It was as if everything he’d done over the past year or so, everything that had happened to him, was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered right now was that he was here, with her.
Beckett expected that Suzan felt the same way, as she too refrained from speaking.
Instead, she traced the tattoos on his chest, the bull on one pec, the Celtic symbol on the other, before moving her hand along the side of his body. Beckett’s hands were above his head now, fingers interlaced, and when Suzan brushed against his newest tattoo, he flinched a little.
It was still raw and red.
Suzan propped herself up on one elbow and started to trace the two-inch lines that ran across his ribs. There were six of them now, the most recent of which he’d made less than two days ago.
“You ever gonna tell me why you gave yourself these tattoos?” she asked softly.
Beckett closed his eyes.
“They are a reminder,” he replied. “Every one of my tattoos is a reminder of a specific point in my life.”
It was a fairly generic comment and if it were anybody else but Suzan lying beside him, they might’ve gone for it. Suzan was much like him in that respect; he could tell her something, and she might accept it, but that wasn’t enough. She needed more, she needed facts, details.
“But these lines… what do they represent?”
Beckett squeezed his eyes closed even tighter and hoped that Suzan didn’t catch the strained expression on his face.
As she ran her fingers gently across each of the individual lines, Beckett started repeating the names of his victims in his head. It was something he did often on his own, but this was the first time that anybody else other than himself had touched these tattoos.
Craig Sloan… Donnie DiMarco… Ray Reynolds… Bob Bumacher… Boris Brackovich… Winston Trent…
The silence that ensued stretched for a good minute before Suzan addressed him again.
“Are you sleeping?”
Beckett shook his head, but refrained from answering. Suzan snaked her hand up behind Beckett’s head and started to massage his nub of a missing finger.
“Why do you lie to people when they ask about what happened to your finger?”
Beckett realized that Suzan’s words were slurred and finally understood that she had drunk a little more than usual. Unlike him, she wasn’t much of a drinker and the three or four shots of tequila must have gone right to her head.
Or her tongue, as it were.
“I told you, a man needs some secrets.”
Another pause, only shorter this time.
“You don’t need to keep secrets from me, Beckett. You can tell me anything.”
Beckett drew a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled slowly.
“There are some things…” he paused, realizing that Suzan was now snoring softly on his chest. “There are some things about me that even you wouldn’t understand. That I don’t even understand.”
In a matter of minutes, Beckett was snoring along with Suzan.
Chapter 10
“In front of each of you, there is a body,” Beckett said, his words echoing up and down the morgue. “On the tray beside the cadavers, you have all the tools that you need to come up with the cause of death. I will tell you straight up that not all of these people died from malicious causes, but some most definitely did. You have two hours to come up with the correct cause of death — this is your first test. It will set the stage for this entire year. The fact is, all of you either excelled in medical school, crushed your interviews, or your parents were rich enough to buy your way into a program you didn’t earn. But I don’t care — I don’t care about any of that. The only thing that I care about is that you are here. And with that come certain expectations.”
Beckett let his eyes drift over the residents, noting their pale faces and their messy or disheveled hair, the lack of makeup worn by the two women in the class. Eventually, his eyes fell on Grant McEwing, who looked particularly rough this morning, with dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes.
I guess it also helps to have an entire transplant unit named after your family. That usually helps, Beckett thought.
He cleared his throat and continued.
“Up to this point in your schooling, you were likely forced to work alone, unable to speak to your colleagues or even use the Internet during tests. That’s complete and utter bullshit. Your colleagues are a great asset and the Internet is perhaps man’s greatest invention. What matters, what really matters, is coming up with the correct diagnosis or, in this case, the cause of death.”
Beckett wasn’t surprised by the chorus of raised eyebrows. In fact, he expected it.
“This isn’t a joke… you can, and should, get started. You only have an hour and a half left.”
One of the residents started to protest, but Beckett held up his hand.
“This is my class, which means my rules. Now get going.”
With that, Beckett took a seat behind the desk off to one side and put his feet up. Then he grabbed his Styrofoam cup and started to sip the bitter sludge that passed as coffee nowadays. At first, none of the residents did anything; they just stood there, dumbfounded. Eventually, Maria Townsend, a rail-thin bird-like creature, pulled back the sheet that covered the gurney in front of her. Beneath was a naked corpse of a man who was 350 pounds if he was an ounce. His wide face was blue and his body was covered in coarse hair that might’ve convinced Velcro to issue a cease and desist for patent infringement.
