You are being ridiculous. You’ve come in the middle of the morning. Everyone’s at work, or in classes. That’s why there are no cars here. Or people.
She slowed down when she reached the street. A car drove past her, the driver mouthing the words to a song on his stereo. A cat ran lightly across the front porch of the house and disappeared into the loamy darkness under the stairs.
She climbed into her car and started the engine. With the wheel under her hands, she relaxed. She drove down South Street toward the old train station and pulled over.
Chasing after BioMediSol wasn’t the right way to get to them.
She’d have to get them to chase her.
She sat for ten minutes, thinking. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called directory assistance. Within minutes, she had reserved two meeting rooms at the Marley Hotel for the next evening. She’d stumbled a bit when they asked for the contact name, coming up with the orthopaedic surgeon who was being sued by Brad Gallivant in the TransTissue file. The bar society will really love this one—using the name of a co-defendant to cover up fraud.
She knew she was taking a risk holding the rooms on her credit card, but all she could hope for was that no one at BioMediSol would think to ask.
Then she dialed the business number listed on BioMediSol’s joint stock companies record.
She cursed herself for being a chicken and fleeing Craig Peters’ front doorstep. If she’d stayed here, she might have heard the phone ring.
The line was picked up. She tensed.
“Good morning, BioMediSol, Inc.,” a woman’s voice said.
Kate cleared her throat. “Hello. I am calling from the Surgical Teaching Institute.”
“Yes?” There was a polite hesitation. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that organization.”
So BioMediSol had a keeper at the gate.
“We operate a mobile teaching unit under the auspices of the College of Physicians and Surgeons,” Kate said coolly, grateful for the research she’d done on tissue products to prepare the TransTissue defense. Hopefully it was enough to let her bluff her way through this. “We rotate between all the major teaching hospitals in North America.”
“We’ve never had the College of Physicians and Surgeons request tissue from us before.” The woman sounded both suspicious and yet pleased at the same time.
“We usually get our supply from the medical school inventories. However, in this instance, we had a problem with the refrigeration…” She cleared her throat delicately. “And now we have a session scheduled for the day after tomorrow and we don’t have any—” She was just about to say props. Jesus. That one deserved a smack in the forehead. Think. What did a doctor call them? Arms? Legs? Body parts? “—limbs. Your company was recommended to us by the orthopaedic division of the GH2.”
“I see.” The woman’s voice was definitely warmer. “And how can we help you, Dr….?”
“Dr. Tupper.” Kate paused. Sir Charles Tupper was a great man in Nova Scotia’s history. She prayed he wouldn’t mind her invocation of his name. “I require eight pairs of arms by tomorrow evening so we can set them up for the following day.”
“Tomorrow night?” The woman sounded dismayed. “I’m sorry, Dr. Tupper, but that would be very difficult.”
“Don’t you have any inventory you can draw on? I assure you that you will be well reimbursed for responding on such short notice.”
The woman hesitated. “I’ll do what I can. I think I have seven pairs I can send for sure. I’ll see what I can do about the final pair.”
Kate stared at her hand resting on the steering wheel. How exactly was BioMediSol planning to acquire the final pair?
“Where shall we have these delivered?” the woman asked briskly.
“We have a conference room booked at the Marley.”
“Right. The delivery should arrive by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow evening. You will need to pay in full by certified check at that time.”
“And what is your rate?”
“Fifteen hundred per pair.”
“Fine. Who will be delivering it?” She held her breath.
“Our usual courier. InstantExpress.”
She breathed out slowly. “Thank you. I’ll keep a look out for him.”
“It is a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Tupper.”
* * *
Ethan slowed his car down. Lamond let out a low whistle. “Nice digs.”
“What did you expect? He’s a neurosurgeon.” Ethan climbed out of the unmarked car and studied the house. Dr. Mazerski lived on a beautiful street. One of his favorite streets in the city.
The long avenue followed the curve of the Northwest Arm. Deep blue water danced behind the large, gracious homes. But what really got his attention was the fact that there was a boat ramp just around the corner. The boat ramp that Krissie Burns’s body had been left on.
