Near Death

by Glenn Cooper

  “That’s a lot of money for a lab tech,” Cyrus said.

  Lombardy looked up from his pad. “So you know the guy.”

  “Yeah, we know him,” Cyrus answered. “He works at Harvard.”

  “This looks like a drug deal gone bad. That’s what I think,” Lombardy said. “You following a drug angle here?”

  Avakian shrugged. “Not that we know of.”

  “Well, that’s my working theory,” the detective said. “We’ll see if it holds up.”

  The medical examiner announced he was ready to turn the body and his assistants did the honors.

  Everyone in the room saw the same thing at once.

  “What the hell’s that?” Lombardy asked.

  Three thin tubes of red paper were poking out of Sacco’s shirt pocket.

  “Check it out, would you, Doc?” Lombardy asked the ME.

  The pathologist used a forceps to remove one of the tubes. He shook it lightly. “There’s something in it,” he said.

  “Open it,” Lombardy urged.

  With fresh gloves, the ME unwrapped the tube on top of an evidence bag. A tiny amount of snow-white crystals spilled out.

  “I told you it was drugs!” Lombardy triumphantly exclaimed.

  “What do you think it is?” Avakian asked.

  The ME fetched a magnifying loupe from his tray and squinted through it. “I doubt it’s coke or speed, the quantity’s too small. I don’t think it’s LSD. Frankly, I don’t have a clue. I’ll send it over to the drug unit in Sudbury and you’ll know when I know.”

  Cyrus had a request. “Before you take him away, do me a favor and check his head for another wound.”

  “What kind of wound?” the ME asked, bagging the powder.

  “An eighth-of-an-inch drill hole in one of the temples.”

  The pathologist looked at Cyrus as though he were mental but knelt over the body to take a closer look at Sacco’s skull. “No. Nothing else.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Cyrus and Avakian pushed through a growing throng of reporters and bystanders. When they were out of earshot, Avakian asked, “You don’t think Weller was involved, do you?”

  “It’s completely different from the others. I can’t see it.”

  “Want to talk to Weller again?”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus told him, “but not right away. Let’s see what the police come up with on Sacco first. I can’t see asserting jurisdiction from what we’ve got so far.”

  Avakian agreed. He got to his car first. “The kid was probably into dealing and got whacked for it.”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus agreed, “but what kind of drugs?”

  Alex rarely watched television but that evening he sat with Jessie, cemented to the local news because so much of it touched home.

  The instant he heard about the Treblehorn case, Alex began to fret. An ecstatic drug experience leading to an alleged suicide—so soon after his bottle went missing? Then, as details began to emerge, he knew it in his heart. It had to be his pentapeptide.

  On the streets.

  He’d been preoccupied with his research and working to exhaustion but this couldn’t be ignored. The previous night he’d rehearsed how he’d confront Frank: how he wouldn’t let him off the hook until he confessed to what he’d done.

  Frank, though, never made it to work. Then the nonstop phone calls began pouring in from people who’d heard about the murder—including members of the Uroboros Society, each of whom added the exact same coda to the conversation: When are we going to get more drug?

  Frank’s elderly neighbor now was being interviewed on TV. He was a good kid, she told the reporter. She’d known his grandfather. Who would do such a thing?

  “Yeah, who?” Alex asked grimly.

  Jessie touched his shoulder. “We shouldn’t be sad. We should be happy for him.”

  “He’s in a better place, for sure,” Alex said. “But who put him there?”

  “Do you think he stole your drug?”

  “Yes I do.”

  The TV news turned to the Treblehorn case. Jennifer Sheridan’s high school yearbook photo filled the screen. Tomorrow would be the funeral in her hometown in Connecticut. Treblehorn’s lawyer was onscreen again, reasserting his client’s innocence.

  A reporter now stood on Harrison Avenue outside Tufts New England Medical Center. Earlier she’d spoken to drug abuse specialist Dr. Vincent Desjardines about the mysterious drug that had led to Sheridan’s death.

