by Robin Cook
“I understand your problem,” Jack said. “But we have a conundrum here. At this point, if Caitlin were to leave, I truly don’t know what we would do.”
“God!” Laurie ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t need this added stress right now.”
“If you want me to tell Dorothy to go, I can do it,” Jack said. “I’ll be my normal diplomatic self.”
“No, I don’t want that,” Laurie said. “All right, I’ll give the idea of making a suggestion to her some serious thought.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “You do that. Meanwhile, I’m going to go out and play some basketball and blow off some steam.”
“Oh, please!” Laurie said, her irritation returning. “Must you? We’d also be in serious difficulty if you were to mess up your good knee or the one that has already been operated on. It’s selfish of you not to consider what it would do to the family if you get injured, Jack. I don’t want you playing stupid pickup street basketball. It’s childish and not worth the risk.”
With a certain amount of disbelief, Jack stared at Laurie. His response to this new demand and put-down of his favorite pastime was similar to how he had felt back in her office when she mentioned she didn’t like his bike riding and wanted him to stop. He had always thought that she understood his need for strenuous physical activity. It was his way of dealing with the demons that had been unleashed with the death of his first family.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Jack said. He controlled his anger with some difficulty. “But I feel differently, and I’m going out to play basketball.” That said, he turned around and headed for the stairs leading up to their bedroom to change into his gear.
7
MONDAY, 7:31 P.M.
Jack always enjoyed a sense of anticipation prior to getting into a neighborly game of b-ball, but tonight it was particularly satisfying. After the interactions with Emma, with Dorothy, and finally with Laurie, he needed to clear his mind, and in his estimation, there was no better way than a good run. People who didn’t play the sport had no idea. Jack was convinced that in the hour and a half that he generally played, every muscle he had, and a few he didn’t know he had, got called upon. And then there was the unique sense of satisfaction after making a basket. Jack always knew if his shot was going in the moment the ball left his hand. And when it did go in, there was a kind of thrill that was almost erotic. At one point in the past, soon after he and Laurie had started seeing each other on a personal level, Jack had tried to explain it all to her, but he’d quickly given up. It had been obvious that she didn’t believe him and thought he was romanticizing the experience.
Emerging onto his stoop, Jack looked over at the playground. As late as it was, he was concerned about how long it might take him to get into the game. It was a complicated system. The games were to eleven, with each basket counting one point. The winning team stayed on the court, and the next challenging team was selected by the individual who had established the right to play next. As a decent player, Jack was frequently chosen, particularly by Warren Wilson, who was the best player.
It was at that moment that Jack’s mobile phone rang. Since he had again forgotten to take the ringtone off Alarm, the fire truck noise made him jump until he realized what it was. He pulled the phone out to look at the screen. He was afraid it was going to be Laurie, continuing her lecture. But it wasn’t Laurie. To Jack’s relief, it was the virologist, Dr. Aretha Jefferson. Jack quickly answered.
“Hello, Dr. Stapleton,” Aretha said cheerfully. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad moment, but I wanted to check and see if you were going to be playing ball tonight.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Jack said. “You caught me on my way over to the playground.”
“Wonderful,” Aretha said. “What do you think of my coming by this evening?”
Jack went up on his tiptoes and scanned the crowd over at the court. “It looks like a rather popular night, so it might take some time to get in a game. I’m sure you know the usual street rules.”
“I do indeed,” Aretha assured him. “I’m willing to be patient.”
“Then come on over,” Jack said. “I’ll introduce you around. I’m sure when they hear you played college ball at UConn you’ll get in a game at some point.”
“Thank you,” Aretha said. “See you in ten minutes or so. I’m already in my kicks.”
Sensing that the woman was about to hang up, Jack added, “What’s the scoop with the viral samples?” He was surprised she’d not mentioned the test results.
“Let’s just say it’s interesting,” Aretha said. “I’ll explain it more when I see you.” She disconnected.
As Jack crossed the street he pondered Aretha’s word choice. Interesting was hardly the description he’d expected. What he gathered was that she wasn’t finished, even though some four hours had passed. That in itself was unusual, or so he thought. The problem was that he wasn’t as conversant with rapid tests for viruses as he should have been. With the accelerated advance of molecular biology, the laboratory testing capabilities were in a constant state of change.
It was definitely crowded when Jack arrived courtside. But he was in luck. Warren Wilson had gotten out earlier than usual and had secured “winners” for the very next game. And hoping Jack might appear, he had left one of his slots open. Jack was more than happy to accept, especially since the other players on the pickup team included Flash, David, and last, Spit, whose sobriquet was based on one of his less endearing habits.
As they waited for the current game to be over, Warren asked how things were going at home, since two days ago Jack had asked if he could sleep on Warren’s couch if things ever got intolerable with the in-law. “So-so,” Jack said, but didn’t elaborate.
