A Perilous Conception

by Larry Karp

Brilliant enough, but no amount of time in a research lab, boiling urine to isolate abnormal body chemicals, could compete with treating patients like the Russian woman I followed in labor during my residency. Except for the nurses, who came and went every eight hours, I was her only human contact during thirty hours of fear and pain. After I finally delivered her of a healthy eight-pound son, she gripped my hand with both of hers, and asked, “What you’ name, Dr. Sanford, you’ first name.” “Colin,” I told her. “C-O-L-I-N.” She pointed to the baby in the bassinet. “That his name,” she said. “Colin Yushenko.” Then, there was the young Mexican woman whose baby’s heart rate dropped out during her final stages of pushing. I rushed her into the delivery room, put on forceps, pulled the baby out, unwrapped the cord from around its neck, and resuscitated it. The husband worked in a bicycle shop, and next day, he showed up at the hospital with a beautiful ten-speed bike that he insisted I accept, or he would be offended. “I thank God you were my wife’s doctor,” he said. “I bet no other doctor coulda saved my baby, and don’t try and tell me different.” So I didn’t try.

  I pushed my father’s fork down to the table. “Dad, we don’t need to go through this again. Those hypocrites at the U tee me off, that’s all. There’s not one of them who can say honestly that my patients would be better off with him than they are with me.”

  “You’re smug, Colin,” said my mother. “You think you’re better than other people. You should be ashamed, the way you ignored Carmel. But you’re not ashamed of anything. Not even that you make money by killing babies, or that your misbehavior robbed the world of a great genius.”

  The killing-babies bit started some six years back, when I became the first doctor in Emerald to do amniocentesis for the detection of fetal genetic abnormalities. To my mother, that was guilt by association, since the abnormal fetuses would be aborted. As for the other issue, she’d never stopped blaming me for what had happened to my brother, Victor. He was some kind of prodigy; from the age of two or three, my parents had had a private tutor for him. He was going to be tearing college curricula apart by the time he was ten. But he never got past five.

  She sat rigid, as always, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She’d started wearing them after Victor died, because she didn’t want people to see her crying, but she’d never gone back to clear lenses. Sometimes when I was a kid, I’d go up to the attic and look through old picture albums, and I was always taken aback at how vivacious my mother had looked. For as long as I can remember, though, her skin has been sallow, and her face expressionless, as if smiles came under heavy rationing nearly forty years ago, and the restriction was never lifted. “I guess maybe I should be, Mom,” I said quietly.

  Dad gave me a look that said, “Thank you.” Then he cleared his throat, his usual introduction to a change of subject. “That’s quite a commotion they’ve been having over at the Medical Center. Terrible.”

  Mom got up, began to clear plates. Dad talked on. “I’ll bet you’re glad to be at Puget Community. The people in the University OB Department must be going crazy.”

  “There’s plenty of spillover, Dad. The woman was a Puget Community patient. And if you want to talk specifics, she’s my patient.”

  “Your patient. For heaven’s sake. How is she taking it?”

  “About the way you’d expect.”

  “Do you have any idea why her husband—”

  “No. None at all.”

  Dad straightened in his chair, the better to look down at me. “I’m sure this has been hard for you, Colin, but you don’t need to bite my head off.”

  Mom glided between us to pick up my plate, and gave me another unforgiving look, whether because I’d spoken to my father in that tone, or because I’d lived and Victor had died. Maybe both. “Sorry, Dad,” I said. “I really have been pretty tense. I’ve got no idea why Mr. Kennett went over the edge.”

  Dad shook his head. “I don’t envy you having to deal with her right now.”

  I shrugged. “Part of the game. While she was in the hospital, I practically lived in her room, and now that she’s gone home, I’ll go see her there every day.”

  “She’s not home alone, is she?”

  “Her mother’s staying with her.”

  Dad drummed fingers on the table, early warning of something coming. “I read in the paper that the scientist who was murdered had done some sort of fertility procedure for the killer’s wife. Might that have had anything to do with it?”

