Title page
Copyright & history
Dedication
Murder Is Pathological
About the author
Murder Is Pathological
Maggie Ryan, 1969
by P.M. Carlson
The Mystery Company
Mount Vernon, Ohio
MURDER IS PATHOLOGICAL
Copyright © 1986 by Patricia Carlson
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-27-0
EBOOK ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-29-4
Cover design by Pat Prather
Cover art by Robin Agnew
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Avon Books first edition: July 1986
The Mystery Company Smashwords/epub edition: May 2013
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The Mystery Company, an imprint of Crum Creek Press
1558 Coshocton Ave #126
Mount Vernon, OH 43050
www.crumcreekpress.com
In honor of A.R. Luria’s patient
Sublieutenant Zasetsky
who told us what it was like
I am grateful for the helpful suggestions of Fred Quimby, D.V.M., Ph.D., whose expertise in humane animal research is matched by his understanding of the peculiar demands of mystery plots. Errors remaining are mine and not Dr. Quimby's.
P.M.C.
I
B-716 was not a particularly happy rat. She had not liked having her distended belly shaved, and she had not liked being disinfected. She did not like the ice-white dazzle of the room, and her little pink eyes searched for a darker, friendlier place. Monica experienced a sudden shiver of fellow-feeling for her. “Sorry, hon,” she murmured, “but life ain’t fair.”
“What?” asked Dr. Weisen, masked like Monica. He was standing a few feet away, beside the Reyniers isolator.
“Nothing,” said Monica, giving herself a mental slap and becoming brisk and coldly professional again. She immobilized B-716, grasped the white neck firmly with the forceps, and twisted expertly. B-716 died instantly of cervical fracture, with no pain and no knowledge of the further degradations she would now undergo, an unwitting sacrifice to the amazing future of her progeny.
“We’ve got seven or eight minutes now,” said Dr. Weisen.
Quickly, Monica fastened the disinfected rat to the center of the operating table of the isolator. B-716 was spread-eagled on her back, the sanitized shaved belly bulging up from the flat surface. Monica took her position by the window of the isolator. Inside the steel chamber everything was pure, uncontaminated, sterilized—the surgical instruments, gauze, sponges. Monica herself was showered, gowned, and masked, but she was still considered contaminated by the exacting standards set for the rats she was preparing to work with. She could not touch anything in the isolator chamber directly, but only by means of the sanitized gloves sealed into the chamber wall.
A sturdy sheet of clear plastic was stretched over an opening in the floor of the sanitary chamber. Under it, she could see B-716 centered on the operating table. Despite her intensive disinfecting and shaving, B-716—like Monica—was still considered unclean. Gently and carefully, Monica manipulated the isolator’s controls, peering through the window into the alien germ-free world. She raised the operating table until B-716’s round belly was pressing up against the stretched plastic of the opening. Then she put her hands and arms into the long gloves that projected into the sealed chamber and picked up the tiny cautery gun inside the chamber. Very carefully, she made the incision along the pink shaved ventral surface, cutting through plastic and abdominal wall at once. The instrument sealed and sanitized the wound as it was made, so there was little blood and—more importantly—almost no opportunity for pathogens to enter.
Three minutes gone. Monica was sweating. Inside the gloves her hands felt waterlogged and clumsy. But she could not let up now. Everything depended on her, and there were still many delicate steps ahead. Above all, she reminded herself, don’t puncture the intestine and don’t puncture the uterus. If she did either, the whole elaborate arrangement had failed. The carefully planned matings, the hours of sanitizing, the painstaking disinfecting, and B-716’s discomfort and death would all have been in vain.
If she didn’t get a move on it would all have been in vain too.
She made an effort, distanced herself again. B-716 became an object, an object that contained the fragile goal of her hunt. Monica’s dark eyes squinted tensely through the viewing window as she spread the lips of the cauterized incision, then, very gently, lifted the long, shiny, lumpy uterus up into the sanitized section of the chamber. So far, so good. Five minutes gone. She sectioned and cauterized the ovarian attachments, then did the same just below the cervix. This step took a couple of precious moments, but it allowed her to separate the operating area from B-716 and her dangerous, delicate intestine.
Work fast, now, but don’t be clumsy. Carefully, she slit the uterus, and removed the pups with the placental material still attached. Then she began to remove the fetal membranes from each one, not yet cutting the infinitesimal umbilical cords. She started with the largest, working fast.
“We’ve got ten of them,” she announced to no one in particular.
“Great! The foster mother only has three,” said Barbara.
“Not anymore, she hasn’t.” That was Tom. Their voices were muffled by the masks.
B-716’s pups had a germ-free foster mother waiting for them in a second isolator that was attached to the sanitary portion of this one by an airlock corridor. The foster mother, like the pups, had never been exposed to the ordinary flora and fauna of the world. She was a foster mother of incredible purity, clean far beyond the imagination of the most careful housekeepers of the world, housekeepers who thought of rats as filthy creatures. Minutes ago she had been separated from her own three-day-old litter and now waited in a small cage in the second isolator. Her own pups had been removed and destroyed. A bit of her bedding, smelling of her own totally sanitary secretions, waited in a box near Monica’s gloved hands.
