by Dan Rabarts
Penny doesn’t answer. Instead, she gets to her feet, opens the back door and grabs her satchel with the rest of her reports tucked inside. She eases herself into the passenger seat, as if she’s sore from head to toe, and pulls the door closed with all the quiet aplomb she can manage.
“What did you want to see in the report?”
Matiu nods to himself. Tougher than she looks, his Penny. He puts the car in gear and pulls back onto the road. “Beaker reported that the blood was mostly canine, right? A Staffie cross?”
“Correct.”
“That’s a fighting dog. I’m not saying they all are, but it fits with what we’ve seen, right? There’s a good chance that the dog whose blood was at the storeroom scene came from Hanson’s farm.”
“We haven’t been able to prove that yet.”
“We might be able to if we could get your friends at the cop shop to run Fletcher’s and Kerr’s number-plates through the government farms’ security footage. They would’ve had to drive past them to get to Hanson’s, like we did.”
Penny flinches. “We can’t do that.”
“I know,” Matiu agrees. “As soon as you ask for that, they’ll see we were there too. Maybe best to assume that that’s going to happen anyway and start planning your cover story.”
“You’re not helping.”
“OK, OK. Can we just make a connection here—call it a hunch—that Kerr went to Hanson and bought a Staffie from him, for Fletcher, because Fletcher is a decent guy really and doesn’t want to get messed up in that stuff.”
“But we found Fletcher’s beanie and his wallet at the scene.”
“So he was there, but let’s run a quick character profile. Fletcher is a frontman, all smiles and sound bites and PR. Kerr is a shadow dealer, his backup. Presumably she’s running things in the background, right? Quietly, since even Rosie thinks they’ve broken up, that Fletcher’s given her the heave-ho. But she’s there, pulling strings. She gets things done. She’s the one who goes into the house with Hanson, who goes and chooses the dog, who does the deal. Fletcher sits on the porch, walks around looking at the trees, all fascinated by being out in the rurals for once. Making small talk with the farmhand, who quietly swipes his wallet from his back pocket and his beanie from his jacket. Meanwhile he’s wondering what the hell that smell is, not realising it’s fresh air.”
“You’re conjecturing again.”
“No, I’m profiling. It’s psychology.”
“You can’t psych profile people you’ve never met.”
“Yeah, I can. Aren’t you listening to me? Sheesh, and you call yourself a scientist. Anyway, one day, not long ago, Fletcher gets home, picks up Cerberus from Rosie and heads upstairs. Man and dog go into the apartment, and what does the dog see? This woman, who he already dislikes, sitting in his house with another dog. In dog terms, you can’t do much worse than that. That’s a territorial invasion. All hell breaks loose. So, Cerberus now hates this woman for bringing another dog into the house, and whatever Fletcher had planned to do with the dog, he can’t do it there, not now. He needs somewhere else, somewhere private. Somewhere no one will interrupt him. An empty warehouse, perhaps?”
Matiu lets this sink in, his mind racing to put the rest of the pieces together. The pylons of the harbour bridge whip past them with a soft swooshing sound.
Penny is shaking her head. “But, why? What’s the dog for?”
“I’ve told you, it’s a sacrifice.”
“Will you get off that idea already?”
“I’m telling you, sister. I felt it in that room, in Fletcher’s apartment. There had to be a sacrifice. And Fletcher didn’t have the balls to let it be Cerberus.”
Penny holds up her hands. “Just stop, all right. You’re so completely off the rails that I can’t even bear to think about it anymore. None of the evidence supports what you’re saying.”
“Actually, all the proof is there, you just don’t want to see it.”
“There are holes in your theory I could drive a truck through.”
“You can’t drive a truck. You can’t even drive a car.”
“Shut up. Slow down, this is the turn-off to Devonport.”
Matiu brakes and changes lanes. Absorbed in his musings, he’d stopped paying attention to the GPS. “Let’s see what we find out at Buchanan’s.”
“Probably that the clinic is closed for the night?”
