by Jan Coffey
“This January will be six years since her accident,” Jennifer told him. “She was pushed out of a moving vehicle one night on the highway, on I-84 in Cheshire. No one saw it happen…or at least no one ever came forward. She was taken to St Mary’s Hospital, the closest Level II trauma center. There were multiple head injuries and a broken arm, as well as a lot of road burn. The trauma team attended her immediately and the acute care unit at the hospital saw to the minor stuff. She never recovered from the head trauma, though.”
“Everyone calls her JD for Jane Doe,” the physician assumed.
“There was no ID on her when they took her to the hospital,” Jennifer said, nodding. “From what we were told, the police fingerprinted and photographed her that very first night, but there were no matches. Nothing ever came of any investigation, as far as I know.”
“Is she a ward of state?” the physician wanted to know.
Jennifer nodded again. “Title 19 Medicaid patient. The probate court assigned a local lawyer to act as conservator. I can’t remember his name right now. But he has power of attorney.”
Dr. Baer straightened from the bed, and JD’s eyes focused on her again. Jennifer reached over and took the young woman’s hand. She was certain JD appreciated the touch. Everyone needed kindness and human contact.
“She’s an absolute sweetheart. She’s never given any of us a lick of trouble in all the time she’s been here. I’m wondering if something wasn’t poking into her. It’s not like her to get worked up like this.”
“How long has she been here exactly?” the physician wanted to know, taking the chart from Pat.
Jennifer knew the answer. “She got bounced around to a couple of different facilities during the first few months after the accident. Then she was moved here. It was in August. So it’s been five years and three months.”
“What a great memory!” Pat blurted.
Jennifer shrugged. “I remember because my family and I always go to the Cape at the end of July. And JD was brought in right after I came back from vacation.”
“Has she been in minimally conscious state since she’s been here?”
“Yes. She came in as an MCS patient.”
“Anything done to wean her off the feeding tube?” Baer wanted to know, quickly paging through the chart.
“No,” Jennifer wished she could say more. But she wouldn’t badmouth their former attending physician. Dr. Parker should have retired ten years before he did, as he had no interest in doing anything different. She had made recommendations as far as exercises or little things they could do to work with JD, but he wouldn’t have it. Standard maintenance treatment was all he would allow.
“Is it too late now?” she asked. “If there’s anything extra we have to do, it’d be okay. We’d really like to help her…if there’s a way.” She realized it wasn’t right to talk for everyone else, too. “I’ll put in some extra hours myself.”
Jennifer saw JD close her eyes. She wasn’t sleeping, only shutting them out. It was so sad. The young woman did communicate with them. Jen was sure of it.
“Do we have any idea how old she is?” the physician asked.
“The file said early twenties when she arrived here, so we celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday on Christmas Eve.”
The physician looked up and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Jennifer thought this was the first time she’d seen him do that.
“Does this mean she’ll be twenty-eight this coming Christmas?” he asked.
“Yes, and we’ll have a big party for her right here and you’re invited.”
If he was amused by that, he gave no indication of it. He paged through the most recent pages. “Has she had any epileptic fits in the past that you remember?”
“No,” Jennifer said with certainty. “That’s not what this was.”
She wanted JD to get better, not to be diagnosed with another disorder. With this doctor, she thought there might be a chance. There were a lot of new things that would be tried out if there were family around.
Baer wrote down some notes on the clipboard. “I’m writing a prescription for some sedatives…in case she becomes agitated again.”
Disappointment poured through her. “Is that all we’re going to do?”
He looked at her with surprise.
Jennifer bit her tongue. She didn’t want an enemy but an ally. “I was wondering…if you could review her files…perhaps see if there’s anything that needs to be changed on her meds…or other things. Treatment that might trigger more responses. ”
The physician looked down at the clipboard again. “Okay. Put her on my schedule for tomorrow. We’ll see if there’s anything needs to be changed.”
This was a start.
“I’m impressed,” Pat said after Baer left the room. “You really care about her. Don’t you?”
Jennifer looked over at the bed. JD’s eyes were once again open and watching her.
“Yes, I do.”
CHAPTER 5
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Living in three cities certainly did nothing to cut the size of the crowd.
Cynthia Adrian had planned a luncheon for two hundred after the funeral service. Looking out the small window of the chapel at the packed parking lot, she feared they might have twice as many guests as she’d counted on.
She glanced at her watch and smoothed back her shoulder-length blonde hair. Unbelievable. Ten minutes until the service was to start and her mother still hadn’t arrived. She took her cell phone out of her purse and considered calling her to see where she was.
Cynthia had been forced to take over planning of her own father’s funeral arrangements. Everything, from deciding on the minister to arranging for speakers, even to sending a driver to the house to bring her mother here. All she had to do was be there.
But being there had always been Helen’s problem.
The minister knocked lightly and looked into the room. “Will we be starting on time, Ms. Adrian?”
Could they start this funeral without Fred Adrian’s wife of thirty-five years?
“I’m calling my mother right now. I’ll let you know…” She snapped the phone shut. “Never mind, here she is.”