“Do I have any time left?” Monica asked without looking up. She had cleaned and dried seven of the pups; they were wriggling.
“Eight minutes gone,” said Dr. Weisen.
She brushed her fingers quickly over the three remaining pups; one moved, and she cleared the membrane from its nose and mouth. Without much hope, she cleaned the last two, and prodded them to see if they would respond. Neither did.
“Guess that’s it,” she said. “Eight are okay.”
“Good job, Monica,” said Les.
“Thanks. Not quite finished.”
But the rest of the task did not require such nerve-shattering speed. The instant B-716 had died, the oxygen supply to her infants had stopped being renewed. They lived only on what was stored in the uterine environment until Monica cleared the membranes away and they could begin to breathe on their own.
Now she could take her time about severing the umbilical cords a
nd placing the tiny creatures into the box with the foster mother’s bedding. When they were placed in the second isolator, the foster mother would accept B-716’s eight pups as her own, because they would smell like her own three. One good thing about rats, thought Monica, they couldn’t count.
“Good,” said Dr. Weisen. “That’s all for now. We can relax for a few minutes.”
“Thank God,” said Monica. She withdrew her hands from the isolator gloves and walked to the side of the room to sit on the bench. She felt exultant, and drained. One step closer to her goal. Thank God I’m not going to be a surgeon, she thought; if I feel like this operating on a rat, how would I feel working on a human? But at least humans had nice, big, reasonable-sized organs, not the tiny beads and threads that made up a rat’s inner regions.
She pulled down her mask. A tired pleasant face, a determined mouth, and intense dark eyes. When she closed them she had a sudden vision of herself, stretched soft and toasted on the pale sand of a tropical beach. He was there too, freckling in the sun, his hand sweet and slow on her glowing skin. Past and future obliterated, only a warm murmuring now. God, God, why couldn’t it be?
“You made it look easy,” said Les cheerfully. He had cinnamon-colored hair and a little mustache. “So why do you look pooped?”
She opened her eyes. “There’s a certain amount of pressure, buddy.” In fact, Tom had blown his turn last week, blundering into the intestine as he tried to lift out the uterus. As the invisible contamination billowed into the sanitary chamber from the tiny wound, he had stared helplessly, swearing, until Dr. Weisen led him away, leaving the others to clean up the now useless animals.
Dr. Weisen, twinkling, said, “There’s always pressure. Learning to work under pressure is part of it.” He looked like a well-groomed Santa Claus, a round little man with a white beard, sleeker than Santa’s. He also had a sure surgical touch, a brilliant scientific mind, and a current experiment that might point the way to saving thousands of minds. He ran a respected program in this underfunded lab, and Monica considered herself fortunate to be among the half-dozen students who were allowed to study with him. True, she did not plan a career of doing Caesarean sections on rats. She wanted to study the human brain, that infinitely complex organ of vision and hearing, of love and hate, of sleep and movement, of mathematics and poetry. But her work too would require knowledge, precision, and skill; and she couldn’t have a better guide than Dr. Weisen. Now he smiled at her. “Good girl. You did well.”
“Thank you.”
Les sat down beside her and waited till Dr. Weisen was across the room talking to Tom and Barbara, then he repeated under his breath, “Good girl, Miss Bauer.”
Monica was twenty-six. So was Les. She said, “Thanks, sonny.”
He grinned, leaned back, stretched out his legs. “That’s what I need,” he said. “A mommy. I’ve got a Santa, with a mommy my second childhood would be complete.”
“Shh,” said Monica. “It’s just his Old World personality. Maybe when we’re his age we’ll patronize the young folks too.”
“Maybe. But I get culture shock every day when I go home. Sonny to Daddy inside ten minutes is not humanly possible.” Les was the proud father of two active little boys. He added, “You know a second drug company is after Weisen’s tumor stuff?”
“Really?”
“Well, the preliminary studies are looking good. They’d love his patent. He’ll be a rich little Santa one of these days.”
“I thought the university owned the patents. Or the people who give him grants.’’
“They usually do. But Weisen is special. His deal with the university gives him total independence in exchange for running the lab and teaching lucky us. He keeps the rights. That’s the main reason their miserly attitude hasn’t driven him away. He’ll probably get rich now and quit teaching.”
“He wouldn’t! He loves his work!”
“He loves the research. You think he enjoys watching his fifteen hundredth rat Caesarean?”
Monica was silent. It was true. With money and research facilities from a big company, why would he continue teaching here, where he had to fight for every dollar?
“Wonder what they’re discussing?” said Les, gesturing at Dr. Weisen and Tom and Barbara across the room. “I bet Tom’s trying to talk him into okaying his thesis proposal again.”
