by Ray Flynt
Brad digested the scenario; two deaths, one potentially suspicious. He studied Alan’s face. He hadn’t seen Alan since Marie’s funeral six weeks earlier when Brad had served as a pallbearer. The corners of Alan’s mouth were turned down, and a bowl of oatmeal had more color than his cheeks. His glasses, on a man renowned for his fastidious nature, were smudged.
When they were at Princeton, Brad dated Marie’s roommate, and when Marie requested an introduction to his “handsome tennis partner” Brad arranged a double-date. Alan and Marie always claimed they fell in love that night.
But it was evident that Marie’s tragic accident had taken its toll on Alan. Brad had endured his own share of tragedy, and he worried that more deaths and autopsies wouldn’t do anything to advance his old friend’s healing process.
“Can we continue?” Alan pointed down the stairs.
Brad nodded.
On the ground level, they emerged through a set of double fire doors and stood in front of a security station with a sign marked RESTRICTED AREA.
The doctor flashed his badge, which hung around his neck on a lanyard, to the uniformed security guard, and announced, “He’s with me.”
“You’re gonna have to sign him in,” the guard said.
Dr. Fenimore scowled and threw his hands up in the air.
“While you register me, I’m going to call my associate and ask her to join us,” Brad said. Sharon would be an asset. As erratic as Alan seemed, he would serve as a distraction to the investigation. Two could manage him better than one.
Alan grunted his consent, and Brad flipped open his cell phone, called Sharon Porter and asked her to meet him at Strickland Memorial Hospital.
Sharon sounded stunned. “Have you looked outside lately? It’s coming down at about four inches an hour.” Brad smiled at her tendency toward hyperbole. “And two of my tires are almost bald.”
“Catch a cab. I need you here.”
She sighed theatrically. “Okay….” After a pause, she added, “I’ll get there as soon as I can.
“Add Sharon Porter’s name,” Brad told the security guard. “She should be here within an hour.”
Brad affixed his name badge to his shirt, and moments later he and Alan entered a door marked A-10.
“We’re finally here, Jamal,” Alan announced.
A man clad in green scrubs turned to greet them. He had caramel-colored skin, a shiny bald head and wore a goatee. A diamond stud glinted in his ear. Brad judged him to be about thirty-five. Beyond him, lying on a metal table was a body covered with a sheet.
“Jamal Dubei meet Brad Frame. Dr. Dubei is our resident pathologist,” Alan said, adding, “He’s also an Assistant Medical Examiner for the City of Philadelphia.”
“Call me Jamal. It’s good to meet you,” the pathologist said. “There’s a closet over there.” He pointed. “I was just about to get started with the autopsy.”
Brad hung up his coat and took in the surroundings. He’d attended autopsies before and the smell was always the same—antiseptic with a rank twist of human decay. This room seemed brighter, more bathed in fluorescent light, than others he remembered, perhaps because of the white ceramic-tiled walls.
“You’ll need to wear these.” Dr. Dubei handed him a paper hat and green gown to slip over his street clothes, as well as a facemask and a plastic face shield.
Brad suited up, and smiled as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. The image resembled a Martian who’d just stepped off a space ship.
Dr. Dubei cleared his throat. “Are we ready to start?”
“Yes, let’s go,” Fenimore replied.
The room felt cold. Dr. Dubei switched on an overhead examination light, and the bright light bounced off the white sheet covering the body, making the room glow. Dubei tapped twice on a rear door to the room, and seconds later a young woman entered carrying a tray of medical instruments. She wore a facemask that concealed much of her porcelain complexion. She had long straight black hair and gray eyes, and looked Vietnamese. Dr. Dubei made no introduction, and referred to her only as Kim. She was already suited up, and began removing the sheet draping the man’s body. She uncovered the man’s head and then folded the cloth back to the shaved pubic area. Brad saw that whatever body hair he might have had would have been shaved before his surgery. He also noticed a fresh surgical scar on the lower right side of the man’s abdomen—complete with staples still in place. The man appeared younger than Brad expected—late 30’s or early 40’s he judged—and quite skinny. His face and chest had a waxy pallor, while the skin on the underside of the corpse had a burgundy hue.
Brad watched as the pathologist slipped on a rubber apron, then attached a small microphone to the neckline on his scrubs. He consulted a chart and began dictating. “This is Dr. Jamal Dubei conducting the post-mortem examination of Michael R. Severns of Cherry Hill, New Jersey, DOB April 14, 1972. Mr. Severns is five foot six inches tall and weighs 115 lbs.”
Dr. Dubei recorded the date and the names of all in attendance, and Brad learned that his assistant’s last name was Coulter—Kim Coulter.
The pathologist carefully examined the body. Brad watched as he pushed on skin, lifted limbs, checked under the subject’s closed eyelids and tried to manipulate the man’s jaw, as his mouth gaped open. “There is evidence of the onset of rigor mortis,” he said for the benefit of the recorder. Dubei gave careful attention to marks on the inside of the man’s left arm, and what looked like an enlarged blood vessel snaking down his forearm. “There is a fistula, recently used for dialysis treatment. The record indicates the patient was on hemodialysis for approximately three years before receiving a kidney transplant two days ago.”
Alan Fenimore spoke, “A dialysis patient routinely undergoes a surgical procedure—”
Dr. Dubei reached over and turned off his recording system before snapping, “Please Doctor, this is voice activated.” He pointed to the microphone that hung around his neck. “To avoid unnecessary banter on the recording, please save your explanations for later.”
