Nothing calls out for him to be here. Nothing except the body that lies slumped on the Persian carpet in front of the piano. Ravaged in a way that leaves him speechless, dumbfounded, Irina Malekoviec’s face is frozen in a perpetual state of shock and anguish. Large blotchy areas of hemorrhaging cover her arms, neck, and face, yet not a drop of blood is anywhere to be seen.
Kennedy kneels down for a closer look. The whites of her eyes are clear and despite all the hemorrhages, her windpipe intact. That rules out strangulation. His eyes run down Irina’s body, cloaked in a classic burgundy dress few women wear today. No signs of an entrance or exit wound either. What the hell could cause so much damage without her spilling a drop? he wonders. Only a couple of weeks removed from losing his partner, Chris Ravello, Kennedy feels the loss acutely. This is the detective’s first new case since his partner’s resignation, and he intends to work it alone, no matter how bizarre the circumstances. The hemorrhages are what pulled the Division of Medical Crimes, DMC for short, onto this case. But ten plus years on the job do little to enlighten Detective Kennedy as to their cause.
Kennedy sighs. Chris would know what to make of this, but that ship has sailed. He has his own problems to deal with right now.
“First case you’re Acting Chief, right?” a junior Crime Scene Unit officer asks with a nod. “What do you make of it?”
Kennedy continues his survey of the body, then lifts the vic’s dress. The same damn blotchy bruising runs up and down both her legs. The burly detective looks around the living room, intent on finding the murder weapon.
“Not sure, Joe. How are you guys making out?”
“Just about done.” He holds up a plastic bag with Irina’s appointment book. “Just finished dusting this. Wanna look?”
Kennedy nods toward the CSU officer as he begins examining Irina’s mangled fingers. Without so much as a glance toward the officer, Kennedy extends his hand in frustration. “What the hell, seems like as good a place to start as any.”
Chapter 12
Kev and I sit at a corner table at Peekskill Brewery. During spring and summer this place is teeming with patrons anxious for their fill. But with the start of winter just around the corner, the crowd is sparse, making it a good place for us to grab a quick meal and catch up. In between bites of a burger, I pick at my sweet potato fries while Kennedy makes short work of his spicy buffalo chicken wings.
“So, Chief, how’s everything going at the DMC since my sudden and illustrious departure?” I say with a wry smile as I down a local brew.
Mouth stuffed with chicken meat, Kennedy spits the words out. “It’s a fuckin’ mess, Chris.”
“How so?” I ask, surprised.
“For starters, Kelly never even mentioned you leaving the force.” Kennedy finishes chewing and clears his throat. He raises a mammoth hand to his face and pours down the remnants of his beer. “Just waltzed in, anointed me Acting Chief, and took off. All the guys were looking at each other like ‘What the fuck?’”
I let out an involuntary laugh and shake my head. “Wish I could say I’m surprised, but we both know communication skills were never the commissioner’s strong suit.”
“Damn straight on that,” Kev grumbles. “Least he could have given me a heads up, so I didn’t look like a clueless moron.”
“Which, of course, you were at that point....” I say with a broad smile and a shrug of my shoulders.
Kev gives me a stone-cold, killer stare—then roars with laughter as he smacks my shoulder. “Why the hell should that day have been different than any other?”
“Why indeed?” I reply as I rub my shoulder and wonder if I’ll ever regain feeling in that arm.
Kev and I spend the next few minutes busting on each other. Epithets such as McMoron and Guinea Bastard fly back and forth, giving testament to just how mature and racially sensitive two grown men bonding over beers can be. Eventually, we corral our sideshow and get back on topic.
“Seriously, though, Chris,” Kennedy says with concern. “I’m in way over my head as chief.” Weariness, then playful optimism washes over Kev. “We sure as hell could use a chief with some medical know-how. It is the Division of Medical Crimes for Christ’s sake. Know anyone?”
An amused smile fills my face. “There is this one guy. Smart as a whip. But... not terribly reliable,” I laugh. “First, he bailed on a cush job as an NYC trauma surgeon, then he washed out of the detective biz after solving exactly one case.” I hold up my index finger. “One case! Pretty hopeless fuck-up, if you ask me.”
