There was a pause that went on too long for Beckett’s liking.
“I’m sorry Dr. Campbell, but the director isn’t in right now. But I can relay a message if you want?”
Beckett looked around to make sure that no one was within hearing distance and then leaned close to the microphone.
“Tell him that it I’ve come into possession of another organ — I’ll wait.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Campbell. As I said, the director’s not in right now so you’ll have to—”
“Tell him that if he doesn’t want to talk to me about these organs, I’m sure someone at the Times will. It’ll make a nice follow-up to the piece they did on the ribbon cutting ceremony just the other day. And considering that I’m on the Board of Directors of this Goddamn place, maybe he should take what I have to say seriously. What do you think, Sally?”
Another pause, but instead of the woman coming back on the intercom, Beckett heard a buzz.
He frowned and pushed the door open.
Chapter 15
“I don’t like being threatened, Dr. Campbell,” Dr. Singh said as he and Beckett strode down the empty hallway.
“And I don’t like having organs dumped on my desk,” Beckett replied. The man stopped suddenly and turned to face Beckett.
He had pale blue eyes that stood out on his dark skin; eyes that presently bore into Beckett.
“What’s your game here, Dr. Campbell? You want money? Funding? Because let me tell you, the McEwing Foundation didn’t even give us enough to open on time. You think that we wanted to do the grand opening and then close the doors immediately afterward? You think that was the plan? You think I wanted to make up some bullshit story for the press so that they wouldn’t be all over us?”
Beckett blinked several times and wished at that moment that he’d actually paid attention at the board of directors meeting rather than picking fluff from his navel.
Still…
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked.
When the director just gawked, Beckett was forced to bite his tongue. He wanted to tell this guy off; Dr. Singh was worried about funding and how the press perceived things when Beckett had just told him that he had two hearts that were suitable for donation that had been ruined and a liver that was destined to end up in the incinerator.
But he didn’t.
Beckett might be short-tempered, but he also recognized when being civil was more likely to get him what he wanted, no matter how it pained him to act out of character.
And given the stakes, he saw little choice in the matter.
“Look, man, all I want to do was find out why these organs are getting sent to my office — that’s it. I want to know where they come from, so UPS or FedEx or whoever the hell dropped them off can get them to where they need to go. So people don’t die.”
Now it was the director’s turn to shake his head.
“Well, Dr. Campbell, like I told you, I don’t know —”
This is going nowhere…
He hated when doctors played politicians and vice-versa.
Beckett suddenly held up the white vinyl bag with ‘ORGAN DONOR FOR TRANSPLANT’ written on the side.
“Have you seen this before?”
Dr. Singh stared at it for a moment.
“Yeah, that looks like the type of bags we have… they came with some of the other equipment we purchased — thrown in as part of the package. You know how these medical device companies work: buy ten dialysis machines at 30k apiece, and they’ll throw in some swag.”
Beckett raised an eyebrow.
“And are you missing any? Two, to be precise?”
The director sighed and his shoulders slumped. For the first time since they’d met, the man seemed to let his guard down. And as he did, his perfect hair and skin melted away, leaving behind just a man in his mid-sixties who was clearly exhausted of playing dual roles.
Beckett had seen this before.
He’d known doctors who spent considerable effort trying to be something that other people wanted them to be — a physician by day, and someone who was smiling all the time and receptive to donors by night — when all they wanted to do was relax in sweatpants and drink a cold Budweiser.
In the end, it had torn them apart, leading to severe depression and extended leaves of absence.
Yeah, Beckett knew the feeling and he had to fight the sudden urge to rub the tattoos under his right arm.
“To be honest, I have no idea. I doubt even our storage room staff have any clue as to how many bags are supposed to be in there. It’s just been such a shit show ever since we started having these funding problems.”
Now that the real Dr. Singh had come out, Beckett started to take pity on the man.
“I understand, Dr. Sing — trust me, I do. I hate all this bureaucratic bullshit as much as the next guy. But do you think I could take a look? I mean, I’m not out to get anybody here, I’m just trying to make sure that no other perfectly good organs are wasted.”
The director looked around briefly before turning back to Beckett.
“I’ll tell you what; if you want, you can go down the hall and look in the storage room yourself. Like I said, though, it’s a fucking shit show in there and I doubt you’ll find anything. But if you’re looking for more of those bags that’s where they should be. Other than that, the only thing I can suggest is to reach out to UNOS. See if they can help.”
