Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  Satisfied that her only dependent’s needs had been taken care of, Devlin put the bag of cat food back where she had found it, and turned toward the dining room. Not because she wanted to go there, but because she had to go there, as part of the journey that would ultimately carry her into the living room. The place where, for reasons known only to him, Professor Paul McCracken had covered everything with plastic and blown his brains out.

  So, with a nonchalance that she really didn’t feel, Devlin entered the formal dining room. It was dark outside, and the long string of lights that represented the I-90 floating bridge could be seen beyond the rain-streaked glass, as the scientist flicked a light switch and brought the antique chandelier back to life. A richly polished dining room table dominated the center of the room and an imposing side table stood against the south wall, flanked by two narrow windows.

  But it was the living room that Devlin was determined to confront. A dozen steps carried Devlin into the room where her mentor’s body had been found. As more lights came on Devlin discovered that she felt empty rather than grief stricken.

  A large fireplace provided a focal point for the room, along with the oil painting of Mary McCracken which hung above it. She had auburn hair, a rounded face, and cool blue eyes. Were you the last person he looked at? Devlin wondered. Did he stare at your face? Hoping you’d be there waiting for him? Yes, she concluded, I believe he did. But why now? After all those years?

  The question seemed to echo through Devlin’s mind as she eyed the big leather chair from which McCracken liked to hold court, the couch that she had slept on more than once, and the old tube style TV that Mac loved to throw things at.

  And somehow it was that vision. Of McCracken throwing an empty Pepsi can at the president of the United States, that neutralized the sense of dread the scientist had experienced earlier. Then, as if a pair of flood gates had been opened, the tears came. And that’s where Devlin was, seated in the big leather chair with tears running down her cheeks, when the cat strolled in out of the dining room. He licked his chops, padded across the hardwood floor, and leaped up onto the parasitologist’s lap. Mary, who had seen so much from her location over the fireplace, seemed to approve.

  ***

  The gentle beeping noise came to an abrupt stop as Devlin fumbled with the travel alarm and managed to turn it off. There was a brief moment of disorientation as she realized that she wasn’t in Costa Rica. That was followed by a sense of dread as the reason for setting the alarm came back to her. Leander had apologized for scheduling the autopsy the day after Devlin arrived, but it seemed there were only so many slots available each week, and dead people were lined up waiting to be cut open.

  What Leander didn’t say, but seemed obvious, was the fact that the procedure had been scheduled for the next day based on the assumption that the parasitologist wouldn’t want to take part in it.

  There was a plaintive meow, followed by a thump, as the cat bailed out and Devlin swung her feet over onto the floor. Perhaps someone else would have been hesitant to sleep in the room where a friend committed suicide, but after a long plane flight, and the meeting with Leander, Devlin hadn’t been ready to explore the rest of the house yet.

  But now she was faced with a new set of problems. Like brushing her teeth and finding something clean to wear. The first part of the challenge was easily solved—but the second was more difficult. Which was why the scientist eventually emerged from the house clad in a dark blue ball cap, a gray hoodie over a Corona T-shirt, and a pair of wrinkled khaki slacks. A pair of red high-tops completed the outfit.

  The rain had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and Devlin could see her breath as she made her way down the side of the house to the point where the detached two-car garage stood. The old fashioned double doors squealed as she pulled them open. Two vehicles waited within. The car on the left was Mac’s prized candy apple red 1965 Mustang. The other vehicle was a somewhat dilapidated 1978 International Scout 4 X 4 that the professor drove back and forth to the University of Washington.

  Devlin, who was accustomed to driving old four-wheelers, and acutely aware of the fact that she didn’t have any insurance yet, chose the Scout. It started with a satisfying roar, generated a cloud of gray smoke sure to make global warming even worse, and produced a blast of music from the jury rigged CD player. The song was A Boy Named Sue, from Johnny Cash’s San Quentin album, which must have been the last disc Mac listened to prior to his death.