Built in a nouveau Cape Cod style with pale blue shingles and cream trim, Dr. Mazerski’s house was both elegant and homey. They strode up the long walkway, bordered on each side by masses of yellow and orange tulips. The exuberant display unsettled Ethan. Tulips were Kate’s favorite flowers. She had told him she loved them because every time they bloomed it gave her hope. He’d never really understood what she meant by that.
Lamond pushed the doorbell. A deep chime reverberated through the house. After a moment, the door opened. A woman gazed at them expressionlessly, a young baby sleeping on her shoulder. The baby was so new it was still curled up like a flower bud. The woman’s eyes were deep blue, her skin clear. Clad as she was in lululemon, she would ordinarily fall into the yummy-mummy category. Not today. Her blond hair was lank and carelessly pulled into a ponytail, her eyes puffy and red. A bit of spit-up trailed down her sleeve.
“Mrs. Mazerski?” Ethan asked.
“Dr. Clare. His wife.” She spoke softly but directly. “Who are you?”
“I am Detective Drake from the Halifax Police Department. This is Detective Lamond.”
The sound of running feet caught his ear. He tensed, his eyes searching past her shoulder into the depths of the hall. A little boy darted toward his mother, toy train firmly in hand. He stood next to her. Her sentinel. His brown eyes fixed on Ethan’s.
“We would like to speak to Dr. Mike Mazerski, please.”
She stiffened and put a hand on her son’s tousled head. “He’s not here.”
“Could you tell us where we can find him?” Ethan’s gaze was drawn like a magnet to the little boy. The train had found its way to the child’s mouth. He sucked it softly as he returned Ethan’s look.
“Is my husband in trouble?” Dr. Clare’s gaze swung from his face to Lamond’s. “What happened in the O.R. wasn’t his fault.”
“We have some questions for him,” Ethan said.
“You’re too late, Detective.” The muscles in her face tightened until her lips quivered. “He was admitted to hospital this morning.” The little boy threw his mother an alarmed look. He leaned against her leg.
Pain. Grief. Despair. They were written plainly all over Dr. Clare’s face. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and straightened. “I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this.” She nodded toward the baby. “It’s the hormones…”
The baby shifted slightly, as if it had a bit of gas, burrowing its downy head into her shoulder.
“Why is your husband in the hospital?”
Her hand gently cupped the translucent skin of the baby’s neck. Anguish roughened her voice. “He’s losing his mind.”
The baby let out a sudden high-pitched wail.
Chapter 40
Wednesday, May 16, noon
“InstantExpress Courier, please hold.”
She waited, her fingers tapping the steering wheel.
“How can I help you?” a man finally asked, his voice harried.
“This is Becky from BioMediSol calling. I want to confirm a pickup for 2:00 p.m. Friday afternoon.”
“Let me see…”
Ka
te heard pages flipping. The man came on the phone again. “The pickup is listed for after 5:00 p.m. Thursday night.”
She let out a small sigh of frustration. “I don’t know who arranged this, but it should be for Friday.”
“All right, ma’am, I’ll change it for you.”
“Can you please double-check you’ve got the right address?”
“Twelve sixty-six Spicer Drive?”
A little shiver ran up Kate’s back. “That’s the one. See you then.”
She hung up.
Twelve sixty-six Spicer Drive. She’d been there just this week.
BioMediSol was located in Keane’s Funeral Home.
And suddenly it all clicked into place.
She understood why Anna Keane had tried to solicit Muriel’s body, why John Lyons recommended TransTissue settle with the plaintiffs.
She stared out the window, her mind turning over the scheme, examining its myriad facets. She could find no flaw.
The brilliance of it took her breath away. Anna Keane could ask clients if they were willing to donate their bodies “to science” or, if they were deceased, ask their family. Then she could provide the body to BioMediSol. In turn, BioMediSol would harvest the tissue and supply it to hospitals, researchers, tissue product manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies. Under Canadian law, tissue could not be sold, but the company harvesting it could charge a “fee” for its expenses. And the law of supply and demand ensured that a large fee would not be questioned when the supply was at a premium.