Alan huffed and glared at the pathologist. “As I was saying, Brad, there’s a routine operation for dialysis patients involving the joining of an artery with a vein to provide a larger vessel to accommodate the needles used during the dialysis procedure. It’s called a fistula—some people call it a shunt—and in this man’s case, as you can see, it is well-worn with needle tracks. You may continue your examination, Doctor.”
It was uncomfortably quiet in the room, as the two doctors stared each other down. Alan’s edginess had ventured into the autopsy suite.
“I won’t tolerate another interruption,” Dr. Dubei finally said.
“I’m sorry, Jamal.” Alan said Dubei’s first name with a patronizing tone and Brad recalled a high school chemistry teacher who used to drive him crazy with similar condescension. “Mr. Frame is here for a reason.”
The pathologist looked at Brad. “I don’t mean any disrespect to you Mr. Frame.” Turning toward Dr. Fenimore, he said, “I’m warning you, Alan, I will report you if you continue to interfere.”
Alan bowed and waved his hand.
Carefully carefully keeping the man’s genitals covered, Dr. Dubei re-draped the body to examine his legs. The pathologist turned his attention to the IV line still lodged in the patient’s hand, and unfurled a length of plastic tubing wrapped around his arm. First, he slowly extracted the needle, then used a magnifying glass to examine every inch of the tubing. Finally, he pulled and probed the skin around the area where the needle had been inserted.
The pathologist reached for a scalpel. Brad watched as he drew the knife across the skin from each shoulder to the middle of the dead man’s chest and then all the way down to the pubic bone in the classic Y incision. After cutting through the ribs, Dubei spent the next ten or fifteen minutes removing organs and weighing them. Human odors overtook antiseptic ones, at least in the race to Brad’s nostrils. The smell reminded him of an overused public restroom wi
th several backed-up toilets. Dubei turned on a wall-mounted TV monitor and then aimed a camera at various organs recording a digital image. He watched the monitor until he got just the picture he wanted, then recorded it. On the television screen, Severns’ organs looked three times their normal size and bold in color. “His heart weighs thirteen ounces,” Dr. Dubei dictated. “The arteries to the heart show no evidence of significant plaque.
“The subject’s lungs are filled with fluid.” Dubei aimed the camera for a close-up of the lungs. “This is indicative of cardiac arrest.” Brad thought the lung tissue looked like a frothy deep-red sponge. “Arterial connections and urethra links to the bladder appear normal,” he continued, “with no evidence of post-surgical rupture. I’m now removing the graft kidney from the lower right abdominal cavity. The organ weighs six ounces.”
“Why is the kidney placed in the abdomen?” Brad asked. “I thought kidneys were in the lower back.”
“They are, but unless tumors are present there is no reason to remove an existing kidney—even if it no longer functions.” The doctor deposited the kidney into a jar. “Also, there is less muscle tissue to cut through in the lower abdomen ensuring a quicker surgical recovery.”
It wasn’t until afterward that he noted Dr. Dubei did not take umbrage to his interruption as he had earlier with Alan.
The pathologist picked up a Stryker saw from the counter. Brad winced, since the least tolerable part of the autopsy—removal of the brain—was about to begin.
Dr. Fenimore’s beeper went off, and Dubei scowled. Looking up from the digital display, Alan announced, “This is an inside call.” He pointed at the phone on the wall. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” Dubei said, sarcastically. Brad made a mental note to ask Alan about the animus between him and Dr. Dubei.
Alan pulled off his facemask, lifted the receiver from the phone, and punched in a four digit extension. After a few seconds he announced in a crisp professional tone, “This is Dr. Fenimore.”
“When did this happen?” he said, clearly agitated. “Was she in a private room?” Alan fidgeted with the phone cord. “Good Lord! I’ll be right up.”
Alan turned around and his face flushed as he announced. “That was the duty nurse on 7-South. Another transplant patient just died.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to John Helfers who arranged for Five Star to originally publish UNFORGIVING SHADOWS, and to Hugh Abramson, my editor, whose trained eye and fresh perspectives added immeasurably to the final version. The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the following members of his writers’ group—past and present—for their valuable edits and suggestions: Janet Benrey, Bert Brun, Christiane Carlson-Thies, Lynda Sasscer Hill, Mary Ellen Hughes, Trish Marshall, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, Bonnie Settle, and Marcia Talley.
I am grateful for the many people who read the completed manuscript and asked questions or offered comments; they include Charles Corritore, Eleanor Logan, Bob Martin, Michael Oring, and Michael Rouse.
Thanks also to Rebecca Clark Flynt for her love and encouragement.
This is a work of fiction. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Flynt is the author of Brad Frame mysteries, as well as KISSES OF AN ENEMY, a political thriller. A native of Pennsylvania, Ray has also written a one-man play based on the life of Ben Franklin and is available for performances of the play. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and active with their Florida Chapter. He is also a member of the Florida Writers Association.
Ray retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. He lives in central Florida.
BRAD FRAME MYSTERIES
Unforgiving Shadows (#1)
Transplanted Death (#2)
Blood Porn (#3)
Lady on the Edge (#4)
Final Juror (#5)
Embalmed (#6 – Coming Fall 2015)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Read an excerpt fromTRANSPLANTED DEATHA Brad Frame MysteryChapter One
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