“Hmmm, sounds like our kinda guy. He’d fit right in with the DMC.”
I lean back and nod my head a few times, trying not to reflect on all that has gone wrong the last few weeks. “So... working any interesting cases these days?” I regret the words immediately.
Kev nods back as awkwardness fills the space between us. We’re no longer partners, no longer professional confidantes. Discussing an active investigation with me defies all police protocol.
We were never much on protocol.
“As a matter of fact, just caught a strange one earlier today....”
Kev fills me in on the details of the middle-aged, Russian piano teacher’s death. I nod as my mind churns through the details of the case. I would love to offer my friend guidance, but short of examining the body, it would be pointless speculation. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, but McGowan ought to point you in the right direction.”
Kev nods his head. “As long as she waters it down,” he replies with a sarcastic smile, “and doesn’t go all doctorly on me.” Kev’s voice fills with caution and concern. “Say, what’s going on with your situation?”
I shake my head. “Still a mess. Had a full-blown attack on Christine’s birthday that scared the shit out of all of us, so back to Jacobs.”
“What’d he say? Can he help?”
I sip my beer and stare out the window. An old, green Cadillac pulls into the parking lot across the street. A rueful smile fills my face as a middle-aged, African-American couple and their kids spill out, hurrying into Home Style bakery for some decadence. I take a quick, involuntary breath, letting it out slowly as I turn back to Kennedy.
“Guess I’ll find out tomorrow; he’s got an experimental treatment lined up for me.”
Kennedy’s face scrunches up like a Shar-Pei. “What? Wait... tomorrow? You’re kidding, right?”
I wince, realizing I hurt him by not sharing sooner. “Uh, yeah. But it’s no big deal, just—”
“Experimental is never ‘no big deal,’ bud.” Kev takes on a pensive pose. “You should’ve told me soon—aw forget it. What time’s the treatment? I wanna be there.”
I start to object but Kennedy’s dark, brooding eyes bore through me. Different eyes, same disapproving look. Michelle’s look. I shake my head. Seeing her everywhere is both agonizing and comforting.
I smile back at my dear friend as I rise from my chair and throw thirty bucks on the table. “Ten a.m. at Washington General in the minor procedure area. Jacob’s office can fill you in on the details.” Kennedy rises. We look at each other, then shake hands and exchange an awkward hug.
As I head out to the car, thoughts of Michelle and the kids swirl around in my head. Fate has been beyond cruel to all of us. Cold air gusts off the Hudson, stinging my face as I climb into the Firebird. Sitting in the car, I stare into the dark, gloomy night and face the sobering truth Kennedy and I left unspoken—tomorrow will either put my life back on track or finish me off for good.
Chapter 13
“Dat’s real fine ’is first treatment was so good, Shanny dear. But dat don’t give ’im a job or a college education for God’s sake...” Kerline shakes her head in frustration as she stirs the solution in the flask before her. “Yes, I know ’e’s trying real hard, lassie, but trying, it don’t pay the bills. You got your whole life stretched ’head of you, don’t be drowing it away on the likes of ’im.” Todd casts a sympathetic look Kerline’s way. She catches his
eye, repeatedly firing a pretend gun at her pretty Jamaican head. “Look, sweetie, momma got to get back to work now. We talk it out over dinner. Just you and me, no Jamal. You ’ear me?”
Todd glides over to provide moral support as Kerline slides the phone into her purse. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, Kerline.”
Exasperated, she shakes her head and wipes tears from the corners of her eyes. “Like watching a slow motion replay of de worse damn dings I ever done, ’cept Shanteel is playing me part.”
Todd puts his hands on the sides of her shoulders and rests his head against hers. “It could always be worse. Hang in there, sister, it’ll get better.”
Kerline grunts dismissively, “Oh yay? You gonna get rid of dat boy for Kerline... ’fore me daughter finds out de ’ard way what being nineteen, wid child, and all alone is about?”
Todd scrunches his nose and stares straight ahead. Guess they don’t bother much with platitudes in Jamaica. “Wait, I’m confused. Jamal? Same Jamal who’s one dose into Doctor Hyslop’s treatment protocol?”