  The ferretlike weak-chinned man in his fifties looked stiffly from behind his desk into the camera. “I’m seeing more cases every day,” he explained, holding up a red paper straw. “I got this from one of my patients. This is the drug they’re calling Bliss.”

  “What is it, Doctor?” the reporter asked.

  “We don’t know yet. We’re having it analyzed.”

  Jessie gasped and pointed. “Alex! It’s yours!”

  Alex nervously got off the couch, smoothed back his long hair and started pacing. “Jesus, Frank … what did you do?”

  At that moment, Cyrus too was pacing in his apartment, on a frustrating call with his ex-wife. He wanted to speak to Tara but Marian claimed she was sleeping. Tara’s naps were getting longer, she told him, and her energy was fading. He asked her to check; she huffed loudly and unhappily obliged. He was feeling rotten about not calling during the day but he’d been too busy. The TV was droning in the background, Vincent Desjardines behind his desk—holding up a red paper stick identical to the one found in Frank Sacco’s pocket that morning.

  “Jesus,” Cyrus whispered.

  When Marian came back on the phone to confirm that Tara was asleep, the line was dead.

  Twenty-seven

  Vincent Desjardines looked even smaller in person than on TV. Cyrus dwarfed the man, and whether it was his bulk or his badge, he seemed to intimidate him as well. That the wall behind Desjardines’ desk was covered in diplomas and association memberships, including a PhD in psychology from the University of Illinois, did little to instill self-confidence.

  Desjardines began with an edgy preamble that he was unaccustomed to media attention and public scrutiny and that he was finding it disruptive to his normal routines: he was neglecting his practice at one of the largest drug abuse clinics in the city. Yes, Bliss was a fascinating new drug that had appeared out of nowhere, but he had a legion of heroin and meth addicts who required his attention too.

  “I need more staff,” he lamented, as if Cyrus could authorize hiring requisitions.

  “I won’t take too much of your time, but I need to know more about Bliss. We’re in the middle of an active investigation.”

  “On the drug?”

  “Not specifically, but the drug may be related. We’re working on a homicide case—multiple homicides, actually.”

  Desjardines arched his brows in alarm. “Oh!”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  The psychologist had a tabbed three-ring binder filled with meticulous notes. He opened it, put on glasses then said quickly, “I hope you’re not expecting any patient-specific information. You’d need a court order to even begin talking to me on that level.”

  Cyrus assured the doctor he wanted to know about Bliss, not his patients.

  Desjardines nodded, looking to his notes. His first indication of something new, he explained, came from a multiple-drug user, a young Puerto Rican man he referred to as DF, with a long history of marijuana, Oxycontin, and heroin abuse. During the interview, Desjardines thought what he was hearing so extraordinary that he asked permission to record it. “Do you want to hear the tape?” he asked Cyrus.

  “Of course.”

  Desjardines fast-forwarded past the patient’s name and clinic number and hit Play.

  VD: How have you been since your last appointment?

  DF: I’ve been good. Really good.

  VD: I’m glad to hear that. Tell me about your level of drug use?

  DF: I’ve been clean.

  VD: That’s excellent, but
I guess that surprises me.

  DF: Well, almost clean. I don’t know if you count Bliss.

  VD: What is Bliss?

  DF: It’s new. At least I never heard of it before now.

  I’m not interested in the other stuff anymore.

  VD: I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Is it ecstasy? LSD?

  DF: No. It’s way different.

  VD: How so?

  DF: It connects you to something. It takes you to the other side. You’re like floating over your own body, then you go zooming off toward a light.

  VD: I see. Is this is a tablet, a capsule, an injectable?

  DF: It’s a powder. You put it on your tongue.

  VD: I’m sorry for interrupting. You said you see a light. Is that it?

  DF: Only the beginning. After the light, you’re there— on the other side. There’s a beautiful river. You want to go to it. You feel good about being there … very good.

  VD: All right …

  DF: There’s these stones leading across. High out of the water, if it’s water. I’m not sure. I mean it sounds like water. Then I see my old man.

  VD: Your father?

