by Paula Boyd
I shook my head and hurried out the door before I changed my mind. I walked quickly but casually toward the front exit with my insulated mug and bulging pockets. The door to Doris’ room was still closed and no one was running up and down the halls, so I presumed she hadn’t been discovered missing yet. Ditto for the little mix-up in the lab. Thankfully, no one gave me a second glance, and I was out the door and in the Tahoe in less than a minute.
As I closed the door and cranked the engine on the oven-hot car, I breathed a deep sigh of relief, and this time it was not just because the blessed air conditioner was blowing in my face. I was relieved I hadn’t been caught. I’d never stolen anything in my life—and my subconscious childhood programming was pretty sure I’d die if I even thought about it. Yet, here I was, totally guilty and feeling no remorse whatsoever. I’d have to think on that one later. Right now, I had to find somebody who knew what to do with the bootie from my medical malfeasance.
With the blood sample on ice in the cup holder, I drove until I reached the entrance to the highway. Not knowing which way I might need to go, I pulled over at a gas station and called Jerry. When he finally picked up, all I could say was, “Hi.”
“Hi, Jo. What’s going on?”
Yes, that was a very good question. And while it had all made perfect sense a few minutes ago, the situation wasn’t sounding so great now that I had to explain it to Mr. Sheriff. “Hi, Jerry. What’s going on with you?”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
The man could read me like a book, and while that came in very handy at times, it was a pain at others—like now. “Well, you know how we had plans for this evening?”
“Really good plans,” he said in that deep rumbling voice that always sends delicious ripples through me.
“Yes,” I said, although it came out more like a squeak. “And I still want to…”
“However,” he said, his voice shifting to a more neutral tone, “I presume those plans have now changed.”
This was so much harder than I thought it would be. I sighed heavily. “Well, something has kind of come up that I have to deal with. I didn’t mean for it to and I sure didn’t want it to, and I’m not even sure now how it did, and I don’t even know how long it might take, or even if anything can be done about it tonight anyway, but even if it can’t, well, it just brings up all kinds of other issues and”
“Jo, you’re rambling. Just tell me what’s going on, what you’ve done and what you need to do.”
He made it sound so simple, and it was anything but. The telling of it wasn’t so pleasant either. I took a deep breath and blurted out the facts. “I need someone to analyze a blood sample and decode the chemical composition of some pills I just took from the rehab center.”
He didn’t say anything, and I bit my tongue to keep from filling the awkward void with chatter about why it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, particularly since it was—and probably even worse that I yet knew.
After several long seconds—long silent seconds that seemed to drag on forever—he said, “Head for the morgue. I’ll call Travis and get him to meet you there.”
“Thanks for not asking any questions, Jerry.”
“Oh, there will be questions, Jolene. Lots and lots of questions. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Chapter 10
The drive to the morgue had only taken a few minutes, but I was met at the front desk by my stoic wisdom-quoting nemesis, Doctor-Doctor-Doctor Travis. I still couldn’t get over the discrepancy in how he looked and how he sounded, not to mention the incongruity of an obvious overachiever choosing to underachieve in Redwater Falls. He really did look like an Asian Mario Lopez, but that’s as far as the comparison went. “Quirky” wasn’t the right word for his unusualness, but it was the only one I could think of. I offered him a little cheers salute with my travel mug.
“This way,” Travis said, his accent-free voice as precise and measured as he turned and walked away.
I followed the young medical examiner down an unpleasantly familiar sterile hallway. Unpleasant images from previous unpleasant visits flashed into my head. “Well, at least this time I don’t have to look at a corpse,” I said, my nervous compulsion to chatter kicking in.
Travis said nothing. The man was handsome, no doubt about that, but he had the personality of a rock. Just about everything that came out of his mouth sounded arrogant and condescending. Still, I kind of liked the guy—go figure. “Thanks for talking to me,” I said as we walked.
“You’re not here for conversation.”
“True, ‘Doctor times three’ Travis, but it’s always an added bonus.”
He glanced toward me and stared intently for several seconds as we walked then said, “Technically, I am a Doctor of Medicine with additional doctoral degrees in complimentary science and philosophical disciplines, although few are aware of it. I’m serving as a medical examiner in a town of less than one hundred thousand people, most of whom think I am less qualified than the elected coroner with a high school diploma whom I replaced.”
“Not many people around here get me either. In my case, I know why that is. How about you?”
“You may not be quite as clear on why you get the reactions you do as you may think.”
And there was the old Travis from my last visit. “Aw, come on, don’t start the cryptic crap again. I have enough on my plate without having to try to figure out what you’re really trying to say—or why I should care. Just say it, for godsake.”
He glanced around again and sort of smiled, but said nothing.
“Now, what is that supposed to mean!”
He chuckled, or at least made a noise that resembled it. “We all have our self-perceptions based on our experiences and beliefs.”
“Yes, Obi Wan, I know,” I said as a parade of Star Wars characters danced through my brain.
“You’re uncomfortable being here,” he said, ignoring my clever commentary. “Sarcasm, humor and distraction help you cope.”