Aretha Jefferson showed up before Jack got into the game so that he could introduce her to a number of the regular players, but particularly to Warren and Flash. They were the two most important male personalities in the neighborhood and on the playground. Aretha’s outfit and ability to talk the talk suggested she was an accomplished player, and she was well received, including by the three relatively new female players who consistently showed up. With the males it was a help that Aretha had a killer body, the female equivalent to Warren’s, whose physique put all the other men to shame. Jack was confident she’d get into a game. From then on, her general acceptance for future participation would be up to her skill level.
As the current game neared completion and Jack prepared to get out on the court, Aretha pulled him aside. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t call you this afternoon as I promised. I wanted to wait until I had more information. I ran all the rapid tests for viruses on your samples right away after you dropped them off. All of the tests were negative for virus, and that included all the usual culprits, as well as the new guys on the block like MERS, SARS, and bird flu.”
“I don’t believe it,” Jack said. He let out a breath that sounded like a balloon deflating. Once again, the subway death was thwarting and surprising him. “Are you sure it wasn’t influenza?”
“I know you suspected it would be,” Aretha said. “So I didn’t call you with the first round of results. Instead, I ran the tests again, which required a bit of overtime. But it was the same outcome. To be specific, it looks like it’s not influenza. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, it’s not influenza,” Jack said reluctantly. “So it’s not a typical viral pathogen. But do you think a virus could still be involved?” The more he’d thought about the possibility of a weird graft-versus-host rejection phenomena, the less probable he considered it. It just didn’t happen with a solid organ like a heart. There weren’t enough immune cells. It had to be an infectious process.
“Of course an unknown virus could be involved. I suppose it is not totally out of the question that it could also be a totally new strain of influenza. The rapid tests are very specific. That’s the re
ason I inoculated the tissue cultures I mentioned. I’ll be watching them over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If there is a virus, there will be a cytotoxic reaction. Cells will die. I’ll let you know the moment I see anything suggestive.”
“If it shows a virus is present, how do you figure out which one it is?”
“We have some tricks,” Aretha assured him. “I’ll fill you in if and when we get to that point.”
“Thank you, Aretha,” Jack said. “I really appreciate your personal attention to this.”
“You are most welcome, Dr. Stapleton. And thank you for introducing me around here on the playground. I’m sure I am going to enjoy the experience. And now let’s see what you’ve got. Word is that you aren’t bad for a white boy, so good luck in your upcoming game.” She laughed and fist-bumped with Jack before he trotted out onto the court.
8
TUESDAY, 4:45 A.M.
Jack’s eyes popped open, and despite it being pitch black in the room and outside the window, he knew instantly that any more sleep was out of the question. His mind was in turmoil with a mélange of Emma, Dorothy, and the subway-death conundrum. Being careful not to awaken Laurie, he slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. Since Laurie was the opposite of the morning person that Jack was, they had designed their bedroom such that Jack could go from the bathroom directly into their dressing room without having to return to the bedroom.
It didn’t take long for Jack to shave, shower, and dress. It was a little after five when he soundlessly descended the stairs to the kitchen/family room. At this point he wasn’t worried about disturbing Laurie. Nor was he concerned about waking the kids or Caitlin. It was Dorothy he was terrified of rousing. He knew she was a poor sleeper and would occasionally wander around in the dark like a specter. He was relieved when he didn’t see her. Already on two occasions he’d had to face her early in the morning when he’d made himself coffee and a bit of breakfast. Fearing it would happen again, Jack skipped the breakfast idea and continued down the second flight. The closer he got to the guest room door, the more catlike he became. Exiting the apartment, he closed the door as quietly as he could. With the final loud click, he winced and then descended the rest of the stairs quickly, worried that she might call out his name.
By the time Jack got his bike out of the storeroom, he found himself irritated all over again about Dorothy’s continued presence. He was not confident in the slightest that Laurie would do anything about it, despite their discussion the previous evening. They had talked again after his b-ball playing. All he could hope for was that she’d have a real talk with Caitlin, because the only thing Jack was absolutely certain about was that they could not afford to lose the nanny at this point. Maybe once Emma’s diagnosis was firmly established, as there was some disagreement, and a plan of action conceived and started, they might be in a better position. There was just too much up in the air at the moment.
Once he was on the bike, particularly when he reached the park and the wind was whistling in his helmet, Jack began to calm down. Instinctively he knew he had to leave the home problems at home, since they were not something his surgical personality could fix. He was also enough of a realist to fully comprehend that he could not metamorphose into a house husband. The requirements were simply beyond his current ken. Instead, he had to concentrate on the frustrating subway death, and as he shot along West Drive with a handful of other cyclists, he began to plan his day.
