Death Benefit

by Robin Cook

  As they removed their protective clothing they didn’t talk. Emerging back into the lab, they detoured to Pia’s small office for Marsha’s benefit. Pia had said she was there for some personal items so it was a command performance. As per usual, O’Meary was still there, half up in Pia’s ceiling space. He poked his head down when he heard the students enter.

  “Miss Grazdani, you back? My God. What happened to your face?”

  Pia said nothing.

  “Good news. I found the short after all this time. It was between here and the doctor’s office. We’ll be out of here today. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

  Pia ignored him.

  “Is that one of those Geiger counters?”

  “We did some radioisotope labeling in here,” Pia said. “We’re just checking the place is clean. Which it is.”

  “How does that thing work, then?”

  “Look it up online. Like I did.”

  It made George uncomfortable that Pia was being so short with this guy. As his family was blue-collar, George felt a kinship with people like maintenance workers.

  Disappointed at not finding any contamination in the biosafety unit, Pia was beginning to feel a big letdown. Yet there was one other place she wanted to check: Rothman’s office. Besides the biosafety unit and the organ bath unit, that was the only other place where both Rothman and Yamamoto spent any time. The problem was Marsha and her guard-dog mentality. Even with Rothman gone, she suspected Marsha would be Marsha.

  As Pia and George returned to the lab proper, Pia was running through her mind possible ways to handle Marsha. Luckily the problem solved itself. Marsha was no longer sitting at her desk. Pia guessed and hoped she’d taken a late lunch like Spaulding.

  With Marsha no longer standing guard, Pia and George hustled into Rothman’s inner office. Inside, there had obviously been some packing going on because scattered around were open cardboard boxes half full of books and papers. Pia ran the probe around the desk, the shelving behind the desk, the couch, and the coffee table where Rothman’s guests, usually journalists, would sit and hope that they would be the one to breach Rothman’s famous guard. They were inevitably disappointed. Next they tried Rothman’s private bathroom, which his celebrity status had afforded him; no other lab had a bathroom like this. But the Geiger counter stayed mostly silent except for the background crackle, just like in the biosafety unit.

  Pia almost forgot about it but there was one more room—not so much a room as a storage area, where Rothman used to keep supplies scientific and secretarial. The place was stacked with toilet paper and paper towels, cases of beakers and test tubes, reams of paper, and old files. And here also was Rothman’s beloved Nespresso machine. Well, maybe, thought Pia. Just maybe.

  There were a few wayward clicks from the Geiger counter next to the coffee and cappuccino maker that made Pia’s pulse pick up speed. Next to the coffeemaker was a dish towel, folded in half and carefully spread out in a small space between the coffeemaker and the coffee fixings themselves. The towel was supporting four white porcelain coffee cups: two espresso size and two regular size. They were sitting upside down. There were a few more clicks as Pia ran the probe over the bottom of the two regular coffee cups. Then she held the counter in her left hand and turned the cups over. She put the probe into one cup, then another. There was definite activity. It wasn’t off the chart but there was more activity in the cups than in the rest of the lab.

  “They got Litvinenko with his tea,” Pia said excitedly. “Maybe they used the coffee here. It would explain how they both got hit at the same time and no one else was affected.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much radiation. You think it’s significant?”

  “It’s not much, but it is registering alpha particles. The cups were probably washed but there’s still something left. Anyway it’s definitely significant. Let’s get out of here.”

  Pia took one of the coffee cups and held it gingerly by the handle. She took a padded envelope, slipped the cup inside, and put it in the reusable shopping bag in which she’d brought the Geiger counter.

  George and Pia reversed their steps and emerged into the main part of the lab. Unfortunately they were in for a surprise. Marsha had apparently not gone for a late lunch, and Spaulding had returned from his. Both of them, with indignant expressions, blocked their way. Spaulding in particular had his hands on his hips and glared at Pia. “How dare you!” he said haughtily. “I told you not to come back here. And what are you doing with that?” He pointed at the Geiger counter.

  Pia motioned for George to follow her. Her intention was not to engage them in conversation. She started to skirt Spaulding, but he grabbed her arm. Protectively, George moved to get in between them.

  “It’s all right, George,” Pia said in a calm voice. “Arthur, let go of my arm or I’ll file a complaint with the medical center authorities for sexual harassment.”

  Spaulding let go of Pia’s arm. “Whose Geiger counter is that? Does it belong to this lab?” He was sputtering.

  “Don’t worry, Arthur, we signed it out from the appropriate department.”

  “But what are you using it for in my lab? I demand you tell me.”

  “It’s a bullshit detector, Arthur. Oh, look.” Pia held the sensor up to Arthur’s face and it crackled with its background noise. “It appears to be working just fine after all.”

  Pia pushed past Spaulding and shot Marsha an indifferent look before leaving the office.

  44.

  COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER

  NEW YORK CITY

  MARCH 25, 2011, 2:48 P.M.

  George was relieved to get away from Spaulding and the lab unscathed and hoped their trespass wouldn’t be communicated to Bourse. He hustled to catch up with Pia and found her waiting for an elevator.

