An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller

by Martin Sherwood

  “Let’s go; with your allergies you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  Inside the Audi it was warm and cozy. A whiff from the heater blended with her sweetish perfume. Unlike my Kia, her defroster really defrosted, and the wipers didn’t screech or leave greasy arches at eye level.

  An aria from Mozart’s Magic Flute provided background music, as Johanna hummed and drummed her red fingernails on the wheel. She opened her window a crack to clear the fogging windows, and the wind outside seemed to whistle in time with the music.

  I guided her through the dark maze of campus trails and puddles to the western gate, the only one open all night. Alone, with no proper lights or signage, there wasn’t a chance she would have gotten through the academic labyrinth in less than an hour.

  The air was saturated with the fresh aroma of an atmospheric bath. That was what I loved about rain—in a flash it made the dust disappear and the dirtiest cars sparkle like a bridal salon.

  “Efron still upstairs?’

  “Yeah, in the ACB. She had to finish something.”

  “And she always asks you for the keys?”

  “It’s happened before. Usually she’s still in the lab when I leave.” I stretched in the seat and rubbed my neck, as if to justify leaving before my boss. “I think she’s been sleeping there the last couple of weeks.”

  “Where?”

  “The lab. In her office.”

  Johanna whistled. We were at a red light, on our way toward Spaghetti Junction. “She has no family?” She turned and faced me. Waves of blond hair brushed her chin whenever she rotated her head. And she did it quite a lot.

  I shrugged. “She’s not particularly sociable.”

  “So she has no one in the world?” Her face clouded. “How sad. Pity, because she doesn’t actually look bad. Don’t you think? Tell me the truth—as a man, don’t you find her attractive?”

  Of all men, she thought I was an expert in women. But I could hardly admit I was still a virgin. So I played along. “Yes, she looks fine.”

  “After all the time you’ve spent together in the lab, she’s never mentioned anything… personal?”

  “Why are you surprised? No one in the department even knows where she lives. Ramona, the secretary, told me she moved into a new apartment last week, and they still don’t have the address.”

  “So maybe she has someone.” Johanna winked at me. “You know, women can be full of surprises.”

  We got on Highway 64 and exited onto Frankfort Avenue. For someone who had been here for such a short time, she surprised me with her familiarity with the small streets and shortcuts. Even many locals often erred in the old parts of Louisville. “You don’t have to take me straight home, if it’s out of your way. I can grab an Uber and meet you at the club. That will give you time to freshen up.”

  She didn’t answer at first, but the blond mane flapped. “You’ll catch a cold in this rain.”

  “Do you know the corners with Birchwood or Kennedy?” I left the other names of my neighborhood streets floating in the air, because she didn’t seem to be listening. “You can stop at the next corner, after the second light.” Still no comment. “And I’ll run; there’s a shortcut.”

  But Johanna was preoccupied with Efron. “To think she stays there alone on a night like this. This is the modern woman’s real enemy—an obsession with her career and forget about family and kids. Then, when she decides to marry and have babies, it’s too late.” We exchanged glances. Johanna looked amused. She knew my question even before I asked it. “No, I won’t let that happen to me.”

  She turned up the volume on the radio. The baritone barked in crude German and the soprano retaliated in kind.

  She continued to drive east on Frankfort, past a deserted, soaking wet bus station. I pointed my finger at the parking area, but she didn’t stop. She drove on and turned right on Kennedy. The rain eased a little as the Audi progressed down the sleepy street and stopped at Avon Court.

  I was waiting for her to mention something about us going out tonight. But she said nothing. Could she have already forgotten? Or perhaps she had changed her mind—it was getting late, with the long delay in the animal experiment and the dead Kia. And it was a weeknight after all.

  I glanced instinctively at the window on the second floor of the duplex, expecting to see Leanira. But the darkness was a painful reminder that tonight—and most nights for the next two months at least—it would be only the four walls and me.

  Johanna turned down the radio. “So tell me—you and the professor, everything you talk about is purely work-related?”

  “Yeah, and scarcely even that. She keeps a lot to herself. Lately she’s become even more paranoid; she seems to have gone off the rails. In spite of the pressure and the slowdowns in the lab, she’s given me tomorrow off.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s why I was surprised that she asked me to…” I felt the little package, cool, in my inside coat pocket. I saw her questioning look. “She asked me for a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “To keep something for her.” I played with the zipper of my jacket. “Never mind.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “It probably feels like working for the CIA, with all this hush-hush.”

  “No hush-hush. She just called me to the animal building to give me something to… keep for her.” I tapped my finger on my green coat. “Luckily it’s only until Monday. And you should have heard the dumb excuse she gave me. Gosh, I really don’t understand what’s going on with her.”

  We sat in silence, staring off into the distance, mesmerized by the monotonous melody of the windshield wipers. The VW stood in the middle of the road, but there was nothing coming behind us. Our eyes locked for a moment.

  If we had depended upon my initiative, we would have sat there forever. Leanira would have said I was slow on the uptake where the opposite sex is concerned. “All that IQ spilling from your pores, yet you are completely blind about the real world.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?” the twerp inside me spoke again.