  Tears were streaming down Devlin’s cheeks as she backed the old rig out of the garage, got out to close the doors, and climbed back inside. One of the truck’s belts began to screech as the parasitologist backed out onto the street. But it stopped when she put the transmission into drive and took off. The passenger compartment smelled like stale pipe tobacco. So Devlin opened both side windows and let the cool air dry her tears. Finally, once A Boy Named Sue ran out, she turned the player off.

  The first stop was the Starbucks on 15th avenue where Devlin purchased a Grande mocha, no whip, and a pumpkin scone. Thus fortified, the scientist guided the Scout through the Denny Regrade area to old Highway 99, which carried her north over the Aurora bridge. Devlin made good time because most of the traffic was headed south at that time of day, which meant she arrived at her destination with fifteen minutes to spare. The Hayley Medical Lab was located a block off Highway 99 in an area dominated by car lots, strip malls, and dilapidated apartment houses. What few windows the nondescript one-story building had were darkened, as if to prevent people from peeking inside. The only indication of the structure’s purpose was a black hearse that pulled away just as Devlin parked.

  Devlin chased the final bite of scone with the last of the lukewarm mocha and wiped her mouth with a brown 100% recyclable napkin. After locking the truck Devlin made her way over to the building and pulled the heavy slab-like front door open.

  The interior looked, smelled, and felt like all the various labs she had spent most of her adult life working in. The lighting was harsh, the walls were bare, and the air felt unnaturally cool. Not for the comfort of the facility’s staff, but in order to stabilize the customers, all of whom were dead. A waist-high counter barred further progress and a sign invited Devlin to, “Ring the bell for service.” The device produced a cheerful ding, but it was a good three minutes before a middle-aged black man sauntered into the room. There was a lot of gray mixed into his hair. He was dressed in blue scrubs and the expression on his face was professionally neutral. “Hello,” the man said. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Devlin. Sara Devlin,” the parasitologist replied. “And I’m here to observe an autopsy.”

  The man in the scrubs eyed a clipboard, nodded agreeably, and handed Devlin a packet of forms as he opened a waist-high gate. “I'm Charles,” he informed her. “I’m the diener and will assist Doctor Yano with the autopsy. Please take a seat, fill out the forms, and I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  The title “diener” was new to Devlin, but given the context, she assumed Charles was a technician of some sort. So Devlin went to work on the forms and had them ready when the diener reappeared five minutes later. The tech scanned the documents to make sure they were complete, captured them with a black binder clip, and led Devlin back into what looked like an operating theatre. A pair of autopsy tables occupied the center of the room. They were equipped with faucets, and flanked by stainless steel back tables, one of which supported a surprisingly modest row of instruments.

  Further back, against the opposite wall, two side-by-side scrub sinks could be seen, along with a row of wall-hung cabinets, a mostly bare counter below them, and lots of carefully labeled drawers. Two large drains had been set into the tiled floor, which was streaked with water, as if from a recent mop-down.

  Double doors swung open and a second man entered. His hair was hidden beneath a green scrub hat, and he had bright inquisitive eyes, with olive colored skin. He was dressed in blue scrubs and his manner was brisk. “Dr. Devlin? I
’m Dr. Yano…. Or just plain Jim to my friends.”

  Yano had a firm handshake and Devlin took an immediate liking to him. “The name’s Sara…. And I’m a PhD rather than an MD.”

  Yano nodded. “What discipline?”

  “Parasitology.”

  “Okay, then,” the medical doctor replied matter of factly. “So you know basic anatomy—and have probably performed more dissections than I have. But it’s different with humans—especially ones you know. What was your relationship with the deceased if you don’t mind my asking?”

  A lump formed in Devlin’s throat but she managed to swallow it. “I was one of Professor McCracken’s grad students. We became friends and I’m the executor of his estate.”

  “I’m sorry about your loss,” Yano said sympathetically. “Can I ask another question?”