Kate dug around in her purse and found the consent form Enid had snatched from the funeral home. It stated the bodies would be used for a neuromuscular study conducted by researcher Dr. Ronald Gill. There was no mention of BioMediSol.
Could BioMediSol be benefiting from Dr. Gill’s research by using his study’s remains?
Or, even more diabolically, could the study be a ruse, Dr. Gill a straw man for the purposes of soliciting bodies?
Kate started the car engine.
She owed Dr. Gill a long overdue visit.
* * *
The nurses’ station was muted. Obviously Dr. Mazerski was well respected to have put such a damper on the staff’s spirits.
Ethan and Lamond flashed their IDs to the ward clerk. “We need to speak with Dr. Mazerski.”
Alarm flashed over the ward clerk’s face. “You will have to speak to the head of neurology before you can see him.”
The last thing Ethan wanted was to get mired in the bureaucratic bullshit the GH2 was famous for. He was too close to homing in on the killer. No one was going to get in the way now. “We need to interview Dr. Mazerski in private. What room is he in, please?”
The ward clerk looked around her for support. A nurse flipped a chart closed, his biceps bulging under his greens, and moved behind the clerk. He was a bulky guy with a shaved head. “He’s not able to answer questions. Why do you need to see him?”
Ethan gave him a level look. “It’s regarding a criminal investigation.”
The nurse picked up the phone. “We need to get Dr. Roberts down here. He’s Head of Neurology.”
“Fine,” Ethan said. Lamond threw him a surprised glance. They both knew their chances of actually seeing Dr. Mazerski were slim to none if the administration got involved. Ethan glanced at the clock over the ward clerk’s head. “It’s visitors’ hours. We’ll be in Dr. Mazerski’s room.” He pocketed his ID. “Come on, Lamond.”
He turned down the hall, Lamond jogging to catch up to him, ignoring the fluster of activity at the nurses’ station he left in his wake. He bet they were calling all the senior staff. And after that, they’d be calling the staff sergeant to complain. He wasn’t worried. Staff Sergeant Robbins had been around a long time. He’d smooth it over.
Ethan stopped by an unmarked door. It was slightly ajar. If he guessed right, Dr. Mazerski would be in a room right by the nurses’ station where they could keep an eye on him.
He knocked softly. There was no answer. He pushed the door open. His first glance revealed a typical hospital room with a bed, nightstand and chair. The drapes were drawn against the noonday light. It cast the bedridden patient in gloom.
“Dr. Mazerski?” he said softly.
There was no answer.
His eyes adjusted to the dimness. He approached the bed. A man lay under the sheets. He was perfectly still. Rigid.
And staring.
Ethan tried again. “Dr. Mazerski?”
The man did not turn his head.
His stillness was eerie. As if his muscles were poised for flight.
Ethan edged closer.
The man did not move. Did not blink.
Did this disease his wife said he had—CJD, Dr. Clare had said over the wails of her hungry baby—make him so crazy that they had sedated him?
The man’s arm lay on top of the sheet. Around his wrist was a hospital ID bracelet. It occurred to Ethan that he’d better double-check that this was, in fact, the man they were looking for. He could just imagine the staff sergeant’s reaction if he found out Ethan had bulldozed his way into a suspect’s hospital room and then interrogated the wrong guy.
Ethan leaned over the man to read his bracelet.
The man’s body spasmed. His arm jumped off the sheet.
Ethan jerked back.
Lamond snickered softly.
“Shut up,” Ethan said.
He forced his heart to slow back down and read the name printed on the man’s bracelet: Mazerski, Michael Bogdan.
He studied the man’s hand. Long fingers, the nails slightly longer than he would’ve expected. Was this the hand of a killer or a giver of a new chance at life? Or both?
What would drive a man to give with one hand and take away with the other?