  DF: Yeah. But he died when I was a kid. The crazy thing is, he’s there the way I remember him, right down to the shirt he always wore. He’s waving at me.

  He’s happy as shit.

  VD: Then what happens?

  DF: I get all excited, like a kid on Christmas, you know. And I start to cross over on the stones. The closer I get to him, the better I feel. It’s a huge rush. A total body rush. Like nothing else. Like the best shit times a million.

  VD: Okay, and then?

  DF: The closer I get, the better it feels. It’s hard to believe but it keeps building. My dad’s yelling his ass off, he’s jumping up and down, then I get the feeling that someone’s behind him, way off in the distance. I can’t see anything there but I feel it. It feels like …

  VD: Like what?

  DF: It sounds stupid, but it feels like … like God is there. But before I can get any closer I’m heading back the way I came, really fast, like you’re riding the wind. Then it’s over. You can’t believe it’s over. You don’t want it to be over.

  VD: And that’s it. That’s the end of the trip?

  DF: That’s it. It’s always the same.

  VD: You’ve taken it more than once?

  DF: Three times. It’s amazing each time but always the same.

  VD: Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it? Tell me, how long does each trip last?

  DF: Maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer.

  VD: Are you awake during this experience?

  DF: I don’t know what you mean. I feel awake.

  VD: Has anyone seen you while you’re under the influence?

  DF: I’ve always been alone.

  VD: And the trip is universally positive?

  DF: Positive? It’s so fucking fantastic it hurts. Does that make sense? As soon as it’s over I want to do it again: to see my dad and to see if God’s there.

  VD: Are you a religious person?

  DF: Me? I’m a Catholic. But I don’t go to church.

  VD: Okay. Where did you get the drug?

  DF: You know. On the streets. I know a guy who turned me on to it.

  VD: Do you know where it comes from?

  DF: No.

  VD: Is there a lot of it going around?

  DF: A lot? I don’t know. I few people I know have taken it.

  VD: What does a hit cost you?

  DF: It’s expensive, seventy-five a hit.

  VD: The other people you know who’ve taken it: How do they describe their trips?

  DF: That’s the weird thing. They all had the same experience as me. Except that the person over the river is always someone they know. Or knew. It’s always someone who’s dead.

  Desjardines clicked off the recorder.

  “What did you make of it when you heard that?” Cyrus asked.

  “I didn’t know what to think. I was intrigued, of course. I did what scientists are supposed to do when they have more questions than answers. I tried to get more data.”

  He began, he said, to look for other cases; it didn’t take long. One by one, patients trickled into his clinic. By the time William Treblehorn was arrested, Desjardines was the first and only medical expert on the street use of Bliss.

  When he sat down to ponder his initial collection of eight cases—most involving heavy substance abusers—he was struck by something: despite the similarity of the experiences described, consequences varied.

  “Eight cases?” Cyrus repeated.

  “Until yesterday,” Desjardines replied, pointing to a stack of e-mails he’d printed out. “Colleagues from all over New England have been contacting me about similar cases. I’ve lost count. I think more than twenty, but they’re lacking the details of my cases,” he said, tapping his notes. “If I had help, I’d be returning these e-mails and getting more info.”

  “I want to come back to what you said about differing consequences in your eight cases,” Cyrus said.

  Desjardines started flipping through the binder, spouting off details.

  Subject 1. DF: Twenty-four-year-old Hispanic male, the recorded interview. The man had taken Bliss several more times, though he could scarcely afford it. He said he’d rather have the drug than put food on his table.

  Subject 2. JE: Seventeen-year-old white male. History of heavy marijuana and alcohol abuse. Used Bliss six times. Sees his deceased grandmother. Refuses to return to high school. Withdrawn. Placed on antidepressants.

  Subject 3. BN: Twenty-two-year-old black male. Crack addict. Has taken Bliss several times. Sees a friend of his from high school who was shot and killed five years ago. Has stopped smoking crack and now devoutly attends his mother’s church in Mattapan. Says he is “full of joy.”