  “Aren’t you inviting me in?”

  It could still only be for coffee, I thought.

  16

  We went into my apartment and took off our coats. I hung them on the stand by the door.

  We stomped our shoes on the mat and crossed the tiny foyer. Johanna surveyed the kitchen cabinets—wooden, Formica-laminated. They were the same ones from when Grandma had been active and had her studio on the ground floor. The same square table and an old-fashioned pantry were stuck under the window, the kind of furniture in old black-and-white movies. The glass rattled. Wind and rain penetrated through a space between the cracked glass and the window frame.

  The kitchen had always been a ‘transit station’ for the Greenes and the Zuckers, and we always managed to come away with something to nibble on—Snickers, Mars Bars, and Reeses for me; energy bars, celery sticks, and peeled carrots for Leanira.

  In some families the existential triangle ranges between the refrigerator, the dinette, and the sofa in front of the TV. With us, it wasn’t like that, maybe because Mom and Dad worked crazy hours and ate out a lot.

  Leanira had declared long ago that when she had her own family, she would adhere to Grandma’s style of Saturday night dinners with the whole family around the table, and quality time together. But she began to talk less about the subject when she started attending gallery openings and participating in street exhibitions and fairs on River Road and the Belvedere.

  And now she was in Kenya.

  I opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. “Right, let’s see what we have,” I said, using a silly tone to cover my embarrassment. “Some Camembert, Philadelphia light, four yogurts, cucumbers, lettuce, tomato, Romanian pastrami, granola, half a loaf of bread, mustard. At least we can make a sandwich. Milk, Coke… Ah, and two beers
.” I proceeded to open the freezer door. “California mix, burgers—and ice cream! Cookies and cream, or New York fudge.”

  She approached me, pulled me closer by my jacket, and kissed me lightly on the lips. I closed my eyes. Is this really happening to me? Another thought flashed through my mind: What is her real reason for doing this? But I expelled the thought immediately.

  “You’re so cute.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to freshen up.”

  “End of the corridor.”

  I slammed the freezer door, but she reached past me, opened the refrigerator, pulled the two beer cans from the door, and headed down the hall. “Don’t let me wait too long,” she called over her shoulder, knocking the two cans together. “Mustn’t keep a lady waiting.”

  I gulped and checked my reflection in the window. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, although the kitchen was as cold as the refrigerator’s interior. My earlobes had turned scarlet and were throbbing again. Will that ever go away?

  I recalled the tube in my coat pocket. When I took it out, it slipped and almost fell to the floor. My fingers froze. I cursed softly.

  Why did I need this unnecessary headache? When would I finally learn to say no? At least it would only be for one rainy weekend and the little bundle wouldn’t take up too much space.

  On Monday I’d discover if any of this was worth my while. Would Efron stop scowling and show appreciation? She might even smile. And the promise of my name on the article was nothing trivial.

  I had other things in mind now and sought a quick way to rid myself of the tube. But what if this stuff was toxic? I was reluctant to keep the tube near food.

  Johanna was singing. Her voice floated above the sound of trickling water that drifted in from the hall; it wasn’t Wolfgang Amadeus this time, but something throaty in German. Her little yodel reminded me of the opening song from Cabaret.

  I smiled. My guest was starting to feel comfortable. But I wasn’t.

  I had a moment of indecision. Should I tell her about the tube? I had already said something in the car; I couldn’t remember exactly what. She might have a good idea where to hide the tube for the weekend. She seemed to me like one of those people who were gifted with original thought. Besides, she might think more highly of me when she discovered that Efron had entrusted me with something valuable. Yes, what could be wrong with sharing that info?

  I took the tube and rushed to the bathroom.

  “Johanna,” I managed to say. But she was totally absorbed in her singing, her body enveloped in steam, like a gown, the foam piling up gradually. She didn’t even look in my direction.

  I stopped a few feet from her and turned full circle. Actually, I scolded myself, we hardly know each other. Then I lectured myself from the other direction: Here’s a gorgeous lady, completely naked, splashing in my tab, and I… damn it! I can be so… what’s wrong with me?

  I returned to the kitchen, my gaze wandering aimlessly. The kitchen might not be a good hiding place. Where, then? The half-table near the front door?

  Except for Leanira, no one did any probing here. Leanira’s and my bedrooms were shamefully messy, with AC units, but no air ducts. No niches and no hidden corners in Grandma’s apartment.

  For the hundredth time, my gaze returned to the kitchen. The corner of my eye caught my old electric kettle still standing on the counter. It needed to go out to the trash, but my sister and I had forgotten to take it. Last time Leanira tried to make tea, it had blown all the fuses in the apartment. The new Braun kettle was still in its box in the cupboard above the microwave.

  I turned the old kettle on its side, and used my fingernail to unscrew the base, until it dropped on the counter. There was another plate, an insulator between the heating element and the water. Everything was thickly coated with lime scale that put me right off drinking anything made in such an appliance, or even tap water. But it would do for short-term storage—just what I wanted.

  I placed the test tube in a supine position, wrapped in a bag of blue ice. I pressed the bottom plate over the space and replaced the screw.

  “Are you coming?”