Kerline dabs her eyes again. “Yes, and dat dere’s on me. I wanted Shanteel to feel me love and support for dat stupid boy a ’ers.” Kerline roars with laughter. “A girl ’er age; ain’t no better reason to dump a boy dan ’er momma approving of ’im.” Her face turns deadly serious. “Shanny don’t need to know ’er momma’d love to kill dat boyfriend of ’ers with me own ’ands. You know what dat boy done?”
Now perplexed. “Uh, no, what?”
“’e been stepping out on poor Shanny.” Kerline shakes her head. “Even got ’nother girl pregnant, den talked ’er into getting rid a de baby.”
“Oh gosh, that’s terrible. So if Shanny knows this why wouldn’t she break it off with him?”
Kerline’s voice booms. “’e got dat silly Shanteel convinced, man, de diabetes was de only ding messing ’im up, ’olding ’is scrawny ass back.” She scoffs, “Wasn’t no diabetes dat made ’is momma a crackhead, ’is daddy a bum.” Her voice grows louder. “No sir! Wasn’t no diabetes told ’im to step out on me girl or dat digging ditches is better dan going to college.” Her anger spills over, the last few words spit out with disgust and disdain. “Now ’e done got ’er believin’ in ’im, and in us being one big, ’appy family.”
“I see.” Todd gives Kerline a big hug then pulls back and smiles at her. “You and I sure have been through it, huh girl?” He shakes his head as he reminisces, “I thought the worse was behind us when we brought you over from that pig Gorelick’s practice.” He rubs her upper arms encouragingly. “But I guess there’s a little more to get through.”
Kerline laughs. “Sorry to go all Island-crazy on you, man. You a doll for listenin’ to me ranting, but don’t you go worrying ’bout Kerline. Dat Jamal, ’e just a boy, and dat Gorelick, well ’e gonna get what coming to ’im real soon. Me sure of it.” Kerline makes a shooting motion with her hands. “POW, POW!” A grim look of satisfaction fills her face as she blows imaginary smoke from the tip of her make-believe gun. “Den Shanny and me, we finally ’ave some peace again.”
Chapter 14
Coming home usually conjures up warm and fuzzy memories. Bygone days of innocence and ease. Reconnecting with loved ones in a familiar, comforting setting.
Not so for today’s homecoming.
Clothed in a standard-issue hospital gown that leaves me vulnerable and exposed, I am lying out on a stretcher, staring at drab gray walls that insidiously suck away my life force. Decades-old fluorescent lights buzz ominously overhead like vultures circling carrion. I lie here in the belly of the beast, the institution that reared me, the place I watched my mother rally from a coma last fall only to succumb to her own miracle cure minutes later. Would Washington General be any kinder to me today? Was my treatment a panacea or would it be death by lethal injection?
“...So you sign right here, Chris, then we can get started. Chris? Did you hear what I said?” Jacobs stands before me, trying to mask his annoyance, pen poised for me to sign my life away.
“Huh?” I look to Dad and Kennedy, huddled together like misbehaving school boys banished to the corner. Back to Jacobs. “Uh, sure. Sign right here?”
“Yes.” Jacobs looks on as I sign and Dad serves as a witness. “I’ll be back in a minute with the nurse. Sit tight.” I nod. As if there’s anything else to do.
Kennedy looks around the room at the monitors and instruments, at the IV emanating from my arm. His eyes and mine meet and before he looks away, I see a glimpse of the rarest of Kennedy’s emotions—fear. Next to me are two small Mayo stands, the kind used in the operating room to hold instruments. The first Mayo is empty except for a solitary ten milliliter syringe holding a green-tinged solution and an alcohol pad. The second holds a half dozen other syringes, all dutifully labeled and organized, and filled with powerful medications to alter blood pressure and heart rate and treat seizures. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, doing my best to quell a sense of foreboding.
“Looks like you’re in good hands, Chris,” Kennedy says with feigned conviction as I finally turn away from the syringes. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
Dad’s eyes dart from Kennedy to me. “What’d Jacobs say to expect?”
I swallow. “Could be a rough ride. Won’t know till he injects me.” We nod our heads in communal resignation. Kennedy fidgets his fingers as Dad rubs the back of his neck. I sit up and stare at the door, wishing this was already over.