Matiu waves his hand. “A mere technicality.”
“Fine. But you’re buying dinner.”
Matiu lifts an eyebrow. “You’re feeling up to eating already? Wow, my little sister is growing up.”
“Shut up,” Penny says again. “And I’m your big sister. Don’t you forget it.”
“OK, little big sister.” Matiu pulls onto the foreshore avenue. “Anything you say.”
CHAPTER 19
- Pandora -
Stuck to the inside of the glass and facing the street, the disclaimer states that no sharps or drugs are kept on the premises. The doors are shut. They’ve arrived too late and the clinic is closed, the faint glow of white security lighting evident in the upstairs windows. Stepping closer, Penny makes a tepee of her hands, pressing them to the glass on one side of the disclaimer for a better look inside. With a bit of luck an employee may still be in there, working late. But only the deserted corridor is visible.
Damn.
Penny was hoping it would be the centre’s late night, and the doctor still there. After Matiu’s latest revelations, she was looking forward to the reassurance of a clinic, where everything is clean, and sharp, and ordered. Medical records, lab results, appointment dates. Psychology reports. Pharmaceutical samples. Squeaky linoleum floors. Anything to obliterate Matiu’s crazy-arsed theories of sacrifices and scooped-out skulls.
Of creatures with tentacles.
Penny sighs. She’s just tired. Working on assays half the night, she’s hardly slept. She got maybe two hours sleep, three at most, and that’s likely to be affecting her cognitive processing. It’s the only sensible explanation.
Tentacles. Honestly.
She made them up. Those tentacles are simply the delusions of a tired brain. It’s well-documented that lack of sleep leads to impaired reasoning. Besides, brains gobble around twenty percent of resting metabolic rate, and all she’s had to eat today is a piece of toast, hours ago, before…Involuntarily, she wipes her mouth, wishing she had a breath mint to take away the lingering taste of vomit.
“Come on, Cerberus, boy,” Penny says. “Nothing to see here tonight.” Gathering up the slack in the leash, she turns back to the car and is halfway across the road when Matiu calls her back.
“Pandora, wait!”
She turns. Matiu is standing by the open door, his grin as wide as a stadium turnstile, and waving her in as if she has block tickets to the corporate box.
What the hell?
She glances up and down the street, then hurries forward.
“What did you do?” she hisses. “Pick the lock? Matiu, we can’t just go around breaking and entering people’s premises. I’m Scientific Consultant to the police. I have a responsibility to abide by the rules.”
Matiu gives her a look that is all spring lambs and clover. “It was open.”
“It was not!”
He holds up his hands. “It swung open when I pushed it. I swear.”
“Well, too bad if it did.” She folds her arms, the end of the leash tucked under her wrist, and taps her foot angrily. “We are not going in there.”
“Penny, we’re here. The door is open. We should take a look. What if Fletcher is still alive? Come on.”
“It’s trespass.”
“It’s a man’s life.”
Penny hesitates. Light from the clinic spills into the doorway, casting the
ir shadows in the darkened street. Matiu cocks an eyebrow and mimes ushering her through the door. She bites the inside of her cheek. This is so confusing. If they go in and uncover some important evidence, how will they explain their presence here, unaccompanied and after hours, and without a warrant? She doesn’t rate her chances of getting another police contract too highly after that. And Matiu’s on probation. A citation for trespass could send him straight back to jail. But then she thinks of Rose Fletcher with her white hands, her violet sprigged crockery, and her tins full of almond slice. Poor Rose Fletcher who’s waiting anxiously at home, wondering what’s happened to her brother Darius, her only remaining relative. If Penny and Matiu don’t go in, they could miss vital clues which might lead them to Fletcher…
In the end, Cerberus makes the decision for her, dashing inside and yanking her along with him. Matiu closes the door after them.
“Weird that there was no alarm,” Penny says, shortening the lead again and reining the Golden Lab back.
“Yeah, weird that,” Matiu replies. He crosses the wait-room to the windows and drops the Roman blinds before switching on the lights.