Cynthia watched the black sedan pull up in the front of the church. “We’re starting on time.”
She went out the side door to meet Helen in the parking lot. The driver stepped out and opened the back door. Out of nowhere, a reporter and a photographer materialized by the car. The camera was clicking away at her mother as she stepped out.
“Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Adrian,” the reporter said, holding up a small tape recorder. “Could we just ask you a question or two?”
Helen Adrian stared at them unsteadily for a moment and then shrugged. “Why not? It’s just my husband’s funeral.”
“Mrs. Adrian, could you tell us how your husband, as Director of Research at New Mexico Power, would react if he knew about the accident in the Gulf of Mexico today?” the reporter asked. “Wasn’t that specific research program a pet project of his?”
“Yes, my husband loved those pet projects of his. They became more important to him than his family.”
Cynthia noticed how her mother, using her years of drinking experience, was holding onto the car door to keep her balance.
“If he were alive, do you think he’d agree with the power company’s decision to let the fire burn and assume that there are no survivors?” the reporter asked.
“If he were alive,” Helen replied coolly. “I know what he’d be doing if he were alive. But he’s not, is he?”
She tried to step up onto the sidewalk and stumbled. Cynthia was quick to catch her. “Are you okay?”
“Okay? Okay?” Her breath reeked of alcohol. “How do you think I am? He’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m more than okay. I’m fine. I’m great.”
Cynthia glanced nervously at the reporter and photographer. They were getting e
verything.
CHAPTER 6
Nuclear Fusion Test Facility
Blackness.
Marion blinked her eyes. She could feel her eyelids move, but there was nothing for her to focus on. Nothing but blackness.
Trying not to panic, she wondered for a moment if she was even alive. The flashes of incredible pain shooting from the side of her head to the back of her brain told her that she was, but the blackness threw her. She wondered if she’d gone blind. She realized she was very cold.
She tried to move her lips, her jaw. The skin on her cheekbone and her temple were stuck to something. The pounding pain in her head was excruciating and became worse when she tried to move her face.
She waited for a few moments…she didn’t know how long. Tentatively, she flexed the fingers of her right hand. Every joint was stiff, and she realized she was lying on something hard. She moved her hand, feeling and recognizing the cold tile of the floor. Whatever her face was stuck to had a strange, familiar odor.
And then she remembered.
Cold fear washed through her. Killers. They’d come into the control room. Shooting.
She felt her chest start to heave, her body trying to get air. Be calm, she told herself. Keep it together. You’re alive!
Marion was lying on her left side, and she couldn’t feel her left hand or arm. She tried to move her legs. They were cramped and stiff, but she was able to straighten one…and then the other. As she did, her body automatically rolled onto her back, peeling the skin of her forehead and cheek from the tile floor.
Her head rolled also, and when the back of her skull came in contact with the floor, she felt her brain about to explode.
And then she felt nothing.
CHAPTER 7
The Eastern Shore, Maryland
Joseph Ricker looked out at the half dozen middle aged men and the two hunting guides crouched behind portable blinds at the edge of the salt marsh. He shook his head.
Who were they fooling, calling themselves hunters? This wasn’t hunting. It wasn’t even sport. It was a narcissistic exercise in time and money waste.
In no hurry to leave the limousine, Joseph Ricker watched them a moment longer. He hated the fresh air, the mud, the bad weather, the inconvenience of wearing ridiculously ugly clothes for the excuse of looking the part. But beside all of that, he hated the idea of killing another living thing…unless there was some valid return on the investment of one’s time or energy.
Cook them. Give them away. Stuff them. When it was over, you had to do something with the kill. In the case of these particular men, however, nothing would be done with the handful of geese they managed to gun down. In the eight years he’d worked directly for Martin Durr, his boss had never bothered to have anything done with the dead birds. Shoot them down and leave them. The others would do the same. Because none of these men were licensed to hunt in Maryland, not even the guides would send their beautiful retrievers out for them. None of this made sense to him.
Joseph opened the back door of the black sedan and buttoned up his trench coat as he stepped out.
“What time should I come back, sir?” the driver asked.
“You’ll wait here for me,” he ordered. “I’m not staying.”
Joseph flipped up the collar of his coat and waited next to the car for a couple of minutes. A light drizzle was falling from the gray October sky. He considered asking the driver to get an umbrella for him from the trunk. But he decided against it. He hoped he wouldn’t be out here long.
As he watched, two long Vs of geese appeared in the distance. As the flocks passed within range overhead, Martin Durr and his guests began firing. They were shooting senselessly, like children at a carnival booth. And with all the fine weaponry they were sporting, only two geese dropped with a splash into the marsh. Joseph was certain that at least one of the birds belonged to his boss. Probably both.
Martin Durr turned and saw the car. Joseph assumed his boss saw him, too, but Durr didn’t bother to return the discreet wave. The older man handed his gun to the guide standing near him. He said something to one of his guests and started toward the car.