  I couldn’t tell my father the procedure was Density Gradient Separation, not with what I had in mind to announce as soon as I could. One thing to lie to news reporters and cops, another thing entirely to sail a whopper across the dinner table to my father, then have to repudiate it a week later. “I don’t see how,” I said. “It worked, didn’t it? And according to Ms. Kennett, her husband went over to thank Dr. Hearn.”

  To all intents and purposes, my mother, at the far end of the table, was fully involved in slicing her infamous white cake with cream cheese icing, but I knew better. Behind those dark glasses, she was a recording machine, capable of repeating a ten-minute discussion verbatim. Like those musical geniuses who can listen to a tune played on a piano, and repeat it, note for note, mistakes and all.I remembered a winter day when I was six or seven, and started to walk across a frozen pond near our house. After a few steps, there was a loud creak. “Watch out, kid,” a man called from the edge of the pond. “You’re on thin ice.”

  “If Mr. Kennett had had any concerns or problems, I’m sure he’d have come to me,” I said, one eye on my mother. “He and I had developed a close relationship, all through the workup and the pregnancy. He’d never even met Dr. Hearn.”

  Dad looked like a man who’d just noticed a fly in his soup. “I gather you don’t want to tell us about this fertility procedure.”

  I didn’t dare speak into the microphone of that recording machine at the end of the table. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I said, and I’ve never spoken truer words. “But right now, I can’t. Ms. Kennett is pretty fragile, and I promised her I wouldn’t speak about it to anyone until she’s gotten herself back together.”

  My father knew bullshit when he smelled it, but I had him tied up. No way would Dr. Arthur Sanford ask me to violate a patient’s confidence.

  “If I ever can talk about it, you’ll be the first to know,” I said. “And I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “Hmmm.” Dad scowled as he passed me a slice of cake on a plate. I waited for my mother to remind me I could be enjoying white cake with cream cheese icing every night, had I only shown Carmel a little consideration. But she stayed quiet. She knew when silence would serve her purpose better than any words.

  Chapter Ten

  Baumgartner

  Irma must’ve had herself a nice long tiptoe through the tulips. By the time she got back, I’d had dinner, taken a shower, and gotten into bed. When I heard her come into the bedroom, the clock on the night table said eleven-twenty. I pretended to be asleep.

  When the alarm went off in the morning, she didn’t budge. Usually, that bell sends her straight up in the air, but she was going to take her turn at faking sleep. I shaved, got myself some breakfast, and headed out.

  I stopped at the station, checked the preliminary autopsy reports on Hearn and James Kennett. Like I’d figured, negative and negative. No tumors or any other pathology in what was left of the shooter’s brain, and except for holes in her chest, heart, and left lung, the vic’s body was entirely normal. I thought of stopping to update the chief, but decided I really didn’t want to see him right then, he probably didn’t want to see me, so why not make both of us a little happier on a Monday morning.

  ***

  Now that I’d learned what I had about in vitro fertilization, I zeroed in on that locked incubator in Dr. Hearn’s inner sanctum. I could have buttonholed some
one at the station to open sesame for me, but again, Mel had been more than clear about working quietly. So I drove over to Iggy’s shop, and got him to close up for a couple of hours.

  Laurie Mansell took us into her office, where I introduced her to Detective Irwin. “I need to look inside Dr. Hearn’s locked incubator,” I said.

  She began to fidget, trying hard not to stare at Iggy. “I don’t know…” She twiddled her thumbs against her forefingers, bit on her lip. “Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant or something?”

  “Not if I have probable cause, and not if a delay might impede the investigation of a crime scene. If that material happens to get taken away or altered before I’ve had the chance to examine it, I’m afraid you’d be facing a charge of obstructing a police investigation. Neither one of us wants that.”

  Any time or money Ms. Mansell might’ve spent in tanning parlors was wasted. She steadied herself against the edge of her desk. “Don’t you think it would be better for you to speak to Dr. Camnitz? I’d hate for him to get sore at me.”