  Devlin nodded. “Of course.”

  “What are we looking for?” the pathologist wanted to know. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Yano added hurriedly. “But I read the medical examiner’s report, and there’s no question as to cause of your friend’s death. Professor McCracken died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

  “I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Devlin confessed uncertainly. “Mac left instructions that a private autopsy be performed. He also specified that I be present. As to why, well, your guess is as good as mine. ”

  “Okay,” Yano agreed. “But I should warn you…. Dead bodies never look good. And this one could be especially gruesome. Both because of the head wound, and the fact that after the King County Medical Examiner performed the first autopsy, they sewed everything back together.”

  Devlin nodded soberly. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Yano replied briskly. “Let’s suit up.”

  Ten minutes later the double doors opened and Charles pushed a sheet-draped cart into the room. Like the other two, he was wearing a gown, surgical gloves, and disposable shoe covers. Light reflected off the plastic shield that protected the diener’s face. Yano looked at Devlin. “Are you okay?”

  Devlin produced a short jerky nod as Charles pushed the gurney up next to the brightly lit autopsy table, and locked the wheels. Once that was accomplished the diener pulled the sheet down to reveal Professor McCracken’s body. Devlin had been dreading that moment, and steeled herself against it, but experienced a strange sense of anti-climax once it actually arrived. Because even though she recognized the big nose, and the rounded jaw as belonging to the professor, it wasn’t him. Not without the smart, funny, and often profane spirit to whom the body belonged.

  Yano nodded as if somehow able to read her mind. “Back in 1907 Dr. Duncan MacDougall performed a series of experiments to determine whether the human soul has mass. He concluded that something departs the body at the moment of death, and whatever it is weighs 21 grams, or about three-fourths of an ounce.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but comforting nevertheless, because like Devlin the pathologist was first and foremost a scientist. And that meant he was interested in facts. And if the human soul could be weighed, then that meant it was real, and something a rational mind could believe in.

  The two of them watched Charles jerk, shove, and ultimately drag the unresisting corpse from the cart to the table where it lay face up. Once that was accomplished the diener shoved a body block in under McCracken’s back. That pushed his nearly hairless chest up, while allowing his arms and neck to fall back, exposing his trunk.

  It was at that moment when Devlin saw the ugly exit wound in the professor’s left temple, the rough-looking stitches that followed an incision across the top of his skull, and the huge Y-shaped closure which ran the length of the academic’s chalk white body. It wasn’t pleasant to look at, but the knowledge that the real Mac was long gone, helped her deal with the moment.

  “I can approach this one of two ways,” Yano said conversationally. “With a minimum of notes into my recorder—or a full blown narrative. Which would you prefer?”

  “I’ll take the full blown narrative,” Devlin replied.

  “Spoken like a true parasitologist,” the doctor replied approvingly. “Although I doubt we’re going to encounter any tapeworms today. Okay,” Yano continued, as his assistant began to cut the sutures that held the long Y-shaped incision closed. “Normally we would open the abdominal cavity ourselves, but thanks to the medical examiner, that won’t be necessary.”

  Devlin watched as the last suture was cut, an opening appeared, and Yano pulled the loose chest flap up over McCracken’s open-mouthed face.

  “Now this is where it gets a bit weird,” Yano continued clinically. “Rather than the anatomy you would expect to see once Charles opens the body—we’re going to be looking at a hodgepodge of organs. Because once an autopsy is complete most pathologists simply pour everything back into the cavity. So, rather than carry out the usual dissection I’m going to remove each organ, identify it, and check for any abnormalities that the ME might have missed.”

  Devlin nodded, and had little choice but to watch as all of her old friend’s component parts were sectioned, weighed, and examined. A process that gave her the opportunity to consider the overarching mystery. Why had Mac chosen to commit suicide? And knowing he was going to kill himself, why would he insist on a private autopsy?

