by Cathy Ace
Ezra and Bud stiffened as she said these final words, both well-versed in the implications of an airborne variety of ricin. We relaxed somewhat when Rachel added, “I checked, and his nasal membrane shows no indications of inhalation of a toxic substance.”
“That’s some good news at least,” said Ezra. He looked relieved.
“Had the deceased shown any symptoms of nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea in the past couple of days?” I asked. Quite pleasantly, I thought.
Rachel rearranged her shoulders and replied tartly, “I was coming to that. No, he hadn’t reported any, but that’s not unusual. Tommy Trussler had cruised on many occasions, and he would have been well aware that the exhibition of such symptoms can result in a person being quarantined. Since he was here to provide a service to our guests, he might have thought that his chances of being requested to do so again in the future would be compromised by his being unable to fulfil his duties on this trip. I see it too often: crew members don’t report sickness until they are very poorly. We have an active campaign informing them that admitting to sickness is preferred, but, especially for the bar servers, it means fewer tips, so they keep going until they all but drop. Stupid. It’s why we have to work so hard to contain illness on ships. That said, my money’s on ninety-nine percent of the bugs we get here being brought onboard by guests, who also lie about not feeling sick, just so they don’t miss their holiday.”
Her acid tone was beginning to grate on me. I decided to wade in. “So, does his corpse tell you anything his living self didn’t?” Well, someone had to push her along.
Bud and Ezra seemed oblivious to the tension growing between Rachel and myself. I already knew I didn’t play well with others, but she was really irritating me. I suspected she felt the same way.
Rachel’s voice had a hard edge. “Professor Morgan,” she said, emphasizing my title, “as a psychologist, you will not have received any formal medical training, so you cannot be expected to understand the thoroughness of my examination of the body—” I heard Bud inhale as he waited for me to explode, “—so I shall get straight to the point.” Bud hardly breathed. “Tommy Trussler died from a lethal dose of an unknown poison that was not injected into him, and that he did not inhale. I believe, therefore, that he either ingested it, or the toxin was introduced to his bloodstream by some type of topical application. His body showed no signs, however, of any patches of skin that were inflamed or discolored, so my tendency is to suggest he ingested the poison. There is no non-invasive way to establish this beyond all doubt, though I can also tell you that I saw no signs of a corrosive substance in his mouth. Although not discolored, either in patches or in total, his skin was somewhat desiccated—more than I would expect so soon after death. It suggests to me that he was dehydrated. This might have been a result of any number of factors, but I have discounted sunburn, at least. He might have been vomiting for days, or simply have drunk a great deal of alcohol last night. He did not smell of alcohol, nor did he give off the odor of almonds, often associated, though not always present, when cyanide has been introduced into the body. He did smell somewhat of garlic, which might suggest the use of arsenic, or that he’d recently eaten garlic. His forehead was slightly grazed, which I believe happened when his head hit the card table. I have sent Bartholomew to Tommy’s stateroom and have instructed him to bring any and all potions and devices that might have contained a toxin here, so they can be stored securely until we dock.” She looked away from her tablet and toward her little phone with disdain. Then, seemingly finished with her report, Rachel White folded her hands.
“So, there’s no clear information on a possible poison. No way to tell if the man did this to himself, except for the lack of a suicide note, but no alarm that there’s an airborne toxin on the ship,” said Ezra. “The captain will be relieved about that last point, at least. Is there anything else you can tell us, Rachel?” He was almost pleading.
Rachel nodded. “It’s probably completely irrelevant, but I can tell you that, at some point in his adult life, Tommy Trussler sustained a severe trauma to his left thigh. There are clear indications of a skin graft, taken from his right thigh, having been used to aid with the management of a trauma that resulted in the removal of a relatively large part of his vastus lateralis, the long muscle on the outside of the thigh of his left leg. I have no way of knowing how, or when, he was injured, but the skin graft suggests it was an external trauma rather than a disease. The area affected seems too large for any planned medical procedure I know of. It might have been any sort of an injury. The only other mark on him is from what I judge to be an appendectomy. I suspect it was performed within the past decade as it looks to me as though laparoscopic procedures have been used.”
“Would he have been in pain because of his leg injury, doctor?” asked Bud.
“It’s likely. For a man of fifty-four years of age, his muscle tone suggests to me that he exercised regularly, though not strenuously. That would have helped with the general pain, but he would have tired easily. Does anyone know what he did ashore? Ezra? I have his boarding file, which lists his emergency contact as someone who lives in the same complex as he did, just outside Honolulu, but doesn’t share his name. I’ve put out the word, but can’t seem to find anyone onboard who really knew the man.”
Ezra shook his head. “I will take care of that aspect, Rachel. I understand that you are medically responsible for the well-being of everyone on this vessel, but I have expertise you don’t—and the manpower. I am conducting a thorough inquiry about his known associates on the ship, and my department has connected with the authorities in Honolulu, who have agreed to send a patrol officer to the address of his stated emergency contact. Tommy Trussler was hired through our usual agency. They have also been contacted. Maybe I’ll get something from them.”
