by Robin Cook
“Nothing,” Laurie said. “I probed around in the track’s depths carefully. I also searched the X-rays. My guess is that the pellet could have been somehow digestible, such that once it was exposed to interstitial fluid, it slowly was digested. Well, it couldn’t be that slowly, since it was gone when I went looking for an entrance wound around forty or so hours after the man’s death.”
“Certainly a subtle but effective way to kill someone. I have to give the perpetrators some credit. Unless the entrance wound is noticed, it will seem like a natural death.”
“Which is exactly what happened in this case.”
“Okay, let’s get you set up in the lab,” John said, getting up from his desk. “I’ve arranged some bench space for you upstairs on the sixth floor. It’s actually in the same room with the liquid chromatography /mass spec/mass spec machines.”
“Sounds delightful,” Laurie said, following John into the stairwell and up to the sixth floor.
“I’ve also asked one of my techs, Teresa Chen, to be available for your questions. She’s my in-house expert with the LC/MS/MS,” he said as they headed into the lab.
It was a typical modern biological lab filled with several large machines that automatically handled multiple specimens and needed very little attention once they were set up and running. The sound in the room was a general hum interspersed with mechanical clicking noises as individual specimens advanced on conveyors.
There was only one person in the lab tending the multiple machines. Teresa Chen’s shiny dark hair was parted in the middle. She smiled graciously at Laurie and offered her hand when they were introduced.
“So here’s your bench area,” John said, indicating a stretch of countertop. “And I recommend using n-butanol for the extraction. I looked it up, and the butanol seems to be the most efficient. So are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Laurie declared. “Especially if Teresa is ready.”
“I’m very ready,” Teresa said with another smile.
“So I’ll leave you to it,” John said. “I’ll pop in every so often to see how things are going.”
After John had left, Teresa went to the refrigerator and brought back a small beaker. “Here’s your slurry,” she said, handing it over.
Laurie took the specimen. It was slight pink in color with the consistency of heavy soup. With fond memories of cozy afternoons spent in chemistry lab in college, Laurie looked forward to her afternoon in the OCME toxicology lab. There was something particularly rewarding about having the time and opportunity to be so closely involved in searching for the toxin on her own case. Luckily for her current peace of mind, she was totally unaware of the tragedy involving her child unfolding at that very moment elsewhere in the city.
31
MARCH 26, 2010
FRIDAY, 4:05 p.m.
Ben’s day had gone from one extreme to another. It had started as one of his all-time best days. Save for the toothache-like concern of Satoshi’s whereabouts and the question of why he had not checked in, Ben had rarely been quite so happy and optimistic. He’d taken a risk leaving his high-paying executive position at his old biotech firm. And there had been days of doubt, struggle, and difficult decisions. But that morning he’d felt as though it had all been worth it. His nascent company was in an enviable position of having signed an exclusive licensing agreement to control what he believed would be the key patent involving the commercialization of induced pluripotent stem cells. They were now starting the due diligence to purchase another start-up whose intellectual property included the current best patent for producing the stem cells. And they had access to seemingly limitless capital.
At a little after four in the afternoon of the same day, all that optimism had evaporated like a snowball on an August afternoon. Rather than feeling good, Ben was confused and anxious to the point of being fearful. Instead of being at home as he had planned, relaxing and looking forward to his 10K race in the morning, he was in his car, driving back across the George Washington Bridge, on his way to the medical examiner’s office. His mission now was to view an unidentified corpse, whom he worried was going to be Satoshi Machita. The clerk he had spoken to, Rebecca Marshall, said the body had arrived at about six-thirty Wednesday night after the victim had collapsed on a subway platform. She had also described the victim as being somewhere between late thirties and middle forties, one hundred and forty pounds, five-foot-eight, with Asian features and closely cropped hair, all of which fit Satoshi’s description.
As he drove down FDR Drive, surrounded by the Range Rover’s luxuriously appointed leather interior, Ben tried his best to think. He usually found driving an aid to contemplation, with the hum of the engine and the road rushing mesmerizingly, blocking other thoughts. He needed to think while he still had some control over events. A lot had happened in the previous few hours.
The day had deteriorated the moment he’d smelled the putrefaction and subsequently discovered the bodies at the house in Fort Lee. It had been a horrific and shocking discovery. Except for rescuing little Shigeru, he wished he’d not gone to check on Satoshi. Maybe the bodies wouldn’t have been discovered for months, and he would not be in the trouble he was in now, trouble that had started the moment the police had arrived.
By merely going into the house and contaminating the scene, Ben had vaguely worried he might be suspected of somehow being involved, but he was confident any such suspicions would be quickly put to rest. What Ben never imagined was that he’d been considered suspicious and a threat from the start.
After making the 911 call, Ben sat in his car, waiting for the authorities to arrive while letting Shigeru take little sips of water. Ben had been totally engrossed in thinking about the fallout his discovery of Satoshi’s family’s mass murder was going to cause. There was no doubt in his mind that it would become a media event and spark a massive investigation. Even though he didn’t find Satoshi’s body among the others, he thought it might be in another part of the house. To Ben, the mass murder smacked of organized crime, possibly drug-related, and he believed the authorities would approach it as such.