As Jack continued to pedal furiously, he found himself smiling. He could tell that his presence irritated the other bikers, who were all very serious. They were all decked out in biker’s gear, with special shoes and skintight shorts and tops in wildly bright colors, with European advertisements plastered on the arms and bodices. In contrast, Jack wore a leather bomber jacket with unstylish jeans and tennis shoes. But what annoyed them was that Jack was keeping up with them, despite his lack of appropriate apparel, and even pushing them to greater effort, especially on the uphill sections.
Jack exited the park at its southeast corner, cycling past the recently regilded statue of William Tecumseh Sherman. From there he rode over to Second Avenue before turning again to the south. Although Jack used to challenge taxis with an apparent death wish, he’d matured enough over the years not to do that anymore. Though he still weaved in and out of the traffic, allowing him to travel considerably faster than the cars, buses, and trucks, he no longer tempted fate. He even found it relaxing enough that he had a chance to think about his day. What he decided was to take a “paper day,” meaning he would not do any autopsies. Since he did many more autopsies than all the other MEs and rarely asked for a paper day, he knew it would not be a problem. His plan was to concentrate on the subway death. What he didn’t know was that by doing so, he would be facing more surprises.
Since it was so early and he was famished, Jack stopped at a bagel shop between 39th and 38th Streets and had a bagel smeared with cream cheese and piled with lox and sliced red onions. By the time he got down to the area where the two OCME buildings were located, it was still just after six A.M. Knowing that neither Vinnie nor Dr. Jennifer Hernandez, the current on-duty ME, would be available at 520, meaning there would be no fresh coffee and Jack wouldn’t be able to request his paper day, he continued all the way down to the 421 high-rise. He’d not heard from any MLI, despite having asked Bart to be sure he got called when the subway death case had been identified. But he wasn’t surprised. Requests that required word of mouth often got messed up.
The building seemed deserted as Jack rode up in an empty elevator. The only person Jack had seen was the security guard at the front desk, who’d looked at Jack with surprise when Jack had gone through the turnstile. When Jack got off on the notoriously busy fifth floor, he didn’t see a soul. It took a bit of effort to find Janice Jaeger, the lone night-shift medical-legal investigator, in the canteen along with the night-shift Communications person.
“Dr. Stapleton!” Janice called out with surprise when she caught sight of Jack. “What on earth are you doing here so early?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Jack quipped. Professionally, he knew Janice very well. She was one of the most skilled and reliable MLIs. She and Jack had worked many cases together, and Jack knew that he could always count on her to do an extremely thorough job.
Guiltily, the woman from Communications got up as Jack sat down. She returned to her station.
“Busy night?” Jack asked.
“No, it’s been very light,” Janice said. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about a case I processed yesterday afternoon,” Jack explained.
“Is this the subway death?” Janice asked, with no other provocation.
“Exactly,” Jack said. “I was supposed to be called when she was identified.”
“So I heard,” Janice said. “When I came on duty, the evening people told me.”
“Don’t tell me there’s still no ID.”
“Apparently not.”
“That’s incredible,” Jack said. “Bart was so sure there’d be a call. It was a young woman, well dressed. She even had a coat from Bergdorf’s that I’d probably have to take out a mortgage to buy.”
Janice laughed and then shrugged. “What can I say. Maybe she’s from out of town and here on her own.”
“I suppose,” Jack said, even though his intuition was telling him something else. How many people from out of town rode the R train from Brooklyn? The answer was zilch, in his estimation.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help. If a call had come in, I was prepared to do some footwork for you. But there was nothing.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He wondered how the hell he was going to use the case as a diversion from his own domestic problems if he couldn’t learn anything about it.
“What did she die of?”
“Some sort of an acute pulmonary problem,�
� Jack said. “My first fear was it was a new lethal strain of influenza, reminiscent of the infamous influenza pandemic of 1918. And it looked like it could be influenza grossly, but it wasn’t. The samples all tested negative.”
“A call will most likely come in today,” Janice said encouragingly.
“What time does Bart usually get here?”
“Early. He’s always the first day person to arrive. He’s usually here between six forty-five and seven o’clock. Should I ask him to give you a call?”
“It’s not necessary unless there’s an ID,” Jack said. “I’ll be back over here to talk with Sergeant Murphy and Hank Monroe at some point. We’ve got a body in the cooler who is certainly not a homeless person. It’s their job to figure out who the hell it is. I’ll stop in to see Bart at that point.”
* * *
—
Jack left 421 and rode his bike up to 520. By the time he had it stored in its usual location it was going on seven. Since he knew there was one person who made it a point to come in early every morning to avoid traffic, Jack headed up to the sixth floor. The person he wanted to see was John DeVries, toxicologist extraordinaire. There had been a time when Jack had first joined the staff that John DeVries, the Toxicology head, had been a major problem for him. The man was a bear to get along with, and he took forever to produce the data that was sorely needed in so many of Jack’s cases. The explanation for both problems was simple. Toxicology was crammed into a space that was far too small—the director’s private office literally had been a broom closet—and the department’s budget was totally inadequate for the key role it was expected to play.