  I shook my head. “I need to keep the investigation low-key, and I’m not ready to talk to Dr. Camnitz yet. If he ever bothers you over this, give me a call, and I’ll take the heat.” I pointed to Iggy, standing next to me, sympathy all over his ugly face. “Detective Irwin’ll have us inside that incubator in two minutes, tops, not a scratch on it, and after we’ve seen what’s in there, he’ll lock it back up. If any of your staff asks why we were here, we didn’t tell you.” I smiled. “Why don’t we just do it, and get it over with?”

  Two deep breaths. I thought she might bite through her lower lip. “I guess so.”

  ***

  I’d learned from those research articles on tissue culture that the point of locks on biological incubators isn’t to prevent theft, but to stop some idiot from opening the door and screwing up the temperature or the amount of carbon dioxide in the air. So they’re not terribly sophisticated. Iggy had this one open almost instantly. I peered inside. Two wire shelves, bottom one empty, but the top shelf held a small round plastic container with a cover. I looked at Ms. Mansell. “What’s that?”

  “A petri dish.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I guess some kind of tissue culture. I’d have to look under a microscope.”

  There was a small binocular microscope on the worktable behind us. I pointed at it and shrugged. Mansell nodded, then took an envelope from a cardboard box next to the incubator, carefully slipped a pair of latex gloves out of the package and onto her hands, rinsed off the powder with a little sterile water. Then she took the petri dish from the incubator, sat at the microscope, put the dish onto the viewing platform, turned on the scope, and lowered her eyes to the oculars. She moved the dish side to side, front to back. Finally, she frowned and shook her head. “All I can see is fragments. Dead tissue.”

  “No idea what it was?”

  “Knowing what Dr. Hearn worked on, I’d have to guess it was some egg or embryonic tissue, but I can’t say more than that.” She stood, then motioned me to the seat.

  I peered through the eyepieces. “Looks like tiny little brown dirt particles, floating in water.”

  “Not water. Culture medium.”

  “Could it be analyzed to find out exactly what’s in it, and then we’d know what she was culturing?”

  “’Fraid not. For one thing, the culture media for experiments in this lab are pretty similar, just small differences here and there, depending on whether you’re dealing with eggs, sperm, embryos, or other tissues.” She looked at a paper label on the cover of the dish. “And for another thing, it’s been in here for five days. By now, the composition of any culture medium is going to be very different from what it was at the start.”

  I bent to look at the label. Below the date, 4/27/77, “SW” was printed in neat block letters. “Recognize this handwriting?” I asked.

  Ms. Mansell nodded. “Dr. Hearn. She’s…she was the only one in the lab who used a fountain pen.”

  “Okay, thanks. You can put it back now.” I gave Iggy the nod. “Close the box up again for her. One more thing, Ms. Mansell. What kind of records did Dr. Hearn keep of the work in this lab?”

  “Oh, she was a stickler for complete and accurate records—which was good, don’t misunderstand me. There’s a log for every experiment in the lab, three specific lines of investigation, so three logs. Dr. Hearn held weekly review sessions where we went over all the logs, and if there were any mistakes, we’d pick them up.” She pointed toward the main lab. “They’re all out there. Do you want to look at them?”

  “Only if they have anything to do with the work Dr. Hearn did in here.”

  “I’m sure they don’t. Part of my job is to keep day-to-day tabs on the logs, and if there had been any of this room’s work recorded, I’d have seen it.”

  “You never saw a log for the work she was doing in this room?”

  “No. But I can’t believe she didn’t keep one. I’d guess she might have stored it in her desk, but I know you went through her whole office Friday. I don’t know where else it might be.”

  How about with Sanford, her co-conspirator? “Ms. Mansell, before I leave, I want to take a better look around in here.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. You might pick up on something Detective Irwin and I miss. I’d also like to look through Dr. Hearn’s office again. Just to be thorough.”