  “Third strike you’re out with that guy, and you’re at oh-and-two. Now you really should stay away from him.”

  “That’s okay,” said Pia, “I have no reason to go back to the lab. We picked up some clicks from the coffee cups, but it was hardly what I was hoping for. I don’t know if that’s going to be conclusive enough. We need more evidence.”

  “I was worried you were going to challenge Spaulding about the freezer log.”

  “I thought of it. He’s such an ass. He has no authority to bar me from anywhere. I have no idea if what we found in the storage facility has any relevance whatsoever. If someone used a sample of salmonella from the freezer to infect Rothman and Yamamoto, there’s no way we’re really going to know.”

  “So do you really think Spaulding had something to do with Rothman’s death?”

  “If he did, he was a very small part of something larger. He’s not smart enough to think that up all by himself.”

  Pia thought about what that might imply, about who might possibly be involved if there was a broad conspiracy. If Spaulding had been recruited, anyone could be a threat to her, a thought that made her shudder. She felt extraordinarily vulnerable, as much as or more than anytime during her childhood. As difficult as it was, she just had to keep her nerve and find some more evidence.

  “George, can I stay in your room tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course you can,” George said. He was pleased she was asking. He only wished the circumstances were different.

  When they reached the street, George expected Pia to head back to the dorm. Instead she accompanied him toward the hospital. It was raining and the wind was blowing sideways. People were moving along with their heads down, collars turned up against the cold.

  “So you’re not satisfied with the readings from the coffee cups?” George said. “You don’t think it’s enough to go to the media with?”

  “I really don’t think so. The few clicks we heard might not be that uncommon. I really don’t know. The cups obviously were rinsed out, I think, but not scrubbed clean. I want to check the infectious disease ward. The killer may have been able to clean up after himself at the lab, but they wouldn
’t have been able to get onto the ward. Unless they have people on a cleaning crew.”

  Which was entirely possible, thought Pia.

  “So that’s where we’re going?” George asked. He checked his watch. He still had time before the lecture he had to attend.

  “Yes.”

  They reached the ward and quickly saw the futility of the mission. There were new patients in the rooms that had been occupied by Rothman and Yamamoto. An infectious disease ward had to be kept spotless because of the nature of the illnesses and infections treated there. The hospital was always aggressive with its general precautions, here even more so.

  After a couple of minutes of scouting around, Pia looked at her watch.

  “We’re wasting our time here. Let’s go back to the morgue.”

  They took the elevator down to the basement this time, taking the approved route. In daytime, there was slightly more activity than they had found on their visit the night before, when the place was presided over by the mortuary diener from central casting. The place itself had gained no luster. Without windows it could be day or night, still bleak and decrepit. There were several quite normal-looking men in their fifties whose job it was to handle the comings and goings of the corpses. They were helpful, seemingly appreciating a visit from live people. Pia and George asked them if they remembered handling Rothman’s and Yamamoto’s bodies. They did, because there had been quite a bit of fuss, including a warning about the possibility of typhoid and instructions about general precautions.

  “We disinfected the body bags on the outside after the bodies were put inside,” the first man explained. “Of course we used full precautions the whole time.”

  Pia and George could see no ID tags on the men and thought it prudent not to offer their own names.

  “So which gurneys did you use? And were they treated afterward?”

  “Sure they were treated,” the man said. “And they’re still where they were treated.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  The attendant took the two students to another old autopsy room. This one had a special ventilation system because it was used for “dirty,” or decomposing, cases. Pia proceeded to run the radiation detector around the gurneys, but she found nothing.

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” the diener asked.

  “One of the patients had had radioactive isotope therapy,” Pia said, thinking quickly. “We want to make sure there wasn’t any leakage. Which there hasn’t been, so thank you.”

  As Pia and George made their way back to the elevator, George complimented Pia on her quick thinking in reference to the radioactive isotope idea.

  “I had to come up with something. Maybe I’ll use the same story when I go to the ME’s office.” Then she added, “Nix that! I couldn’t get away with it with a medical examiner. From the autopsy they would already know neither of the men had cancer.”

  Pia pondered again. “I know. I’ll say that Rothman and Yamamoto were using a radioactive alpha emitter in their research, and we want to be sure they didn’t contaminate themselves with it as well as contracting the salmonella. I’ll tell them that it’s a safety issue.”

  “Sounds good,” said George.

  By now they were inside the hospital lobby.

  “I have to have something to eat before I go downtown. The ME’s office closes at five, I think, but I’m going to faint if I don’t eat something. I don’t even know if I ate anything yesterday. I know I haven’t today. How are you with time?”

  “I’ve got a few more minutes before my lecture.”

  They went to the hospital cafeteria. It was busy, even at off-hours like this, as illness and its treatment didn’t operate on a convenient nine-to-five schedule. Staff, patients, and visitors alike had to grab something to eat when they could. Pia got something substantial while George grabbed a coffee and a cookie.

  “So,” George said, “what about revisiting the idea of going to the police and telling them about the clicks we got with the Geiger counter? I just can’t believe it’s a large conspiracy. Even if it was murder with polonium, I’m sure the explanation is going to be something much more banal. Something we haven’t thought of. I don’t know, perhaps he had gambling debts?”