Joseph knew this was his cue to start walking, too. If he didn’t meet Durr at least halfway, he’d hear about it.
He looked down at his four hundred dollar wingtips and at the muddy path straight ahead. There was no dry route to take. He reluctantly stepped into the mud and felt his shoes sink in.
Martin Durr didn’t believe in cell phones or email or even sending a trustworthy messenger when it came down to taking care of business this sensitive. And Joseph was too smart to question the older man’s judgment when it came to this sort of thing. Durr not only had survived, but thrived in a very tough and dirty business for over thirty years. There were still a few things that Joseph could learn from the man.
“Well?” Durr asked when they reached each other.
As he knew he was expected to do, Joseph took one quick look around to make sure he was out of earshot of everyone and that no surveillance equipment was anywhere in sight.
He turned back to his boss. “There was a plane crash this morning. Or rather…a charter plane exploded in midair before crashing.”
“And?”
“Five R & D staff scientists from the New Mexico Power Company, along with two key administrators and the pilot and co-pilot, were killed. They were coming back early from a seminar because of the problem in the Gulf. It was a charter flight. They were the only passengers.”
Joseph watched as Durr, pausing to consider the expected news, took off one glove and vacantly stroked the fat of his double chin. The nearly translucent skin on his doughy face was normally pale. But now, with the cheeks red from the cold, Joseph thought Durr was looking more and more like an old woman. The thought disappeared, however, when his boss’s steely blue eyes focused directly on his face.
“The cause of the accident?”
“The unofficial reports from the airport and from an ‘unidentified’ source in the NTSB South Central field office are that the pilot radioed in just before they exploded, saying that they were experiencing a ‘malfunction in the fuel system,’” Joseph told him. “The official reports won’t get released for at least a month…but they will confirm the early findings.”
The older man looked off into the distance. He reached one hand into a pocket, took out a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. Joseph refrained from saying anything. He knew he was expected to be silent.
“Where does this leave us?” Durr finally asked.
“I believe it would be safe to say ‘clean.’”
“No loose ends remaining? You’re certain.”
“I’m certain. There are no loose ends, sir.”
CHAPTER 8
University of Connecticut Health Center
Department of Neurology
“I think it’s absolutely ridiculous to lose the funding on a program this important just because we can’t get enough test subjects,” Sid Conway complained.
“What happened to the two patients you had ready to go?” Ahmad Baer asked.
“The families backed out. They wouldn’t sign the papers at the last minute.”
Ahmad moved down the cafeteria line with the young man on his heels. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but he wasn’t surprised.
Sid was in his first year of residency at UCONN Health Center, and for a couple days of the week, he shadowed Ahmad on patient visits at the hospital. Smart, energetic, idealistic, and dedicated, Sid was destined for great things as a neurologist. Of that, Ahmad was certain. But there were a few issues regarding how Sid dealt with people that the young man needed some work on. Legal aspects of research work clearly frustrated him, and the psychology of dealing with patient’s families also seemed to elude him. There was also touch of arrogance Baer had noticed, in terms of how Sid dealt with staff that needed some taming. There was a lot, however, in the young doctor that was workable.
“You won’t lose the funding,” Ahmad a
ssured. “All you need to do is to go before the committee and they’ll renew it.”
“I don’t want to go before the committee. Next year, it’ll be only more difficult than this year,” Sid told him. “I still can’t see what these families have against us doing the testing on the two patients. I mean, it’s not going to cost them anything, and it will definitely not going to make the individual’s condition worse. These patients are already in a coma.”
Reaching the cashier, Ahmad stopped the young man from taking his wallet out and paid for both of their drinks.
Sid was part of a team working on a new brain “reading” device. His work went beyond previous studies that used MRIs to read a person’s possible intentions by focusing on changes in the medial prefrontal cortex of the subject’s brain. Sid’s research team had already made great advances. No longer needing bulky MRI equipment, they now could use portable electronic scanning to read the brain’s activity. They were actually cracking the mind’s internal code to deduce what a person was thinking.
The concern was that the researchers had no way of targeting specific thoughts. Whatever was going through the mind of the subject was what the instruments picked up. And there was no way to determine what was memory or what was real or what was imagined. Still, they were making tremendous strides in understanding how the brain functioned.
“I know one of the lawyers who’s involved with this,” Ahmad told him. “Last time I spoke to him, he was reading up on the results that the neuroscience team at Berkeley published last year. Based on that study, the researchers were able to tap into the patient’s secret intentions and memories. Private stuff.”
“You know that we have no interest in the specific content of an individual, per se.”
Ahmad shrugged. “I know that, but think of what the families are going through. They’re dealing with loved ones who have become paralyzed or have suffered mental impairment or have become comatose. They don’t know how long before these husbands or wives or brothers or sisters or parents will regain something of who they were…or if they ever will. This is as sticky as a Living Will. Decisions are difficult. There are privacy issues involved. There is always the chance that the patient might wake up tomorrow. What if your findings include revelations that are not particularly flattering…or are even criminal? Ethically and personally, the families have a problem with doing this. You can understand that.”