He moved his gaze to Dr. Mazerski’s face. He looked to be in his late forties. His wavy hair was graying around a receding hairline. His most striking feature was his eyes, deep set and brown under dark eyebrows. His skin was stretched taut over his facial muscles. Ethan suppressed a shiver. The neurosurgeon’s face looked like a death’s-head. He thought of the round, soft cheeks of Dr. Mazerski’s little children. His heart squeezed unexpectedly.
He squashed his pity. If this man had committed the crimes he thought he did, he deserved none.
Dr. Mazerski had not moved under Ethan’s scrutiny. His gaze had remained fixed to a spot on the wall several inches to the right of the clock. Ethan moved his hand slowly in front of the neurosurgeon’s eyes. He blinked.
Ethan tried again. Same response. He swore softly under his breath. They weren’t going to get any answers from the doc in this state. The frustration that had been his constant companion for the past two weeks surged in him.
“We’ve got a visitor,” Lamond said in a muted voice. The room had that kind of effect on a person. It was as if they had entered a twilight zone.
“Detectives.” A woman dressed in surgical scrubs stood in the doorway, her broad shoulders and solid frame tense. Her sharp glance took in Lamond stationed by the door, Ethan hovering over Dr. Mazerski. She strode past Lamond to plant herself by the bed.
Ethan glanced at her hospital ID. “Dr. Lachlan. I’m Detective Ethan Drake, Criminal Investigations Unit.”
She darted a quick look at Dr. Mazerski’s catatonic face, then met Ethan’s gaze. “Why are you here?”
“We have some questions for Dr. Mazerski.”
“Why?” Her gaze challenged him. She looked like a real fighter, someone who was used to being first in everything and would steamroll her way to the finish line if need be. Looking at her size and speed, he also bet she’d played sports as a kid, probably basketball. Her steely gaze was on level with his eyes. Pale brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a few wisps falling around her smooth, strong-jawed face. Her hair was the only soft touch about her, although when she glanced at the patient lying next to them, empathy flowed like heat through the iron of a radiator.
“Dr. Lachlan, we believe Dr. Ma
zerski may have been involved in a crime we are investigating.”
“What?” She snorted. “You’re on the wrong track, Detective.”
“I don’t think so.” He jerked his head toward the inert man. “What drugs is he on? You need to take him off them so we can question him.”
She cocked her head, a small smile twisting her lips. “Remember doctor-patient confidentiality, Detective,” she chided. “I can’t tell you anything without the permission of his wife.” She glanced at her watch. “She’ll probably be back tonight.”
Ethan crossed his arms. Dr. Clare hadn’t wanted them to come, especially when she realized they were investigating a murder. It had been a surreal conversation, brief and stark over the frantic hunger cries of her baby. Ethan had discreetly turned his gaze away when her breasts began to leak. It was the realization she was at the mercy of her body that made her relent. Her gaze was direct and hopeless. “You won’t get any answers from him. He’s got advanced CJD.”
He couldn’t wait until she could disengage herself from the demands of her children to come down to the hospital. “Look, Dr. Lachlan, the case I’m investigating is urgent.”
She studied him for a moment. Perhaps she read the determination in his gaze, because she finally said, “I’ll call his wife. See if she agrees to me talking to you. After that, I’m leaving. I was just dropping in between procedures to check on Mike.” She strode quickly out of the room.
Lamond resumed his post against the door and watched the hallway.
There was a loud grunt from the neurosurgeon. He folded at the waist and sat upright in bed.
Ethan tensed. “Lamond,” he said quietly.
Lamond turned and started at the sight of Dr. Mazerski. The neurosurgeon’s eyes stared straight ahead. He gripped the sheets in his hands, his mouth working.
His body spasmed.
Ethan caught him before he fell onto the floor. He gently pushed Dr. Mazerski back onto the pillows. The neurosurgeon kept jerking under his hands.
“Shit,” Ethan said. “Lamond, get a doctor!”
“Get your hands off him!” Dr. Lachlan cried, barreling into the room toward the bed.
[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged Page 27