Upon seeing the corpse, Maria gagged. Beckett watched her curiously to see if she would recover, but she didn’t. Her entire body shuddered and then she ran to the waste bin where she unloaded the contents of her stomach, which, based on the smell, was predominantly tequila.
Beckett spotted Pablo gagging out of the corner of his eye even though he hadn’t pulled back the sheet on his cadaver yet. A moment later, the man joined Maria.
Vomiting in stereo was more than twice as bad, he realized.
“If you’re going to be sick, be sick. I don’t care,” Beckett said with a chuckle. “Get your fellow resident a glass of water, some electrolytes, hook ‘em up with an IV. We’re not enemies here — you aren’t in competition. That being said, you only have an hour and a quarter left. Better do something.”
The haze of the alcohol from the night before slowly started to fade and the room was suddenly abuzz with sounds. There were people talking and there were others performing autopsies in near silence; the residents were indeed doing something. When he saw Grant McEwing cracking open the ribcage of his cadaver, his thoughts turned to what was behind those spoke-like bones, predominantly the heart.
Beckett had heard nothing about the organs that he’d instructed Suzan to take to the lab, and found himself wondering where they had ended up. He also thought about the note.
I know what you are.
He shook his head and turned to his computer, distracting himself with boring housekeeping items: declining offers to publish in this predatory journal or that one, telling desperate wannabe residents that they were SOL.
Making sure his YouPorn subscription was up-to-date.
When he was done, Beckett checked his watch and realized that 40 minutes had passed since he first addressed his new residents.
He cleared his throat loudly to get their attention before speaking.
“I don’t hear enough talking between you guys, so what I want you to do now is something I like to call musical cadavers, minus the music. Move one body to your right and start working on that cadaver. You guys are like a fraternity here — oops, I mean sorority, uhh, mixed-ority… zimority? — anyways, your success is predicated on you being able to help your fellow resident. And that’s what I want you to do now. Help. Hive mind, people.”
Maria, who had since returned to her cadaver and with a trembling hand was trying to sift through the thick blanket of yellow fat covering the man’s organs, raised her gaze. Beckett almost laughed when he saw the sting
of hatred in her eyes.
“Is that why you took us all out last night and got us drunk?” she asked, venom on her tongue. “Because we’re supposed to be part of some sort of archaic Greek intuition?”
Now Beckett did laugh. Normally he wouldn’t be baited so easily, but seeing as this was the first class, he felt the need to explain.
“Feisty, ooo, I like that. But, no, that’s not the reason. It was an eye-opener. You guys must have heard stories about residents working sixteen, eighteen, even twenty-hour shifts without even a single break to pinch a loaf. That’s bullshit. You wanna know what causes physicians to make more mistakes than alcohol or drugs combined? Lack of sleep — I bet even you overachievers didn’t know that. The irony is that a patient who smells alcohol on his surgeon’s breath would never think twice about rescheduling their surgery. But a doctor who can barely keep his eyes open? That’s the real danger. The thing you should ask your doctor before going under is how much sleep they had the night before.
“This whole idea of residents working double or triple shifts boils down to a single man: William Hallstead. Commonly known as the father of medical residency in the United States, William Hallstead was notorious for working long hours without seeming to tire. But our friend Bill had a secret. His secret was cocaine. Yes, children, the wonderful white powder that your mom said was just flour when you caught her rubbing her gums in front of her vanity. Back then, in the late 1800s, cocaine was commonly used in surgery for its analgesic and anesthetic properties. Bill was quite fond of the powder and often tested it on himself for a variety of situations. This helped him work insanely long hours, and he expected others to do the same. To deal with his addiction—” Beckett stopped speaking when the door to the morgue opened and a startled looking Suzan poked her head in.
“You doing the whole coked-up Bill routine?” she asked. “Did he get to the part where they treated his cocaine addiction with Morphine?”
“Suzan! How dare you steal the punch line!” Beckett mocked, rising to his feet. “You guys keep working, I’ll be back in a few,” he told his residents. “And, before you ask, no you can’t use cocaine. At least not during the test.”
Despite Suzan’s joke, when he made his way over to her, Beckett saw that she was paler than usual.
“What is it? What’s up?”
Suzan swallowed hard.
“You’ve got another one… there’s another package on your desk, Beckett.”
Chapter 11
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Beckett stood in the doorway of his office staring at the cardboard box on his desk. It was roughly the same size as the first one, and it was sealed up tight with clear tape.
“You’re sure nobody saw this being delivered?” he asked Suzan who tentatively entered the room behind him.