  Subject 4. EW: Forty-five-year-old white male, stockbroker. Alcoholic, history of methamphetamine abuse. Used Bliss over ten times. Saw his mother. Had euphoric reaction. Immediately quit his job. Stopped drinking. Sits around the house in meditative state. Wife is pleased about the drinking but worries about loss of financial support.

  Subject 5. RG: Thirty-one-year-old black female. Took drug twice. Became hysterical after each trip. One day after second exposure, died of heroin overdose. Police report lists it as accidental but sister thinks it was intentional.

  Subject 6. FC: Twenty-four-year-old white male. LSD, ecstasy user. Nightclub sound man. Sees his mother, who died in a house fire. Is relieved she doesn’t appear burned. Wants to keep going back to see her and plans on taking more drug if he can find/afford it. Thinking about quitting his job as it now seems “trivial.”

  Subject 7. JL: Thirty-year-old Hispanic male. Heroin addict. Used Bliss half a dozen times. Won’t divulge whom he saw across river. Says “it’s personal.” Has used heroin a few times since taking Bliss but thinks he can quit now.

  Subject 8. TY: Sixty-four-year-old white male. Methadone addict for over twenty years. Chronic poor health, heart failure. Took drug three times. Sees his deceased wife. Seems more relaxed and tranquil than VD ever recalls. Missed his last appointment. No response to phone calls. Urgent need to follow up on patient’s status.

  Cyrus’s hand cramped from rapid note-taking. Stretching it out, he asked, “Is that it?”

  “Essentially. When I read about the woman who jumped out the window after taking Bliss I called the police to tell them what I knew.”

  “On the news last night you showed one of the red tubes. Where’d you get it?”

  “I had my first patient buy me a couple. On the street they’re called sticks.” He fished one out of his desk.

  Cyrus inspected it. The stick was identical to those in Sacco’s pocket. “What did you do with the other one?” Cyrus asked.

  “I sent it to the hospital toxicology laboratory for analysis. They had to refer it out to some place in Kansas City. I’m waiting for the report. For all I know, it’s in my inbox. As I said, I’ve been swamped
.”

  “Could you please check?”

  The small man sighed and swung his chair around to access his e-mail account. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “They sent it to me yesterday. That’s what happens when you’re understaffed.” He clicked on the attachment. “I’ll print it out.”

  Desjardines inspected the two-page report. “Well, this is interesting! I’ve never seen this compound before and apparently the lab in Missouri hasn’t either. It’s a circular peptide: five amino acids in a ring structure.” He looked up and sniffed, “Where the hell did it come from?”

  The doctor made a copy and handed it over. To Cyrus, it was gobbledygook. He folded it and put it away.

  “So, give me a bottom line,” Cyrus said. “What are we looking at here?”

  “My bottom line?” Desjardines frowned. “My bottom line is that I’ve got a very bad feeling about this drug.”

  Twenty-eight

  The Chinese grad student in Alex’s lab who picked up the phone finally told an insistent Cyrus she thought her boss might be working out at the Harvard indoor track. He liked the idea of catching Weller off guard so he jumped in his car and headed to Cambridge. Avakian was at a parent-teacher meeting at his daughter’s school so Cyrus went alone, trying hard not to think about all the future parent-teacher meetings he’d be missing.

  He parked near the Harvard football stadium and showed his badge to get into the Gordon Indoor Track. This late in the morning there weren’t many runners. He spotted Weller immediately, tall and lanky, ponytail bobbing against the back of his t-shirt as he circled the banked brick-red oval. Cyrus climbed onto the bleachers and watched him for half a circuit. He was fluid, a natural runner, and Cyrus felt a pang of jealousy at Weller’s long, seemingly carefree lopes. He’d been a good runner himself years ago. He tried to imagine the fine feeling of cruise speed but it was difficult to remember. Perhaps one day he’d start again. Maybe in the spring.

  Weller came out of the turn and promptly locked onto Cyrus. He didn’t slow down or stop, didn’t register surprise or alarm—only a thin-lipped smile and a jabbing finger to his wristwatch, a sign that Cyrus would just have to cool his jets.