He pressed his hand against the table in front of him signifying to me his sense of frustration, and continued. “So, back to your areas of concern, doctor: We know he was poisoned, though we don’t know with what, or when. We know he had an old injury, but we don’t know what it was, when it was sustained, or even if it’s relevant. We do not believe he died at his own hand. All we really know is that someone, somehow, got him to eat or drink a toxic substance at some point—most likely on the ship. All of us around this table know enough about poisons to realize that whatever killed him so violently today must have been administered at some time within the last forty-eight hours, while we’ve been at sea. That’s it.”
“I would say much closer to the time of death, because of the ferocity of the symptoms,” said Rachel, “though that’s merely an opinion.”
“Opinions don’t help; what we need are facts,” said Ezra.
At Ezra’s words, Rachel’s expression hardened even more; I could tell her teeth were clenched, and her jaw muscles twitched.
“It’s better than nothing,” I said as helpfully as possible.
“But not much,” she snapped, launching herself from her chair in anger. “I feel so useless!” Ah, she’s frustrated with herself, and the situation.
Bud and Ezra once again raised themselves from their seats.
“Oh, sit down,” wailed Rachel impatiently. She turned to me. “Why do men always do that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I would make the most of it if I were you. They never seem to do it for me,” I replied.
It was as though a dam had burst. Rachel let out a long belly laugh, which escalated until she was all but crying. Her almost-manic laughter was infectious, and we couldn’t help but join in. It was this sight—two senior officers and two guests laughing almost uncontrollably—that met Captain Andreas’s eyes as he entered the room.
“I’m here to evaluate the progress of the investigation into a probable murder on my ship,” he said sternly.
His expression made it abundantly clear our laughter wasn’t what he’d expected—or condoned.
ICU
AFTER EZRA HAD BROUGHT THE captain up to speed, which to
ok a matter of mere moments, the master of the ship informed us he would have to take his leave of us because many other duties were pressing. Ezra seemed to have convinced him that matters were being handled adequately, but the captain’s micro-expressions told me he was still feeling the weight of a suspicious death on his shoulders. As he left, he muttered something about the Aloha Spirit being in pretty short supply.
I turned to Rachel, who seemed much more approachable after her outburst. “Is there any chance of Bud and me being able to take a look at the body?” I asked.
The doctor reverted to being on her guard. I suspected a territorial issue was about to raise its head, and it seemed that Bud also sensed a potential problem. “Cait’s a well-respected victim profiler, doctor,” he offered. “She’s worked on many cases for the integrated homicide investigation unit I used to head up. If she could begin by familiarizing herself with the victim’s body, then move on to his stateroom,” he raised an eyebrow toward Ezra, “I think that would be most helpful.”
Ezra responded first. “I think that would be a very good plan,” he said. I noted he didn’t tell Rachel to accede to my request. I wondered about these two; did they have a personal relationship? I got the impression that they were of equal rank, or maybe the doctor held a slightly higher one than our head of security. I told myself to check, when it was appropriate.
“Very well,” said Rachel with some reluctance. “The body is still in our intensive care unit. Follow me.”
We walked down a particularly long corridor that eventually opened on one side into some large rooms. As we walked, I noted a sign on one closed door that said X-RAY EQUIPMENT, a few private rooms with half-glass doors containing one traditional hospital bed each, another door with a DISPENSARY sign, and another with the word SLUICE beside it. Finally, Dr. White swiped her card at a double-width doorway, and we entered a large room containing two beds, arranged on either side of some substantial equipment. On one bed lay an array of clear plastic bags containing the personal effects of the dead man. I looked them over. His outer clothing, his underwear, what would likely have been the contents of his pockets—a few playing cards with ripped corners, a keycard, a nest of tissues, a stick of sunblock for lips—and a wristwatch.
On the other bed lay the figure of the late Mr. Tommy Trussler himself; his body had been covered with a sheet. Dr. White pulled back the covering—with real respect, I noted—and since I have an aversion to viewing dead, naked bodies, I steeled myself, making sure I was in a totally professional state of mind.
Rachel spoke as she gestured toward parts of the cadaver, showing us the lack of any medically relevant indications. She was right about the healed wound on the man’s thigh; it was substantial.
I peered at the man’s forehead, hands, feet, scars, and arms, which I noted were fleshy, flaccid. Eventually I thanked Rachel, and suggested we leave the chilly room. Even though almost everything in it was white, and lit with high wattage lights, it felt gloomy. I need to see the sky.
Making our way back toward the waiting room, which was the only entry point to the long corridor, I stopped outside the dispensary and asked, “Is this always locked?”
Rachel glanced at Ezra. “Every room in the medical facility is kept locked at all times. We use these to open the doors,” she said, pointing to a swipe-card on a lariat around her neck. “Only six of us have these cards—myself, Bartholomew, my three other nurses, and my junior doctor. Though I dare say Ezra has something that would also allow him to enter any room on the ship.”