As he spoke, the man’s shoulders started to stiffen and he regained his previous composure, posture, and identity.
“Thanks,” Beckett said and then he reached out and slapped the man on the back.
The director frowned, nodded, and then started down the hall in the opposite direction.
“I have a meeting to get to, so please see yourself out when you’re done.”
With that, Dr. Singh bowed his head and left Beckett to his thoughts.
Chapter 15
The director wasn’t lying; if anything, he was understating the shit show that was the storage locker.
The 20 x 20’ room was located at the very end of a long, nondescript hallway. It was labeled as a Supply Room, but after opening the door, Beckett quickly realized that it would be more appropriately defined as a junk room. It reminded him of the drawer that everyone had in their kitchen, the one filled with crap that you never needed, but for some reason were hesitant to throw out: elastics, chopsticks, staples without a matching stapler, and wounded paperclips.
After wading through about a metric ton of plastic tubing, Beckett found a plastic shelf at the back. Stacked on this shelf were several cardboard boxes with ‘TRANSPLANT UNIT’ scrawled on the side. Curious, Beckett looked for one that was already open.
He found one near the bottom against the wall. After removing it from the shelf, he sat on the floor and opened it. It took him less than 30 seconds to peel away the cellophane and realize that he was staring at a nearly full box of white vinyl cooler bags that were identical to the one that he had brought with him to the Unit.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Beckett pulled the first bag out of the box and unfolded it. Then he carefully scanned the interior. Inside there was the ubiquitous manufacturer's tag, along with washing instructions, which he thought strange, but he also noticed a small sticker wedged in one of the seams.
Using his nails, he managed to tease it out. On the sticker, which was about the size of a postage stamp, was a seven-digit number, followed by two letters: AC.
Beckett thought about this for a moment, before concluding that it must have been some sort of inspection number.
He flipped the bag that he had brought with him inside out and, sure enough in almost the exact same location, he found a similar sticker.
A sticker with the exact same inspection number on it.
Excited now, he took another box off the shelf and tore it open. A quick search revealed that while these bags also had numbers, they finished with PT and not AC.
Afte
r snapping a few pictures, Beckett shoved the bags back in the boxes and replaced them on the shelf. Then he left the musty-smelling Storage Room and hurried down the hallway.
But instead of leaving as the director had suggested he should, Beckett searched around until he found the secretary’s office.
She was tucked away in a room near the entrance, and when he knocked on the door, she looked up, a startled expression on her face. The expression on the thick woman’s face said it all.
That’s what you get for being a dick, Beckett.
He put on his best fake smile and knocked again.
With an unwavering scowl, the woman eventually waved him in.
“How can help you?” she snapped as soon as Beckett entered the cramped office.
“Hi there. My name is—”
“I know who you are. And my name isn’t Sally, but Tracy, Tracy Allman. Is there something that I can help you with? The director has given me strict instructions not to let anyone inside the unit until it’s officially open to the public.”
Beckett resisted the urge to roll his eyes. At present, it appeared that every human in the world had inexplicably lost the ability to come up with a unique sentence. All they seemed capable of was repeating the same refrains over and over again.
“No offense, but…”
“This is just my opinion…”
“Sorry to interrupt…”
Beckett cleared his throat. If charm wasn’t going to get him anywhere then he had to resort to more archaic methods; mainly, bribery.
He held up a finger and with his other hand he reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
After dramatically flattening the crumpled bill, Beckett placed it on the counter in front of Tracy Allman.
“I’m sorry for being rude earlier, it’s been a long… well, week or so. I just have a simple question for you.”
The woman looked at the hundred-dollar bill on the table as if it were a rotting fish.
Whoops, Beckett thought, maybe bribery wasn’t the best approach here.
“I’m not a hooker,” she snapped.
Beckett’s eyes bulged as he stared at the woman’s meaty hands, the broad nose that jutted from horn-rimmed glasses.
Not sure anyone would accuse you of that, sweetheart.
“I’m sorry for being a dick, I really am. And I had no intention of overstepping, uhh, boundaries. But here’s the thing: there are over 160,000 people waiting for organs in the US, but less than 10,000 donors. The truth is, most will die waiting to get an organ. And hearts, in particular, are exceedingly rare. Seeing as you are so good at your job, I’m sure you must have overheard mine and Dr. Singh’s conversation and understand why I was so desperate to speak to him.”