  I turned and saw her looking at me through the mirror hanging in the hallway. She flagged me with a beer can; I waved back with the old kettle.

  “Coming,” I said, feeling amused and smug about the inventive hiding place I’d found for the damn twelfth tube.

  ***

  Her clothes were scattered in the hallway like landmarks.

  I bent to pick up a pair of white pants, a twill shirt, a plaid scarf, a pair of black stockings, a bra, and Victoria’s Secret underwear.

  I headed down the hallway to the bathroom, and my brain became a mesh of sights and sounds. The sights were psychedelic—splashes of color. The sound was singular: flowing water; a lot of water.

  When I arrived, she was already lolling in the hot tub, lathered with soap, humming, her hair loose over the foam, only her head and knees above the water. In the midst of the buzz and scrub she noticed me, paused, and her smile radiated through the steam.

  She might have said something. I don’t remember. The sound of flowing water hypnotized me as she rose like a siren from the water, foam sliding down her alabaster chest, her nipples erect.

  I had waited for a mermaid, but she had a pair of definitely shapely legs. The fingers of one hand strolled down to her pubic triangle; the other handed me a can of beer.

  We knocked cans in a toast. There are situations when there’s no substitute for chilled beer. This was one of them. I swigged down most of mine in one long gulp.

  What happened next was anyone’s guess. I vaguely remembered Johanna murmuring something about the ‘favor’ I had done for Efron. I’ve lost her exact words, because immediately after that she mentioned another ‘favor.’ She probably undressed me; I didn’t remember doing it myself. I’ve lost all memory of that part.

  Next thing I knew I was in the water, her nails raking my back.

  The foam was up to my chin. The mirror and ceramic tiles were covered with steam. The bath was intoxicating with the fragrance of lilac and grass. After each flash of lightning outside, the lights dimmed inside. The wall heater chirped every time the mist short-circuited its wires.

  Her gorgeous body swayed in between mountains of fragrant soap. Her legs were parted perilously over mine, raised to half the height of the tub wall. The bracelet on her right ankle floated in a bubble. Her long thighs stretched all the way to her perfect pelvis. Her flat abdomen trembled with delight when I found the ring that pierced her navel. When I tried to shift my position without slipping, her nipples brushed against my arm.

  She cruised easily in the water, and her shoulders clung to mine. Her lips docked in the cavity under my chin, making me tingle and gasp, while her hand guided me into her.

  I penetrated her at once. Her vagina contracted around me in a wild rhythm—a mixture of fibrillation and spasm—and the friction caused my skin to bristle. Her legs tightened around my waist like a vise.

  We continued to move in concert, melting the foam with the heat built by each cell in our bodies. Her body went limp all at once and she fell over me with a groan. I hugged her waist, sucking her into me with a last moan, before my muscles relaxed.

  Finally she stood over me, took one leg out of the bath, then the other, and wrapped herself in a big towel. With a circular motion she removed vapor from the center of the mirror and surveyed her face.

  When she turned toward me, I saw her floating in a cloud. A conspiratorial gleam appeared in her pupils, and the dimple expanded and touched her dark mole.

  The vapor began to disperse. The soapy mountains had shrunk to two flat spots. I pulled the plug and stared at the eye of the storm that formed over the drain. I felt as if my whole being had been sucked into a spinning carousel.

  She turned around and walked away.

  “I’m goin
g to make some coffee,” she announced from the hallway.

  17

  A little before midnight, a cab stopped near Andromeda Estates.

  Lucy Efron was too exhausted to spend another night in the company of test tubes. Tonight she would sleep in a comfortable bed, in her new apartment that she’d barely had time to enjoy until now.

  Don’t worry, she encouraged herself, everything is under control. The tube was safe with the student, and as for details of the experiment, anyone who broke into her lab would be unable to copy the computer files. She had deleted everything; any information gathered by a thieving intruder would be old and worthless.

  Her legs felt heavy as she stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, huddled down in her coat, and hurried down the asphalt.

  Despite her fatigue, Efron preferred to use the long illuminated walkway through the lower level rather than the shorter path around the south cottage. The contractor had not completed the tiling, and the path was dark and strewn with potholes, mounds, pits, and improvised bridges.

  The guard raised his heavy eyes from the small TV and nodded. Inside the garage huge fans pumped in hot air. There was no traffic.

  The private elevator opened directly into her living room, which was brightly lit. The abrupt transition from the dim lights of the elevator to full-on illumination made her shield her eyes, and she had no time to prepare herself for the man who greeted her.

  He stood with his back to her next to the hall, leaning forward. His neck was short and thick, fluted with folds like the armor of an armadillo. As he half-turned, she saw his red-tinged straw-colored hair; there was a plume of gray at the margin, and it was piled up sharply from the apex to the temple, with a ruler-straight parting. His forehead glowed with a fresh suntan that colored his baggy eyelids but did not hide the spider’s web of blood vessels on the cheeks and nose, typical of alcoholics. The bridge of his nose tilted to the left, probably the souvenir of an old fist fight. A pigmented streak stretched from there to the angle of the upper lip with dots on either side—an old suturing scar. A cloud of curly silver hair billowed out over the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.