For Ben, the idea of being involved in any major investigation was anathema, and the fact that he would be in this one was a given. Ben’s connection to Satoshi as his employer would entangle both him and iPS USA. He had no idea what he could or should do.
Any serious investigation of iPS USA was terrifying. Today’s economic reality had forced Ben into accepting dirty money. At first it had been relatively small amounts, which he made sure to pay off quickly. But as time passed and the economy remained flat, the temptation to borrow greater amounts grew. It was all timing. Like other victims of the recession, he had run into difficulty finding capital just at the time he’d needed it the most. It was then that he’d succumbed to Michael’s constant pressure that the money was there for him and that it was completely safe to exchange the money for equity rather than taking it as a loan. Even Vinnie Dominick and Saboru Fukuda had assured him of its safety by explaining that their monies were untraceable through five or more shell companies located in all the usual less financially reputable counties in the world, where secrecy and baksheesh were king and whose governments were not signatories of the Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty.
While Ben had been sitting in his car with Shigeru, worrying about the upcoming investigation, the sound of approaching sirens had gradually penetrated his brain. At first the sounds were barely detectable, but their undulations rapidly increased in power until the flotilla of racing police cars with sirens screaming burst into view in Ben’s rearview mirror. At first he was tempted to just get out to wait for their arrival, but he hesitated. The squad cars appeared to be approaching so fast that Ben was worried about his safety. And he was right. Amazed, he watched the cars gobble up the distance between him and them without slowing and then screech to a stop with one of the three vehicles spinning out in the process. Even before they were fully stopped, doors had burst open and uniformed Fort Lee police offers ha
d leaped out with guns drawn. It was as if they thought the mass murder was in progress rather than days old, which Ben had been very clear about on the phone.
Ben was wide-eyed with sudden terror. He’d never experienced such a thing. All the guns were pointed at him, making him worry that a sudden move or noise might unleash a salvo. He tried to scrunch down in his seat but to no avail. Range Rovers were designed for maximum visibility.
“Out of the car!” one of the officers had yelled. “Hands free and point them toward the sky.”
“Do it slowly!” another officer had shouted. “No sudden moves.”
“There’s a child in here with me,” Ben had yelled. “He needs medical attention.”
“Out of the car! Now!”
“I’m getting out,” Ben had yelled. “I’m just the nine-one-one caller, for chrissake.”
“To the ground! Spread-eagle!”
Ben had complied, pushing away a few empty beer cans and other debris.
In the next minute, several cops ran up behind him and patted him down. Satisfied he was unarmed, they cuffed him and then hoisted him to his feet. Ben watched as a number of the Fort Lee police ran up to the house with guns drawn and disappeared inside.
“Christ, what a smell!” one of the officers said, standing next to Ben and wrinkling his nose. To Ben he said, “Did you go in there?”
“I did. I didn’t want to, but I heard a noise, which turned out to be this child,” Ben said, using his head to point through the open driver’s-side door of his Range Rover at Shigeru, whose face could barely be seen within the enfolding blanket. “Why the hell did you cuff me?” Ben pleaded. “Am I a suspect? From the smell, whatever happened here was days ago.”
The officer didn’t answer. The ambulance had arrived, its siren loud enough to cause Ben’s ears to ring. Several EMTs leaped out, one going to the ambulance’s rear to open the door, another rushing to where Ben was standing with his two guards.
“Where’s the child?” the driver demanded. Ben had requested the ambulance when he’d made the 911 call.
“He’s here in the car,” Ben answered before the police could respond. “He’s fine,” Ben added quickly. “He’s dehydrated, but mostly he’s terrified. He’d been in a hidden room in the dark from whenever this disaster occurred. I’m a doctor. He needs an IV. He needs blood work. His kidney function has to be evaluated.”
Ben turned to one of his captors, a uniformed officer identified on his nametag as Sergeant Higgins. “I’d like to go with the child. As I said, I’m a doctor. I can return here for questioning after the child is stabilized.”
“Are you related to the kid somehow?” Sergeant Higgins questioned.
“No, I’m not,” Ben said, “but . . .” It was at that moment Ben remembered the documents in the office safe: the two wills, one signed, one unsigned, and the trust agreement signed, making him the trustee of the trust that was going to own the key patents for iPS cells. For Ben, remembering the existence of the legal documents was like a sudden burst of sunshine in the middle of a terrible storm. Although he was no lawyer, the idea that he might have something to say about the patents’ future couldn’t be bad for the future of iPS USA and the necessary perpetuation of the licensing agreement.
“But what?” Sergeant Higgins said when Ben had paused.
“But I’m to be the child’s guardian when the father’s will is probated.”
“Is the father in the house as one of the victims?”
“Not that I know of. I only saw the mother.”
“Is the father dead?”
“That I don’t know either,” Ben admitted, making him realize his case for leaving the scene and going with the child was cellophane-thin, even if he was to produce the one signed will he had. Accepting reality, he turned back to the EMT. “Take the child, whose name, by the way, is Shigeru Machita, start an IV, but tell the hospital authorities that I will most likely soon be the guardian, and that I give permission to treat the child as I’ve already described. Also tell them I will be there as soon as I can.”