Something in the woman’s face changed and Beckett knew that he had finally pressed the right button.
What you can’t win by charm or bribery, you can acquire by guilt.
“All I want to know is who had access to the Storage Room over the past few days.”
The woman nodded slowly.
“To be honest, it’s been pretty much a ghost town around here. Aside from myself and Dr. Singh, we’ve had a handful of technicians setting up some equipment. That’s about it.”
Beckett frowned.
“No one else?”
Tracy started to shake her head, then stopped.
“Well, people from the foundation were here prior to the opening. But no other doctors or benefactors.”
The McEwing Foundation, Beckett thought. As in Grant McEwing.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the bill off the counter and slipping it back into his pocket. “And, Sally? Don’t forget to check off ‘Organ Donor’ next time you renew your license.”
Chapter 17
Beckett had no sooner left the transplant unit when his cell phone started to ring. In general, he found the thing annoying — more in principle than in practice.
Who wanted to be reachable at all times during the day? Certainly not him and certainly not the residents. As a result, he usually kept a low profile, suggesting to others that his cell phone should only be called in case of an emergency.
But with everything that was happening these days, everything seemed to fit that bill.
He answered without even checking to see who was calling first.
“Beckett.”
“Hey, Dr. Campbell. It’s Trevor,” a male voice he didn’t recognize replied.
Beckett turned his gaze upward. The sun was high in the sky now, and he realized that he’d spent more time in the transplant unit than he’d thought.
“I’m not interested in taking any survey,” he said flatly.
“What?”
Beckett pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number on the display.
“Oh, Lab Guy! Why didn’t you just say that — thought you were a telemarketer.”
“Yeah, umm, anyway, I grabbed the heart on your desk earlier and I managed to do some testing on the organs that your TA brought by yesterday.”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed; anything the man could tell him about who the organs belonged to might get him closer to figuring out who had sent them.
“Yeah, go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Well, it’s not much, but both organs belonged to a male between the ages of 18 and 30-ish. Healthy male, as far as I can tell.”
Beckett chewed the inside of his lip. Organs from young people were rare, but in the case of males, there tended to be one cause of death that was more common than all others combined: car accidents.
He made a mental note to look into if there were any recent fatal car accidents in New York involving men in this age group.
“Are they from the same person?” he asked.
“Not sure; all I can say is that both are from a person or persons in the same age group. If you really want to know, I can do some genetic testing to find out.”
Beckett nodded.
“I want.”
“It’s not gonna be cheap, Dr. Campbell.”
“Can’t you just run it through the general lab fund?”
“It doesn’t really qualify for general lab work. Besides, I wouldn’t even know how to bill the service. And something like this… something in the two to five-thousand-dollar range will immediately be flagged.”
Beckett frowned.
Five grand for a simple genetic comparison test? Shit, I can send a buccal swab to a website and get my entire DNA profile for less than a c-note.
He sighed.
“Fine. Just bill it to the pathology department care of myself and I’ll make sure you get paid. Speaking of which, what’s the status of the organs? Still viable?”
“The liver’s fine — cryopreserving it — I’d say an eight out of ten. The heart is done, though.”
“And you have no idea where they might have come from?”
The Lab Guy paused.
“I thought you were looking into that?”
And there’s my answer.
“Shit, alright. Thanks, Lab Guy. I’ll be in touch.”
“Dr. Campbell, I just—”
Beckett quickly hung up the phone before Lab Guy asked him out on a date.
Five grand? Seriously?
The idea irked him. It was amazing how a private company could do something so cost-efficiently, while a publicly funded institution charged an order of magnitude more for the same task.
This line of thinking brought back something that Dr. Singh had said, about how the funding for the new transplant unit had dried up.
Beckett knew little of the McEwing Foundation other than the fact that Dr. Peter McEwing had been running the show until he’d died, and that his children were now in charge. But he recalled seeing something in the paper that Delores had shown him yesterday, not about Winston Trent, but about the McEwing Foundation.
As luck would have it, a kid with slicked hair and a soul patch was striding toward him, his face buried in a newspaper. Th
is was something of a rare sight: a young college student reading an actual newspaper.
Beckett suspected that the kid was a vegan-environmentalist-hipster who was saving the world by using the fine print for toilet paper when he was done cursing the capitalist pigs who had written it.
Organ Donor: A Medical Thriller (Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner Book 1) Page 6