“I guess whoever locked up must have forgotten to arm it.”
“Hmm,” Matiu murmurs. He holds out a hand. “Any surgical gloves in your handbag?”
“Good idea.” Penny slips her a hand into her satchel, passes him a pair and puts some on herself. “They’re size XS.”
Matiu takes the gloves anyway, grimacing as he snaps them on, his skin squeezed white beneath the latex. Then he slips behind the reception desk, where he starts pulling out drawers and rifling through the contents.
Da duh, da da da da duh…
Matiu looks up.
Penny checks at the screen and mimes the word ‘Mum’. He smirks.
“Hello Mum? This isn’t a very good time.”
“You said that last time.”
“I know, but it really isn—”
“You were going to phone me back.”
“I haven’t had time. I’m still at work.”
“But that’s just the point. Craig phoned. It turns out there is a vacancy in science policy. Isn’t that marvellous? It’ll be entry level, of course, but according to Craig the job has good prospects and you wouldn’t have to work the ridiculous hours you’re working now.”
“That’s great, Mum, but—”
“Craig’s going to find out exactly what they’re looking for…”
Spying the old-fashioned bell on the reception counter, Penny dings it. “Sorry, Mum. That was the Breadmaker completing its cycle. I have to take my assays down.” She dings the bell again for good measure. “Better run. Bye… Don’t say anything,” she says as she pockets the phone.
Matiu smiles. “Never said a word.”
“Hey, look at this.” On the reception counter beside the bell is a flexible display magazine. Penny waves it at Matiu. “Here’s our man here. Buchanan.” She angles the magazine so they can both look at the cover image. A Caucasian in his mid-fifties, Buchanan has short salt and pepper hair, a thin nose, and fashionably neat stubble. His pale blue shirt is open at the neck in a look that is carefully casual.
Penny reads the headline aloud: “‘Buchanan’s Baby Bots: Auckland Physician’s Revolutionary Cancer Treatment.’ Feature article of a high-end medical journal. Very fancy. Buchanan must be raking it in.” Laying the magazine flat on the counter, she transfers Cerberus’ lead to her other hand, looping it over her wrist while the dog sniffs at a spot on the carpet.
“Not necessarily,” Matiu says, returning to his search. “Not everyone who features on a magazine cover is there because they’ve made it. Could be Buchanan needs the publicity? That sort of promo doesn’t come cheap.”
“You’re always the cynic, you know that?” Penny says, swiping one-handed across the screen. “Why is it so hard to believe that sometimes people do things that are worthy of recognition?” She stops at the feature article, her eyes skimming the text.
“I thought you said one of his patients committed suicide.”
“Hmm?”
“Buchanan’s patient. You said you worked a suicide case for Cordell.”
Penny hears the name Cordell. She stops reading.
“What?”
“Buchanan vs Suicide Victim.”
“Oh, that. It was a couple of years ago. Buchanan’s treatment was still in development.” She presses her index finger to the page. “Look, it says here that the procedure is undergoing trials.” She quotes from the article: “‘Buchanan’s state-of-the-art protocol is a highly sophisticated form of chemotherapy involving cancer-specific nanobots. Currently in development, the activated preprogrammed nanobots are introduced into a patient where they attach to and ‘digest’ cancer cells, leaving the healthy cells intact. Particularly effective in certain localised cancers, Buchanan has recently expanded his trials to include investigation of the treatment for systemic cancers, such as leukaemia…’ It goes on, although you were right: the article is mostly advertorial.”
“So maybe his treatment isn’t the silver bullet he makes out?”
“Whatever the disease, no treatment is 100 percent effective. There are always individual variations. And cancer is a hugely complex disease. Anyway, Buchanan was cleared of any blame in that case. The forensic data all pointed to suicide, and it was pretty clear that the guy in question was massively depressed.”
Cerberus starts to whine.
“Shh, boy,” Penny soothes. She knows how the dog feels. She wouldn’t mind a quick comfort stop herself. Well, he’s going to have to wait a few more minutes.