“Not a revelation, Yoda,” I said, The Force apparently still with me.
“My name is Zang Shen Travis.” He spelled the first two names then said, “I was adopted as an infant by artists living in communal housing in California. My parents Americanized Xiang for my first name and selected a traditional Chinese one for my middle name to honor my heritage. It has proved an interesting choice in both meaning and difficulty of pronunciation. Travis is easier for most people, although you may call me Zang if you wish.”
“Zang Shen. You know, I kind of like the sound of that. Zang Shen. That’s just a cool name you have there, Zang Shen.”
“Travis will do,” he said, pushing open a steel door and motioning me through.
Any pithy reactionary remarks that might have been headed toward my tongue fled as I followed him into the main room of the morgue. Dread and déjà vu hit me like a rock. I wasn’t officially even supposed to be in town yet and I was already at the morgue. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead as we passed the examining tables on our way to the lab in the back. A wall with glass on the top half exposed a vast array of laboratory equipment, which only added to my unease. The TV images of such places are creepy enough, but it’s much worse in person and there’s no remote to change the channel.
Travis closed the lab door behind me and held out his hand. “I presume you have more in that cup than a Mocha Latte.”
I handed him the travel mug. “Blood sample.” Emptying my pockets, I gave him the little paper cup and sack of pills. “Those are from two separate things.”
He nodded and set everything on the big counter in the center of the room then began collecting what he needed to work with it.
Normally, I would be chattering like a chipmunk at this point, explaining and justifying, but the medical examiner didn’t seem to require it. For some strange reason I didn’t either.
Travis opened the sack and poured Mother’s stash of pills into a small stainless steel tray and pushed them around with the scalpel, se
parating the larger white pills into one group. “These are for pain.” Small round pink tablets piled up next. “Cholesterol.”
“Those kind of look like what’s in the little cup, although the shade of pink is different.”
“Many look similar, which can be confusing. The imprint information on each side of the tablet identifies the product, manufacturer and dosage rate.” He sorted out another group. “These are for blood pressure, low dosage.”
“Low dosage is a good thing, I suppose, since she took it upon herself to stop taking them.” I saw his look, so I saved him the trouble of lecturing me. “Yes I know it can be dangerous and no I didn’t have any say about it one way or another.”
He nodded, dividing a stack of little round blue pills into two groups then stepped over to his computer and punched in something on the keyboard. “One of these is a sleep aid and the other is an antidepressant.”
“My mother does not need an antidepressant. She takes one with her wherever she goes. It has a laser sight, an extra clip filled with hollow points and a handy carrying case for her purse.”
He looked up, but said nothing. His mind was whirring all the same. After a few seconds, he went back to the pills. “This one isn’t as common,” he said, stepping to the computer again. “Does your mother have Parkinson’s?”
“No, why?”
“Any problems with uncontrolled limb movements or twitching, especially in her legs at night?”
“Not that I know of. She mostly just makes everyone else twitch uncontrollably and it’s pretty much round the clock.” I smiled. He didn’t. “Why?”
“This medication is typically prescribed for symptoms associated with Parkinson’s disease or restless leg syndrome.”
“Seriously? Why would they give her that?”
“I have not reviewed the latest research in this area, but since its effects can include improved mobility and sleep enhancement, using it in non-symptomatic patients to support rehabilitation is a possibility.”
“Always looking for new ways to sell the same drug. I love those commercials where they push the same pill for both depression and arthritis. Confused the hell out of me for a while.” I shook my head. “Or, like many things in these settings, it was a mistake.”
He reached for the little paper cup and emptied the two pilfered pills out onto a separate tray. Pointing to a light amber gel capsule with his scalpel, he said, “Likely an oil-based vitamin, probably D.” Then, he flipped the pink tablet over and went back to his computer again. “I don’t recognize this one and it isn’t coming up in the database by the imprinted codes or by description.”
“That can’t be good.”
Travis continued to study the pill. “The coating, structure and markings themselves are suggestive of a traditional pharmaceutical manufacturer, so it could be from an R and D project that is not showing up yet.”
“Oh, that’s not good. In fact, it’s really bad.”
He pulled the top off the mug and removed the large glass tube with the purple top. “You chose well. This vial should be free of additives, which allows more options for testing.”
Well, that was good to know, but what were we going to test it for? “Don’t you want to know where I got this stuff and why?”
He put the vial in the rack then looked at me. “My deduction would be that you are concerned that the medications distributed at your mother’s rehabilitation facility are causing harm.”
“Lucky guess.”
“I don’t guess.”
God knows I did. Facts and proof were highly overrated, and I’d have been dead a dozen times if I’d waited on getting all the details before I made a decision. This time, however, there was proof—or at least circumstantial evidence. “It appears that reasonably healthy people have come in for treatment with one physical problem and wound up with other major ones, like losing the use of an arm and such. Several have died unexpectedly in the last few weeks.”
“There are myriad drugs with myopathy as a side effect.” Seeing my confusion, he added, “Muscle injury, damage or destruction. Other terms you might hear are myositis, which is inflammation of the muscles, and rhabdomyolysis, which is extreme inflammation and damage. If you hear any of these words, they will be related to muscle damage to some degree.”