  “I couldn’t disagree more. If it was polonium, it would have to be a high-level operation of some kind. Polonium is impossible to get. It would mean there would have to have been intense planning for weeks—months, even. There has to be powerful people involved, there has to be. I essentially lived inside a conspiracy for years. I told you, George, if you saw what I’ve seen, you’d know people are capable of anything.”

  George was aware that a couple of other diners, people he didn’t recognize, were looking over at them from other tables. Pia’s makeup couldn’t conceal all her bruises, especially in the harsh fluorescent light of the cafeteria. George leaned in toward her and lowered his voice.

  “So what do you intend to do exactly before you give up on this thing?”

  “There’s only one more place to check for significant radiation—the bodies at the OCME. If there is none or I can’t get in to check, then I’ll give up my investigation. Is that good enough?”

  “How are you going to get in the door at the ME office?” George asked, remembering their conversation the previous evening with the pathology resident.

  “I don’t know that yet,” she said, with a touch of irritation. “If I just tell them what I believe, they’ll think I’m crazy. ‘Remember those research guys from Columbia that were brought in here? Well, I think someone put polonium in their coffee....’ I may go with the alpha particle emitter idea I mentioned. I don’t know. I’ll see how the land lies. I’m just going to have to wing it.”

  “Maybe you should just go and hang out in your room. Hold off on going to the medical examiner’s for today. You’ve been running around like crazy and you got beat up last night, for Christ’s sake. I can’t go with you this afternoon, but perhaps we can go together in the morning?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I have no idea if the ME’s office is even open. I don’t know how long they keep the bodies there, either. I would imagine the office encourages families to arrange to take their relatives to the funeral homes as quickly as possible. Plus, if we go tomorrow, they’re likely to be short-staffed. They’ll probably say, ‘Come back Monday.’ And I just can’t sit around. I have to know.”

  “You’re probably right about Saturdays,” George said. “But—”

  “No, George, I’m going today. You go to class. There’s no way I can get in trouble at the OCME.”

  “You’re very resourceful,” George said with a wry smile.

  Pia ignored the comment. “I’ll leave now. Would you mind hanging on to this coffee cup? I’ll keep the Geiger counter and hope I need it.”

  George took the bag. “Not at all. We’ll meet up as soon as you get back.” He watched a focused Pia leap up and lift her cafeteria tray. “And be careful! Try to stay out of trouble!”

  Pia merely glowered at him before leaving.

  George watched her wend her way among the tables, deposit her tray at the window, and then leave. The idea occurred to him to call the police now that Pia was safely out of sight. But he knew if he did that, whatever the outcome, Pia would never talk to him again. He was certain that she would consider it an act of betrayal.

  Tossing back the remains of his coffee, George got to his feet. At least he was going to be on time for the lecture.

  PART III

  45.

  BELMONT SECTION OF THE BRONX

  NEW YORK CITY

  MARCH 25, 2011, 3:28 P.M.

  Aleksander Buda ended the call on his cell phone and held the device in his hand, then used his spatula-like index finger to tap the end-call button. There was now a problem in an operation that had gone so smoothly up to now, and he hated problems. Problems gave him terrible heartburn. He found the container of different-colored antacid tablets he always carried, took a hand
ful, and chewed them quickly, one after another. Buda was fifty-something—fifty-what he didn’t know for sure, because his family had left Albania with a few pots and pans and a little money but no documentation indicating when he was born. Over time, first in Italy and then in the United States, he had acquired the paper trappings of the immigrant, including a date of birth in 1958, but he had no idea if it was true.

  Buda wasn’t a big man, perhaps five-nine, but he had close-cropped hair with a scar that ran into his hairline on the right side of his broad face and enough prison tattoos on his arms, should he care to show them, to make anyone think twice about approaching him. Buda dressed unobtrusively, today in a tan long-sleeved shirt and jeans and sneakers. One might imagine he actually was a handyman for a group of East Side co-ops, work he showed up for every now and again, rather than what he really was: the head of a crew in the Albanian mob.

  Buda’s crew, or clan, was less hierarchically organized than a Cosa Nostra family, and leadership was often fluid and based strictly on results. Through a combination of caution and brutality, Buda’s power had remained unchallenged for years. The members of the crew shared their compatriot’s reputation for ruthlessness and violence, gained over more than twenty-five years of aggressive criminal activity. The Albanians had come late on the New York scene and they had been keen to make up for lost time. They took low-level positions in Italian organizations only to rise up and challenge the longer-established Mafia stalwarts.

  In Europe, Albanian groups established a strong presence in hard and soft drug trafficking, dominating the heroin trade in many countries, running the raw materials from Afghanistan through Turkey to Albania. Processed heroin and other drugs could then be distributed anywhere in the world, through hubs like the terminals at Port Newark, New Jersey. Heroin was just one business the crews were involved in. They also had interests in such prosaic activities as extortion, loansharking, and illegal gambling. Aleksander Buda had lieutenants working such operations so he could keep a low profile and take on more lucrative projects, such as the one he was working now, the one with a problem.