  ***

  We spent an hour, found nothing. I drove Iggy back to his shop, then turned around and went back to the Med Center. By a quarter to twelve, I was at Sanford’s reception desk. I showed my badge and ID to a receptionist with a blue and white name tag, Sally, and told her I needed to speak to her boss. Her eyes bugged, jaw plunged. Standard response. “Wow. Is this about Mr. Kennett and Dr. Hearn?” Pure New York, a recent immigrant to the great Pacific Northwest.

  “Good guess. Could you please tell the doctor I’m here.”

  “Sure.” She picked up the phone receiver, pushed a button, then said, “Dr. Sanford, there’s a Detective Baumgartner here who wants to talk to you about…oh, hold on, I’ll ask him.” She looked back to me. “Dr. Sanford says he’s with his last patient for the morning, and can you please wait till he’s done? He says it won’t be long.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  ***

  I’d waited thirteen minutes when the door to the back corridor opened, and Sanford came through behind an overstuffed dyed blonde in a calico dress meant for someone twenty-five years younger and fifty pounds lighter. By appearances, she had not gotten the best news from the doctor. She wiped at her eyes. Sanford rested a hand on her arm. “I’ll see you and your husband first thing in the morning,” he said. “And if either of you comes up with anything that won’t wait till then, just call. If it’s after office hours, the answering service will put you through.”

  “Thank you…so much.” The woman looked like he’d just tossed her a life preserver and hauled her onto shore. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate…you’re not like most doctors.”

  Which got her a twenty-four carat smile. No way Sanford’s dentist was on food stamps. “We’ll beat this thing,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” Then he walked over to me. “Mr. Baumgartner. Has something new come up about Dr. Hearn?”

  When I stood, I had a good five inches on him. “I’ve got a few questions. Can we go in the back?”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand toward the corridor. “Would you like me to send out for some lunch?”

  “Thanks, but let’s just stick to Q and A.”

  Back in the office, Sanford closed the door behind us, then walked around his desk and settled into his recliner chair, hands up behind his head. Napoleon on his throne. From where I sat, opposite him, I could see half the city through the win
dow. Twelfth floor, what was the rent on this office? I whistled. “Nice place.”

  I thought he was going to purr. “Thanks. I try to make it relaxed and comfortable. Openness is reassuring.”

  This guy could drown a person in eyewash, but he wasn’t the first I’d gone up against, and the ones who came before him were now wearing zebra suits. “I appreciate you giving up your lunch hour to talk to me, Doctor.”

  He opened his eyes wide, spread his arms, palms up. “My patients always come first, and Ms. Kennett is my patient.”

  Time to roll. “Dr. Sanford, I may repeat some of the questions I asked Friday. I hope you’ll bear with me.”

  “You’re the doctor.”

  I sat back, stretched my legs, took a deep breath. “Have you come up with any thoughts at all about why Mr. Kennett might’ve gone off the deep end?”

  “No. He had that breakdown twenty years ago, but since then, he seems to have done very well.” Sanford paused just long enough for me to open my mouth to ask the next question. “But in any case, as I told you Friday, I relied on the opinion I got from Dr. Hammacher, James’ psychiatrist. I have several notes from him, in fact, starting before the pregnancy, and going right on through till shortly before delivery.”

  “Okay. Had Mr. Kennett and Dr. Hearn ever met before Friday? Did they know each other?”

  “I’m quite sure they didn’t.”

  “He’d never talked to her before?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know why he would have.”

  “All right, let’s go on. This Density Gradient Separation you did for the Kennetts—you said that was a first, right? It hadn’t been done on patients before?”

  “Not as far as I know. But since there was nothing else to offer the Kennetts, it seemed reasonable to give it a try.”

  “So, was that a favor Dr. Hearn did for you? Did she owe you for something?”

  “Of course not. She didn’t owe me anything. The reason the private hospital and the University Medical Center have such a close physical relationship is to make it as easy as possible for doctors in practice to work with scientists, both to support research, and so patients can get the best possible care.”