“Okay,” the EMT said simply, and then took off, rounding Ben’s car to get to the front passenger door.
Ben watched the EMT lift the child, then quickly turn his head away as the smell of the child invaded his airspace. The EMT then ran Shigeru back to the ambulance’s rear and handed him off to the other EMT, who’d gone back to the vehicle to prepare for receiving the child.
For a moment Ben found himself thinking about the legal issues that were sure to arise. Shigeru, like the rest of his family, was an illegal alien, without even a record of his entrance into the country. His Japanese citizenship would impact an American court’s decision about his future. But where was Satoshi, and was he alive or dead? If he was alive, the legal issues were fewer. Could he have arrived home, seen the mayhem, and gone into hiding? It now seemed unlikely. Ben had an awful sinking feeling that Satoshi, like his family, was already dead.
As the ambulance made a three-point turn in the middle of Pleasant Lane, more police cars arrived, though without the same sense of urgency. Ben noticed these squad cars were from the Bergen County police.
A moment later an unmarked car and several white vans pulled behind the Bergen County police. On the side of the vans was stenciled: NEW JERSEY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC SAFETY, OFFICE OF MEDICAL EXAMINER. From one of the marked police cars emerged a plainclothes detective. He was of medium height and thickset, with a shock of brown hair going gray at the temples. It was clear he was a force to contend with. He was one of those people who radiated authority, determination, and intelligence all at once in a calm, unspoken way.
He walked directly up to Ben, who was instantly wary, and said, “I’m Detective Lieutenant Tom Janow of the Bergen County police.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Sergeant Higgins. “Is this the nine-one-one caller?”
“He is, sir!”
“Why is he in handcuffs?”
Sergeant Higgins paused, seemingly caught off guard by the question. “Lieutenant Brigs said to pat him and cuff him.”
“For what reason?”
“Well . . . because the case was a mass murder.”
“A mass murder that had apparently gone down a day or so ago, if I’m not mistaken,” Tom said. His voice was even and matter-of-fact and without emotion or blame.
“Well, that’s true,” the sergeant admitted.
“Uncuff him!” Tom said calmly.
While Ben was being released he watched how efficiently the Bergen County police task force went to work. While the Fort Lee police continued to secure the area, the Bergen County contingent prepared to process the scene. Besides the plainclothes detective, there was a handful of uniformed officers, a number of crime scene investigators, and several medical legal investigators from the Bergen County medical examiner’s office. The MLIs were busily suiting up in bioprotective clothing with some even donning closed circuit breathing apparatus like Aqua-Lungs to be ready to go into the building as soon as the local police declared it safe. There was even a representative from the Bergen County district attorney’s office, who’d gotten out of his unmarked car and had walked over to introduce himself to Detective Lieutenant Janow and ask permission to listen in on the questioning of Ben, which the detective agreed to instantly.
“Sorry about the cuffs,” Tom said, once the shackles had been removed. There had been a brief problem with the key.
Ben acknowledged Tom’s apology. Although he had been worried about the situation when he’d first discovered the bodies, the idea that he might be considered a suspect had never dawned on him. “I’m not considered a suspect, am I?” Ben asked while rubbing his wrists. He wanted to be absolutely sure. He was already nervous enough.
“Not yet,” Tom said. “Should we have our conversation in your vehicle? It might be more agreeable.”
Not completely relieved of his concern about possibly being a suspect, Ben agreed to the use of his car. Tom got in on the front passenger side
while Ben climbed in behind the wheel. The investigator from the district attorney’s office seated himself in the passenger-side backseat.
With his pad and pencil at the ready, Tom started with the usual litany of questions, associated with Ben’s identity and history, rapidly writing as Ben spoke. As they proceeded, Ben’s evaluation of the man’s professionalism went up another notch. Tom’s systematic, experienced, and smooth approach to interviewing made it clear he knew what he was doing while making it all appear effortless. Within just a few minutes they had progressed from Ben’s identity to Ben’s personal history to the facts that led up to Ben’s having stopped by the Machitas’ household on that particular day.
When Tom paused in his questioning, Ben could feel himself trembling and hoped it was not obvious. The feeling that Tom was almost too good at what he was doing made Ben progressively nervous that Tom might find out things that Ben didn’t want him to learn. Ben seriously wanted to end the interview but hesitated to say anything, lest the wily detective take Ben’s eagerness to cut things off as a sign that he had something to hide.
There was another reason Ben was nervous: He had not been totally truthful. In fact, he’d lied twice. The first deliberate lie had been when Ben said that Satoshi Machita had given him his home address, and the second had been that he had no idea how Satoshi had found the property.
At that point, one of the Bergen County police had come out of the building and rapped on Tom’s passenger-side window. Tom had gotten out of the car, allowing Ben to turn and acknowledge the thin, bespectacled man sitting in his backseat. For a moment their eyes locked but no words were spoken. The situation did not encourage small talk. Five minutes later Tom climbed back into the car. As soon as he’d slammed the door shut, he went back to his questioning.
“Now, I’ve been told you did go into the house.”