he managed to get himself into this situation? He and Richard had gone through med school together. They’d been good friends, almost inseparable until Alistair met Nancy. Then love and life got in the way and the two friends had drifted apart. Richard had gone into forensic medicine and Alistair had become a surgeon.
Although they’d lost touch over the years, when Alistair came upon the idea to harvest additional organs from donor patients, Richard was one of the first people that came to mind to become his accomplice. The deputy coroner’s father had died from liver cancer when Richard was still a child. Richard knew firsthand that a transplant might have saved his dad if a donor liver had been available. He’d grown up a passionate supporter of organ donation.
“You need me, Alistair, and you know it. That’s the reason you came to me in the first place.”
Alistair’s jaw clenched. What Richard said was true. When a deceased organ donor required an autopsy, the senior doctor presiding over the death had to obtain the coroner’s, or one of his deputies’ authorization prior to any organ harvesting going ahead.
Of course, Alistair could have simply bypassed the coronial cases and concentrated on those donors headed directly for the funeral homes and crematoriums, but at the time it seemed like such a waste of good organs to let even those few donors go. Having a college buddy in the coroner’s office seemed too good an opportunity to let slide. Knowing Richard’s attitude toward organ donation was what cemented the matter.
But circumstances had changed. With Samantha’s curiosity piqued, it had become too risky and Alistair had hoped to shut down the morgue arm of their operation. But now, Richard had dropped a bombshell. Was he stupid enough to carry out his threat and go to the police?
With a sigh, Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments and ignored the pounding in his head. Opening his eyes, he stared at Richard across the table and tried to gage the other man’s sincerity. Richard refused to meet his gaze.
“I mean it, Alistair. If you stop harvesting those extra organs and don’t continue to throw a little money my way, I’ll go to the police and tell them everything.”
“Why would you do a silly thing like that?” Alistair asked, working hard to keep his voice even. “It would destroy both of us.”
“I don’t want to, but if you quit, you’ll give me no choice. I need the money and… It
makes me feel good knowing more people are benefiting from our actions. You can’t stop now. Besides, I’ll tell the police it was all your idea and that you forced me to go along with it.”
“You’re bluffing. The police will hardly believe a mere surgeon had the wherewithal to intimidate the deputy state coroner.”
“Then I’ll tell them I knew nothing about it. That you called, I authorized it, but you gave me false information. I’ll tell them you told me the next of kin had consented; that they were supportive of their loved ones’ wishes. It will be your word against mine and if the police interview the families…” A sly look came into Richard’s eyes and Alistair cursed aloud.
He hadn’t thought of that.
Anger surged through him and he gave it its head. “You listen to me, Richard and listen well. If I go down, we’ll both go down. You’ll spend just as many years in a jail cell as I will. Is that what you want?”
Richard lifted his glass of beer and drank quickly. His schooner was half-empty by the time he set it back down. “Of course not,” he replied, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “But what other option do I have? Like I told you, I need the money. I have a few…debts I need to pay.”
“So pay them. It can’t be that much. You must earn a fortune in your job. You don’t have a wife or kids draining every cent faster than you can earn it. What’s your problem?”
A dark red flush started at the base of Richard’s neck and worked its way across his cheeks. He lowered his head in shame. Alistair gritted his teeth and braced himself against what he might hear.
“I like to have a flutter on the horses and the dogs once in a while. You know, a harmless bet here and there. The problem is, they add up and the bookkeepers are at me to pay.” Richard swung his head back and forth and Alistair was aghast to notice there were tears in the other man’s eyes. “I can’t help it, Alistair. It’s out of control and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“How much do you owe?” Alistair asked quietly, his anger slipping away.
“Sixty thousand.”
He reeled back against his chair in shock. “Sixty thousand! How the hell could you have gambled away that kind of money?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! It just happened. I was shocked when they told me how much. But now they’re threatening to break my arms and legs—or worse—if I don’t find the money soon. That’s why you have to keep on doing it, Alistair.”
“Even if I do, you’re never going to make that kind of money. What are you going to do?”
Like the wall of a dam had suddenly been breached, Richard collapsed into a noisy bout of sobbing. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Alistair looked around them, embarrassed, but only one or two curious stares were thrown their way. Most hotel patrons ignored them.
Alistair thought back to the time when Richard had helped him with chemistry in college. It had been the one subject Alistair had struggled to master. For Richard, it had come easily. For hours and hours on end, he’d patiently walked Alistair through the concepts. Without Richard, Alistair might never have made it through. Alistair owed Richard his career. And that was the truth.
With a sigh, Alistair reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. Passing it over, he urged the man to get ahold of himself. “Stop crying, Richard. Nothing’s as bad as all that. I’ll think of something to do.”
Richard lifted his head. His eyes were red and swollen, but hope flared briefly in their depths. “Really? You’ll come up with a plan?”
Alistair nodded, knowing what he was going to do. “Yes, I’ll come up with a plan. In fact, I might already have one. Listen close. I recently received a very interesting email…”
CHAPTER FOUR
Rohan Coleridge took a moment to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. It was nearing the end of a cold August, the last month of winter, but he still managed to elevate his body temperature with each swing of his arms.