Jacobs and his nurse march into the room, startling us. “All right, let’s get started.” Jacobs tears open the alcohol pad and wipes down the area of my IV he will use to deliver the solution. His nurse stands by the other Mayo stand as Jacobs uncaps the syringe and taps it, driving out the air bubbles. I eye him warily as Jacobs glances at me before settling in on his nurse. “First treatments are unpredictable; let’s be ready for anything.” Gee, thanks for the last minute pep talk. Ever thought about becoming a motivational speaker?
Jacobs pierces the tubing with his needle, injecting the medicine bit by bit. One milliliter. Two. I brace for the worse, squeezing the metal railings. He stares at the monitors above me, his face impassive, even cold. Three milliliters, then four. Nothing. Absolutely no eff—SHIT!
The monitor’s alarm screams. My heart pounds against my chest as if trying to burst free.
“His blood pressure is 200/120, Doctor.”
“I can see that, Nurse. Labetalol, please. No one’s stroking out on my watch.”
Dad’s face fills with horror as the color drains from Kennedy’s.
“What the fu—?...can’t breathe... chest killing me...”
Jacobs pulls the first syringe out of my IV and empties the second into it in one push.
Feeling light-headed, dizzy. Vision is fuzzy... fading. Searing pain in my right eye and face. Oh God! “Aaarrggh!”
My entire body is on fire, sweat pouring out of me as I hear Jacobs bark orders and push meds. It’s no use... this is not going to end well.
Then it happens.
The pain eases. My sight returns.
“BP is 160/95 and dropping. Pulse is 120 and regular. O2 saturation is—”
“I can read the damn monitors myself, Nurse!” Jacobs’ eyes bore through them as he brings me back from the edge. “That’s it. Steady, steady. Shit! BP’s bottoming out now... O2 levels are dropping. Quick, give me the Epi.”
Oh God, gonna be sick. I try to hold it in, but to no avail, as the contents of my stomach splatter on Jacobs and me.
Twenty harrowing minutes later, empty syringes littering the trays, my gown soaked and reeking, Jacobs has finally done it. He’s pulled me through.
Jacobs rubs his hands against his shirt and tie and straightens his soiled lab coat. “You had us worried, Chris.” He calls Dad and Kennedy over and addresses the three of us. “Gentlemen, it may seem like the worst is over, but the next twenty-four hours are critical if we’re to cure Chris.” He clears his throat and gathers himself. “We’ll be running
Chris through a battery of tests to measure his response to the treatment, and Doctor Hyslop and I will confer so he can refine his formulation prior to Chris’ next dose.”
“No disrespect, Doc, but shouldn’t we maybe hold off on a second dose?” Kennedy glances at me. “Seems like Chris had an awfully hard time pulling through. Maybe we shouldn’t push our luck right now?”
Dad nods in agreement.
“I understand your concern, Detective, and the decision is of course entirely Chris’ to make. But you must realize this: we’re at a crossroads where there’s no turning back. Due to its immunologic nature, the timing of treatments is critical.”
Dad and Kennedy stare blankly back at Jacobs, prompting me to intervene.
“You wouldn’t get a flu shot in the middle of the summer— its effect would be lost before flu season kicked in. It’s the same idea here.”
Dad chimes in, “Makes sense,” as Kennedy nods in agreement.
“I would take your analogy a step further, Chris. This treatment imprints itself on the recipient’s immune system in ways we don’t even fully understand, so the spacing of treatments is absolutely critical for their success. Mistime a treatment by even a day or two, and we will likely lose the opportunity to cure you.”
“You mean, like, forever?” Kennedy asks.
“Yes, forever.”
My eyes dart from Kev’s to Dad’s. I am weary, spent, but resolved.
Dad starts to object but I wave him off. The time for heated discussion is over. This disease will neither control nor define me. The cure is my last and only hope for a normal life, a life in which I love, support, and enjoy Christine and James the way I am meant to. I’ll accept whatever risks I need to take to be whole again. Bowing my head, I close my eyes for a moment, then turn to Jacobs. “Understood, Doctor. Let’s press on.”
Forbidden Cure Part One Page 3