  The answer, or the beginnings of an answer, came ten minutes later as Yano removed the last organ from the now empty cavity. “This is strange,” Yano remarked, as he pointed down into the body. “I wonder why the ME left that off the report?”

  Devlin was just about to say, “What?” when Charles spoke for the second time since the autopsy had begun. “Because he already knew the cause of death,” the diener observed cynically. “And there were a dozen stiffs waiting in the cooler.”

  The comment lacked sensitivity, given Devlin’s presence, which earned Charles a dirty look from Yano. But if the technician felt any sense of remorse there was no sign of it. And based on the fact that the pathologist allowed the comment to stand Devlin got the impression that it was probably true. “What are you referring to?” Devlin wanted to know, as she peered down into the hole. The odor that wafted up into the parasitologist’s nostrils was similar to raw lamb.

  “There,” Yano said, using the eighteen-inch long “bread knife” as a pointer. “See those white things? The ones that look like ligaments? They shouldn’t be there.”

  Now Devlin could see that half a dozen white tendrils had wrapped themselves around McCracken’s spine, and based on the way things appeared, had tapped into it. Looking at the structures the scientist was immediately reminded of a microscopic parasite called Sacculina, which having found its way into a crab, creates a distinctive bulge as it grows and sprouts a network of horrible roots. “That’s it!” Devlin exclaimed excitedly. “That’s what Mac wanted us to find! Don’t you see? He knew, damn it, he knew!”

  Though not entirely sure what the parasitologist was getting at, Yano was intrigued, and immediately went to work teasing the root-like structures away from the professor’s spinal cord. Then, after that part of the process was complete, it was time to flip the body over. Once again it was the normally taciturn diener who was critical of the medical examiner’s work. “How in the hell did the pin heads down at the county miss that?” the technician wanted to know.

  “That,” as the diener put it, was a prominent swelling located just below the base of McCracken’s neck. It occupied an area approximately eight-inches across—and extended five-inches down along the professor’s spine. The result was a bulging hunch-like formation centered slightly above the academic’s shoulder blades.

  “Damn,” Yano said feelingly. “Charles is right…. How did they miss that?”

  “It’s my guess that they failed to spot the root-like formation—and therefore never turned him over,” Devlin put in coldly. “Hand me that scalpel…. Let’s see what we have here.”

  The diener looked at Yano and the pathologist shrugged. “We’re in unknown te
rritory here Charles…. Give the doctor a scalpel.”

  The technician obeyed, and with Yano’s assistance, Devlin went to work. The first task was to make a deep U-shaped incision that began high on the left side of McCracken’s back, and proceed down under the lowest part of the swollen area, and back up the other side. With that accomplished it was possible for the parasitologist to free the flap of skin and subcutaneous tissue from the underlying structures and pull it up towards the professor’s neck. The ensuing dissection occupied the better part of five minutes. Once the process was complete, the “thing,” as Devlin thought of it was laid bare.

  The parasite, if that’s what it was, consisted of a purplish nodule, which might have been the equivalent of a brain, surrounded by what looked like a couple of pounds of raw meat. It was shot through with white tendrils similar, if not identical, to those that Yano had separated from McCracken’s spine.

  “Now that’s just plain ugly,” Charles put in disgustedly. “What is it anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” Devlin replied cautiously. “But I’ll tell you this much…. Mac blew his brains out rather than let it live.”

  “Holy shit,” Yano exclaimed softly. “You really think so?”

  “Yes, I do,” Devlin replied soberly. “So, let’s cut whatever it is out of there, and send it off to be tested. And let’s be real careful about how we do it.”

  “Because?” Charles inquired.

  “Because if this is some sort of parasite, we don’t know how it spreads.”

  “Uh, oh,” Yano said incredulously. “Look at that!”

  Devlin looked, saw that the matrix of meat had begun to pulsate, and knew that Mac’s act of self-sacrifice had been in vain. The parasite was alive.