She shook her head.
“I asked Delores and she said she didn’t see anybody. It wasn’t delivered by internal mail either and there are no stamps on it. I’m guessing someone just snuck in and hand-delivered it before anyone was at their desk.”
Beckett stared at the box for several moments before actually making his way over toward it.
He could’ve overlooked the first delivery, racked that one up to being a mistake that his name had been slapped on by accident. He might’ve even been able to forget about the cryptic note. But this… a second delivery in as many days, that was more difficult to rationalize.
I know what you are.
Shaking his head, Beckett walked over to the box and reached for the frayed end of the tape. He was about to pull it back when Suzan laid her hand gently on his wrist.
“You think… you think that’s a good idea?” she asked. Beckett looked at her, his brow furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… maybe you shouldn’t open it. Maybe we should get someone else to come and take a look at it.”
“Someone else?”
Suzan lowered her eyes as she spoke.
“Yeah, like the police.”
Beckett bit the inside of his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was get the police involved in anything that he did, given what happened last time. Most of his status as the Senior Medical Examiner and as the head of the forensic pathology program at the University had been reinstated after his “vacation”, but Beckett was no idiot; he knew that others didn’t appreciate his unconventional style.
The old guard wanted him gone. They wanted to protect their secrets, the recipe for the potion that kept people like Sir Francis England alive.
Beckett shook his head and then tore the tape off with one hard yank.
“Yeaaah, that’s not happening.”
Inside the box was a white vinyl cooler emblazoned with the words “Human Organ for Transplant” written in red on the side. It was the same style of cooler that the previous organs had been delivered in. With trepidation, Beckett started to unzip the top but, as before, Suzan’s hand came down on his, halting his progress.
“You sure about this, Beckett?”
Beckett looked at her then, trying to figure out what she was getting at. Suzan knew that he was no saint, she knew what happened to his finger and what happened to Craig Sloan. And as far as he could tell, Suzan understood why he’d done what he had. After all, Craig had kidnapped her and if it hadn’t been for Drake and himself, Suzan most likely would’ve burned alive inside that house.
And yet, there was something in her eyes, something that made Beckett think back to last night’s questions about the tattoos, her odd statement that he could tell her anything that gave him pause.
I know what you are.
For a split second, Beckett considered that it might have been her who had written the note.
But then he shook his head. That was ridiculous.
Beckett gently brushed her hand away and then opened the cooler.
Inside, sitting in a bag of liquid atop pellets of dry ice, was an organ about the size of his fist.
“A heart,” he heard Suzan whisper.
Beckett nodded in agreement. It was clearly a heart — a human heart, by the looks of it.
But Beckett wasn’t focused on the heart, he was searching for another note. He found the yellow paper pressed against the side of the vinyl cooler, squeezed between the cardboard. Rather than pull it out, however, he turned to Suzan.
“Think you can do me a favor?”
Suzan nodded.
“Mind heading back to pathology to see if they’re missing a heart? And can you please see what the lab is doing with yesterday’s package?”
Suzan stared at him curiously for a moment and Beckett thought maybe that he had pushed her too far, that he was treating her now as a secretary and not a TA, but eventually, she nodded.
“What about you? What are you going to do?”
Beckett turned his eyes back to the yellow sheet of paper before answering.
“I’m thinking about opening up a shop: Beckett’s Bonafide Organs. Probably pays better than this shit.”
Chapter 12
Beckett stared at the note in his shaking hand. Written in black ink on the same yellow paper, the message was equally as simple as it was cryptic: To live, is to die.
Beckett felt a strong urge to scrunch up the piece of paper and toss it in the garbage — pretend that it never existed. He also considered, albeit briefly, taking Suzan’s advice and calling the police.
But he couldn’t do that.
Whoever was sending these organs knew something about Beckett, something that he hadn’t shared with anybody, not even Suzan.
With a frustrated grunt, Beckett held the note up to the light. There, beneath the black ink, were the familiar pencil indentations.
“Fuck,” he grumbled as he lowered the paper onto the scanner. It took less than a minute for the image to appear on the screen and half that long for him to perform the same simple manipulations in Photoshop that he had with the other note. And like a magic 8-ball coming to rest, a
message appeared.
I know what you did.
Beckett slammed his hand down on the desk.
No, the deliveries weren’t the result of a drunken UPS courier — they had been sent to him on purpose.
What that purpose was, however, was still a mystery.
Organ Donor_A Medical Thriller Page 4