“Whew!” he said, leaning on the ax so that he could catch his breath. “This is hard work, Dad.”
His father chuckled and scratched at the hank of white hair that hung over his eyes. “You’re going soft, lad. It must be all that time you spend sitting on your ass.”
Rohan smiled and took the jibe in the spirit it was intended. He didn’t need to be told how proud Bill Coleridge was of his oldest son. Rohan only had to walk into his father’s den and see the evidence of his career since he first entered the police academy at the ripe old age of eighteen, to know how his father felt.
“I don’t know how you do this every winter,” Rohan said. Choosing another log from the wood heap, he lifted the ax again. With a crack that sounded like gunfire, he brought the blade down hard.
“I don’t work as rigorously as you do, son. I only cut what we need for the night. You’ve been at it for an hour. No wonder you’ve worked up a sweat.”
“It’s the least I can do after you invited me to dinner. I can smell Mom’s chicken pot pie from here. With a serving of her famous mashed potato and fresh garden peas on the side, I could die a happy man.”
“You need to find yourself a good woman, Rohan. One who knows how to cook.”
“I’m not sure that kind of woman exists anymore, Dad. They’re all too busy with their careers to spend time getting up close and personal with the oven.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid you’re right. I only have to look at your younger sisters to see that. Where did your mother and I go wrong?” he asked in mock dismay, shaking his head.
“Lucky Mom insisted on showing us the basics. At least we can all cook bacon and eggs and I do a mean barbeque. I have you to thank for that.”
He shot his father a grin and turned back toward the woodpile. Bringing the ax up over his shoulder, he drove it once again into the log. This time, it split open and he bent down and added the pieces to the growing pile.
“A couple more should do it,” his father commented. “It should see us through to warmer weather. Thanks for that, son. It’s much appreciated.”
“No problem, Dad. I’m glad I can help out. I don’t get home as often as I want to. It’s nice to be able to do something for you and Mom, when I can.”
“Too bad you moved closer to the city. It’s a fair commute for you to come out to Cronulla now.”
“Yeah, that’s the down side, but I’m so much closer to work and I spend a hell of a lot more hours there, let me assure you. Mostly sitting on my ass,” he teased.
“They don’t give officers bravery medals for sitting around, Rohan.”
Rohan looked at him in surprise.
“It was all over the news.”
“Of course.” Rohan accepted the comment quietly.
“I saw it on the television. You pulled that baby out of the car only moments before that tanker blew sky high. Someone uploaded a video to YouTube. I lost count of the number of times I watched it. You could have been killed, son.”
Rohan shrugged and ducked his head, uncomfortable with the praise. He’d done what had to be done. He’d attended the accident in the course of his job. There was nothing special about him or his so-called courageous actions in those circumstances and he couldn’t forget how, despite his mammoth efforts, the baby’s parents hadn’t survived.
Forcing the sad memory aside, he grimaced, stood another log on its end and brought the ax down hard. A couple more swings and the log split in half and the pieces joined the others in the laden wheelbarrow.
“Did they ever find out what caused the accident?”
Rohan swallowed a sigh and wearily set the ax aside. “The tanker driver’s blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit. He should never have been behind the wheel. Forty-eight years old, he has a wife and three children. He’ll be doing some serious time.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“He was put into the care of relatives. I guess the courts will sort out that one, too.”
Throwing the last two pieces of wood into the wheelbarrow, Rohan
moved to pick up the handles. His dad beat him to it.
“I’ll do that, Dad. It’s way too heavy for you.”
“It’s all right, son. I’m as strong as an ox.” Bill took a moment to set the wheelbarrow down and flexed his muscles. His long-sleeved flannel shirt rode high, exposing a generous belly that hung over the top of his jeans.
“Of course you are,” Rohan agreed, “but you’re not as young as you used to be. There’s no harm in taking it a little easy, especially since I’m here and can do it for you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” his dad muttered and stepped out of the way. Rohan took his father’s place in front of the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the back door. Without being asked, he began unloading it, stacking the wood in a neat pile against the side of the house.
“I’m worried about your mother,” Bill said, taking Rohan by surprise.
“Why is that?”
“Her blood pressure’s a little higher than her doctor wants it to be and she’s got that awful cough. She’s had it a couple months. If anyone needs to take it easy, it’s her. Every time I turn around, she’s heading out the door. Between the charity projects she’s involved in, the bingo and her lawn bowls, she hardly draws breath.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
“Would you?” Bill asked with a grateful expression on his face. “She’ll listen to you. Whenever I say anything, she just accuses me of interfering and fussing over her too much.”
Rohan chuckled. “Well, Dad, I have to agree with her there. You do tend to hover.”
Bill had the grace to blush. “It’s only because I care about her, son. She has a few years on me. I don’t want her leaving before me.”
Rohan’s smile faded and a rush of emotion tightened his chest. He loved his parents and knew they had something rare and special. Nearly forty years they’d been together and they loved each other now, as much as they had when they’d married. He couldn’t help but hope he’d find a woman whose heart would remain so true.