“I have a master-override card,” Ezra explained.
Rachel smiled. “Access, all areas,” she said enigmatically. Ezra looked uncomfortable, and almost blushed.
I allowed their private exchange to pass. “And what about the drugs in here? How do you account for their use?”
“Most of the supplies on the ship are replaced when we turnaround,” replied Rachel. “You know, when the guests leave, and we embark new guests for a new cruise. It’s not the end of the world if a particular type of yogurt is used up during a cruise; other alternatives are available. But that’s not the way it works for medical supplies. We cannot risk running out of anything. That means we have a strict record-keeping system, and we re-order supplies ahead of arriving at a port. We have a list of approved medical supply companies at each port, so Bartholomew arranges for deliveries to be made and safely secured here in the dispensary before he ever takes time off at any port. He’s a reliable chap, thank goodness.”
“Is Bartholomew the only person who can do that?” I asked.
“I do have a junior doctor reporting to me, but we’re both reliant on Bartholomew for this one particular service. It means at least one of us can rotate off at each port, and get away from—” she waved an arm “—our glamorous surroundings. I am the senior doctor, so I usually attend to the needs of the passengers and officers. Under normal circumstances, the junior doctor deals with the crew, though we take it in turns to allow the other as much time off as possible when we’re in port.” Once again drawing her right forefinger and thumb down her face, pulling her lips as she did so—a signal that she was stressed and frustrated, I judged—she added, “My junior doctor has been confined to his quarters since the ship left Hilo. He’s quite sick. Vomiting and so forth. I can’t allow him to be anywhere near anyone until he’s been clear of his symptoms for forty-eight hours, so it’s just me until we reach Vancouver. The twenty minutes I had on the officers’ deck this morning, after surgery hours, was the first break I’ve had for some time. And now this.”
Rachel White sounded tired.
“Given the circumstances of Tommy Trussler’s death, do you firmly believe that your junior doctor’s symptoms are the normal result of a stomach upset or a virus?” I asked.
Rachel looked thoughtful. “I’d say yes. He presented with classic symptoms, and we’ve had a few other cases of guests being ill since we left Hilo. As I said, these bugs are usually brought onto the ship from some land-based source. The sick guests are also quarantined.”
I shrugged. It was her world, not mine, and she was the one with the medical degree after all, as she’d been at pains to point out.
“Bartholomew is a great help,” Rachel added, “but he’s not a doctor, and a doctor must be available whenever needed, and must oversee and approve anything he does. Bartholomew usually attends all Star Code calls, but it’s been just me on ‘Doctor Call’ since Hilo. It’s been a busy time. We’ve had quite a few falls, bumps, and a good deal of seasickness since we headed away from the Islands. I’m dealing with a challenging number of cases of cabin cough too.”
“Cabin cough?” asked Bud.
“A dry, hacking cough. It can become very painful,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “The crew members get it quite a lot, and some guests as well. The air conditioning in the interior cabins is largely to blame. Guests with balconies don’t tend to suffer as much.”
“Rachel will be relieved to reach your country,” Ezra told us quietly. “It’s the end of her contract, so, from there, she heads back to England for six weeks.”
I tried to take the chance to find out something about her. “Where are you from, Rachel?”
The medic half-smiled. “Here and there. My father was a doctor for the Royal Navy, so my family moved about a good deal while I was growing up. I did my training in London, and then stayed on at my training hospital, St. Mary’s, for a couple of years. Eventually I joined a practice in Islington as a GP. I hated it so I ran away to sea.” Her smile dimmed even more. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Though, to be fair, my dad did try to warn me.”
“Will you come back after this break?” I asked.
A significant look flew between Ezra and Rachel. “I’ve signed up for another five months on this very ship.” She didn’t sound as though she was looking forward to it. “I have a couple of weeks to change my mind, if I want,” she added with forced nonchalance.
“I have every fa
ith that Rachel will return,” said Ezra with a charged smile, “and we’ll be lucky to have her. She is an excellent doctor, with just the right amount of experience needed to make the perfect ship’s senior medical officer. She has earned her half-star, and no mistake.”
“Half-star?” I asked.
“Ezra’s referring to the fact that I was made up—promoted—half a star about a month ago. That makes me a three-and-a-half-star officer. Not bad.”
“I’m guessing you have only three stars?” I said to Ezra.
He shrugged. “What can I say? It is the most stars allowed for my function on this ship. However good I might be at my job, they cannot give me more. But three stars are good too. Once they were even good enough for Rachel.” His gaze rested upon her face for a couple of seconds longer than a professional glance would have allowed.
Encouraging us to continue our walk along the corridor, which led to the exit, Ezra added, “I suggest I take Bud and Cait to see the stateroom of the deceased, and allow you to make the arrangements to store the body. By the way, Cait, did you see anything that we should know about? On the victim’s body, I mean.”