It was hard to believe that neat, relaxed Les and shaggy Tom Conklin were the same age, in the same field. Tom was intense, voluble in his opposition to the Vietnam war. On weekends he and his friends picketed army depots or companies that manufactured napalm. Tom’s dark beard was untrimmed, his desk always piled with books, scraps, sandwich bags, mimeographed sheets. Norman, the night custodian, had often asked Tom to stop throwing half-filled coffee cups into the wastebaskets, but he kept forgetting. Tom and his friends in SDS were vehemently in favor of improving life for blacks in the abstract, but making the job of a particular black custodian easier was apparently not part of the agenda.
Barbara, a year ahead of the other three, was black too; but, already busy with her thesis project, she merely muttered “Right on” distractedly whenever Tom directed his political statements to her.
Monica stood up, refastened her mask, and went back to inspect the results of her recent work. There they were, eight tiny rats, eyes still shut, tiny lungs breathing the germ-free air, tiny hearts pumping blood through tiny vessels. And there were their two brothers, dead through Monica’s slowness, or their own inborn defects or immaturity. Outside the sanitary chamber, in the lower half of the isolator beyond the plastic, B-716 lay shaved and lifeless. Life. A mysterious condition, much desired by fully functioning living creatures, not desired by the dead. And the in-between? The baby rats twitched; they wanted it, wanted whatever it had to offer rats. But their brothers had given up. Because they knew they were somehow imperfect? Did the imperfect know their problem? Some of them continued to eat, to move, to strive toward goals, even when their eyes did not seem to see, or their ears to hear, or their brains to think. Did they want to live? Could someone who had been human still want to live like that? It was different for the tiny blind rats, they knew nothing better. But if you had been a bright and active human?
Monica made herself stop thinking about that question, that unanswerable question. Her job and her passion was to learn about the brain, not speculate about feelings. And, because her teacher was Dr. Weisen, who insisted that his students be capable of performing every step of a research project, her job now was to make sure those eight baby rats reached their foster mother safely. She began to run down her mental checklist.
At noon Maggie Ryan stuck her curly black head in the door of the communal grad office and said, “Congratulations, Monica! Les gives your Caesarean a rave review.”
“Thanks.” Monica glanced up at her lanky housemate. “But you didn’t come all the way out here just to cheer.”
“To cheer and to brag. They accepted my article!”
“Hey, congratulations yourself!”
“Thanks. But I really came to deliver these statistics to Dr. Weisen. See you soon.”
But when Monica emerged into the tiled hall a few minutes later, Maggie, still holding her stack of printouts, was in laughing conversation with the custodian. He was here early today. Norman was in his sixties and a little deaf, a cheerful man who slept in a bedroom here at the lab. His night duties were various—keeping the lab clean, of course, but also checking the animals, feeding them if their schedules required it, recording births or deaths, incinerating the carcasses that the scientists left for him in neatly labeled bags by the incinerator room door. The remains of B-716 and her two stillborn pups awaited him there today. Norman reported to Gib Gibson, the head animal technician, and had done a good and competent job since the lab had opened six years ago.
“What are you two laughing at?” asked Monica as she approached.
“Just our innate good nature,” said Maggie evasively.
Norman l
aughed again, his wrinkled dark face a map of mirth. Monica couldn’t help grinning too. “God, I almost believe you!”
Dr. Weisen’s office door opened further down the hall, and he and Tom stepped out, holding foam coffee cups. Tom was explaining something earnestly. Dr. Weisen nodded, made a gesture of dismissal, and went back in. Tom headed toward the graduate office, looking grumpy but nodding at them as he passed. “How you doing?” he asked. Disregarding Norman’s sudden frown, he flipped his cup into the metal wastebasket by the office door.
The wastebasket exploded.
A brilliant flash. A loud report. The wastebasket flared and shuddered with multiple explosions. Monica froze in shock for an instant, then turned and snatched the fire extinguisher from the wall behind her. Tom was still cringing against the wall, pale behind his beard. Dr. Weisen’s office door snapped open again; and Les, together with Gib, the wiry little animal supervisor, came running through the fire doors down the hall.
Monica, rushing toward the wastebasket with the big extinguisher cylinder, was stopped by Maggie’s firm hand on her arm. “It’s okay. It’s all over.”
It was. The wastebasket sat calmly, a puddle of melted plastic cup in its depths.
“What the devil is going on?” asked Dr. Weisen, approaching.
Everyone looked at Tom. He shrugged, licked his lips, and shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just threw my coffee cup in.”
Dr. Weisen and Les and Gib all looked into the basket, edgy and puzzled. Finally Gib said, “Pretty strong coffee,” and everyone laughed.
“All right, boys and girls,” said Dr. Weisen. He was twinkling again; he had decided to be amused. “Anyone who comes up with a scientific explanation gets an A.” He turned and started back.
Murder Is Pathological Page 1