“And here I thought you didn’t speak Chinese.”
“I never said that. I speak and write six languages, four fluently, including Mandarin.”
“Of course you do,” I muttered.
“It would be common knowledge if a formal study of a new product was in progress and participants would have received extensive information and disclaimers and would have signed detailed agreements,” he said. “That leaves two possibilities—that underground testing is being conducted on unsuspecting patients or it is simply a case of coincidence and imagination.”
“Yeah, that last one was my vote too when I was listening to her rant about it over the phone. Seeing the dead body roll down the hall only minutes after I arrived and then my finding my mother’s friend subsequently taken away for unscheduled afterhours testing, I started thinking differently.”
“I will send scrapings of this pink pill out for further testing, but from my tenure as a compound pharmacists, some of the general characteristics appear comparable to some statin drugs. The side effects you describe have been noted from that class, so that will be the starting point. However, I can’t promise definitive results on any of the testing quickly.”
“I know. These things take time.” As I said the words, I glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Speaking of which, I haven’t heard from my mother.”
“If you need to make a phone call, you’ll need to step into the next room by the window,” Travis said. “Reception is negligible in here. I am going to run a few basic tests on the blood, a CBC and a comprehensive metabolic profile, then address the medication issue. Since your mother was not taking hers, those from the paper sack should not be present.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s another thing. That’s not my mother’s blood sample. It’s from the woman who was taken for testing at the odd time. Yes, the one I helped escape.”
He nodded, seemingly unperturbed by my activities. “Can you find out what medications she was taking?”
“Yes. I’ll call her daughter right now.” I walked to the lab door, thinking about what a different relationship Melody had with her mother. Surely I wasn’t the only one who struggled. “Travis, what’s your relationship like with your mother?”
“She’s in California and I am in Texas.”
“Not exactly an answer, but I get the idea. That was my plan too, although you can see how that worked out. I am not living happily and peacefully seven hundred miles away in Colorado like I’d intended.”
He almost smiled again. “Your situation does make me feel better about my own.”
“Oh, if I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that one.”
I walked in to the other room, pulled my phone out of my pocket and sat down in the chair by the window. I didn’t have any missed calls, but I did have a string of text messages. Yes, they were all from my mother. Don’t ask me when she learned to text. The last time I suggested it she told me she wasn’t paying for such nonsense and I better not be sending her anything that was going to run her bill up. I presumed, she’d had a change of heart. And, given her inch-long nails and the big word bubbles in front of me, I presumed she’d also found the microphone button.
The jig is up!
Not fifteen minutes after you left they figured out Doris was gone. Running around like chickens with their heads cut off worried about losing their jobs.
I guess somebody finally got the nerve to call Melody because then they quit running the halls. Now they’re busy pointing fingers and looking for a scapegoat. Heads are going to roll over this I tell you for sure.
They’ve been in my room 10 times since you left. Last time they tried to give me a sleeping pill. I pretended to take it but
I didn’t. After they tried to drug me up I closed the door to my room and put the trash can in front of it so I’ll hear if anybody comes in.
I’m onto them and tomorrow I’m going to figure out what they’re up to so you stay away so you don’t blow my cover.
I laid the phone in my lap and ran my hands over my face. It never really helps, but I always keep hoping that maybe somehow it will. I sighed and looked back toward the lab, wondering what to do next.
I could see Travis working away on the things I’d brought him through the glass windows and door. I had successfully avoided taking any chemistry classes in high school or college, so I had no clue what he could or couldn’t do with the samples I’d brought him. But if a miracle could be manufactured through intellect and skill, Doctor-Doctor-Doctor Travis would do it.
I looked at my phone again, debating on the next number to dial. I had to call Melody and tell her what was going on and get the meds list for Travis, but first, I had to call my mother.
Lucille picked up immediately. “What have you found out?” she said in loud whisper. “Can you prove what they’re up to?”
“Nothing yet. We’re just getting started. It is probably going to take a while. Jerry should be here shortly. After I explain what’s going and find out how long this is going to take, we’ll come back and get you.”
“No! I told you I’m staying. Christine is coming in the morning and I’m going to pump her for information and snoop around. After this, nobody’s going to be doing anything, so I’m safe.”
She was probably right about that, but I wasn’t willing to bet her life on it. “I’ll call you back in an hour. You call me immediately if anything changes. Okay?”
“Yes, Jolene. Now you do your job and let me do mine.” Click.
I sighed again, heavily. Yes, it was becoming a habit and it didn’t help anything either, but I had to do something. Deciding a few deep breaths wouldn’t hurt, I sucked in air until I coughed, then composed myself and called Melody.
As Lucille suspected, the rehab center had called her in a panic. She’d apologized profusely for the misunderstanding, explaining—very sweetly—that she’d just decided to take her mother home that night rather than wait until the next morning, especially since they’d already done the special blood work. She apologized more for not understanding that she needed to tell anyone and agreed to come in tomorrow morning to sign the appropriate papers. She wasn’t going to, of course, but it satisfied them for the moment.