“What about Fletcher? Was he the type to take his own life?”
“I don’t know,” Penny says wistfully, stooping to scratch under Cerberus’ chin. “His sister didn’t seem to think so. A lot of people would say he had plenty to live for. But faced with their own mortality, does anyone know how they’d react?”
Matiu slides the last drawer shut, and blows hard through puffed cheeks. “Nothing in here.”
“Of course not,” Penny says, closing down the magazine and replacing it on the stack. “You’re not going to find Fletcher’s records by fossicking through a few file cabinets. Buchanan’s patient files will have been uploaded to the Med-Cloud. We’d need the doctor’s log-in and password to access those.”
“But there’ll be hardcopy records somewhere, right? I thought medical centres were required to keep them in case of a server failure.”
“Technically yes, but it’s possible they’ll be stored offsite.”
“What about Buchanan’s research files?”
Penny looks up. “The article says trial participants get personalised treatment plans.”
Matiu nods. “Let’s find his office.”
- Matiu -
The smoke hits him as soon as he pushes through the door. It boils forth like a dragon unleashed, swirling along the floor and ceiling as fresh air rushes into the back rooms. Matiu ducks, his eyes stinging, the acrid fumes burning his throat. “Penny! Get out! Call 111!”
Pulling his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose, Matiu moves down the corridor.
“Matiu, you can’t go down there!”
He turns back, shouts through his shirt. “Why haven’t the smoke alarms gone off? Someone must’ve disarmed them, which means they’re trying to destroy something. I’ll only be a minute.” Then he turns back to the roiling wall of smoke and heads into the warren of offices and examination rooms at the back of the building, leaving Penny gaping, stepping backwards to escape the smoke. He doesn’t wait to see if she does as she’s told. Glancing through one door after another, Matiu sees no one, and nothing that might be useful. A couple of consult rooms, a medical supplies storeroom, a bathroom, a small theatre with a bed and overhead lighting and arra
ys of surgical instruments laid out as if ready to be used. Matiu frowns at that small detail, then pushes open the doors at the end of the corridor, into what appears to be a long, narrow laboratory. Stainless steel benches fill the middle of the room, obscuring the far side. Immediately, the heat hits him, flames licking up the far wall, crawling along the ceiling. Not unexpectedly, the fire is raging around a server cage, a blown-out monitor jutting from the flames on a twisted extension arm. Along the walls, glass jars are bursting in the heat, and plastic containers are melting, adding their toxic reek to the swarming smoke. Matiu strips the overly tight gloves from hands and crushes them into his pocket, his throat suddenly burning and his eyes watering. Through the haze, he can see a printer on the workbench, and a stack of papers in the output tray. Their edges are curling up in the heat, and in a second they’ll be sucked into the vortex, but they might be just what he’s looking for.
Matiu advances, low to the floor, his lungs screaming. As he rounds one of the stainless benches that line the middle of the room, he scrapes to a stop. “For fuck’s sake,” he coughs to himself. “Not again.”
The body is sprawled on the floor behind the bench, one hand reaching for the server cabinet, the other jammed firmly in the pocket of their lab coat. Matiu snakes forward, coughing as the fumes scorch his throat, knowing he has only seconds before the smoke overwhelms him. He reaches the body and rolls it over.
Matiu nearly gags. He’d only glanced at the magazine Penny had shown him, but it could very easily be Buchanan, if not for what’s happened to his face. The printer and its precious cargo abandoned, Matiu wrestles the comatose form onto his shoulders, ignoring the sticky pool of blood he’s forced to lift him out of, braces himself for the hoist, and stands.
Immediately, he gasps a lungful of scorching smoke and stumbles, crashing into the bench and staggering to keep his feet. Grunting with the effort, his head spinning, Matiu pushes forward, the bench skittering away from him as he makes a break for the swinging doors. His legs are turning to rubber underneath him, and suddenly he’s falling, the walls rushing up, and there’s a moment of blinding pain against his skull.
