“What is it?” Suzan asked, rising from the chair.
Beckett didn’t answer; he was transfixed on the item in the bag. He was so focused on it, in fact, that he barely noticed a yellow piece of paper stuck to the side of the cooler.
He grabbed the bag with both hands and held it up to the light.
“Is that… is that what I think it is?” Suzan asked, trepidation creeping into her voice.
Beckett sloshed the bag around.
“It looks like someone thinks I’ve been drinking a little too much lately — it’s a liver,” he said matter-of-factly. It was then that Beckett noticed a second bag that had been buried beneath the first. He picked this one up, too. “It’s been a while since I took an anatomy class, but I’m pretty sure this is a heart and this is a liver. The real question is, what the fuck are they doing on my desk?”
Chapter 3
“I called the transplant department and they’re not missing any organs,” Suzan said, staring at the heart and liver in their respective biohazard bags.
“Well that’s something you don’t hear every day,” Beckett grumbled. “You sure? I mean, with the new wing opening, maybe…”
Suzan shrugged.
“I called the transplant department, the morgue, even the lab — everyone I could think of. They aren’t missing any organs, Beckett.”
“Well, somebody sure as hell is.”
Suzan leaned in close.
“You sure there’s no requisition form in there?”
“Only this,” Beckett said, grabbing the yellow note off the side of the vinyl cooler. “Home is where the heart is.”
Suzan raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Isn’t that a country song? What the hell is this, Beckett? Some weird game between pathologists? A whodunit for organs?”
That was Beckett’s turn to shrug; he had no clue what this was all about.
“Think you can do me a favor, Suze?” Beckett said as he put the note down and zipped the cooler closed. “Can you take the cooler to the new transplant wing? You know how people are with this shit… all defensive and whatnot. Nobody wants to admit that something as valuable as a heart and liver was misplaced. I bet if you take it in person, they’ll give you some lame excuse, but in the end, they’ll make sure that the heart finds a new home. Get it?”
Suzan didn’t appreciate the joke and looked as if she were about to protest.
“Please, Suze.”
“Fine,” she replied. “But when I’m gone, you have to take a look at the course outline… make sure that everything you want the residents to learn this semester is on there.”
Beckett smiled.
“It’s a deal.”
With that, Suzan picked the cooler up by the handle and left the office.
Only after she was gone and the door was closed behind her, did Beckett look at the note more closely.
There was something about it, something that was off… something that was more off than receiving a random heart and liver in an organ transplant cooler.
Even as Senior Medical Examiner for the state of New York, this was a new one for Beckett.
“Home is where the heart is,” he read out lead. It was written in black ink in all capital letters. He flipped it over, expecting more, but that’s all there was: HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS. Beckett held the paper up to the light and noticed that even though the words were written with a soft marker — a Sharpie, maybe — there were indentations behind those letters, behind the words, as if someone had written on the pad with a pencil before tearing this sheet off.
Chewing the inside of his lip, Beckett went to his desk and scanned the piece of paper. After an image of the note appeared on his computer monitor, he went about enhancing the pencil indentations. He half expected it to be nonsense, a grocery list, perhaps, but anything might help him figure out who had sent the box.
He managed to delete HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS and by messing around with the contrast, words started to appear.
Beckett’s breath suddenly caught in his throat and his heart thumped in his chest.
It wasn’t nonsense, far from it: the indentations made a simple sentence, not that much unlike the message proclaimed in black ink.
And Beckett knew without a doubt that this message was intended for him and that the organs hadn’t accidentally ended up on his desk.
Someone had sent them to him on purpose.
“I know what you are,” Beckett whispered, his eyes locked on the computer screen.
Chapter 4
Beckett stared at the hidden message for a long while. And then, when he had committed it to memory — I know what you are — he messed around a little more in Photoshop to see if there were any other interpretations.
There weren’t.
With a hard swallow, Beckett deleted all of the images and then tucked the note into his pocket.
It was cryptic, it was vague, and yet Beckett knew what the anonymous writer meant.
I know what you are.
Out of habit, Beckett reached below his right arm and traced the tattooed lines that ran across his ribs. As he did, he repeated in his mind the names of the people that those lines represented.
Craig Sloan… Donnie DiMarco… Ray Reynolds… Bob Bumacher… Boris Brackovich… Winston Trent…
The phone on his desk buzzed and he startled. Seeing that it was Suzan, he picked it up and took a deep breath before answering.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Beckett, but they’re not missing any organs over here. In fact, they told me that during the transition to the new Unit, all transplants are taking place in Long Island. They called the Long Island transplant team for me, but they’re not missing them, either.”
Beckett chewed the inside of his lip as he mulled this over.
I know what you are.
“Shit,” he said, trying to inject humor into his voice even though he was feeling none of it. “What do you want to do? Take an ad out on Craigslist? Hey, if anybody’s missing a heart or a liver, give us a call.”
He expected Suzan to laugh, but she didn’t; the only reply was dead air.
“Suze? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
Her tone was strangely deadpan.
“I guess… I guess, bring the cooler to the lab? Ask them to perfuse the organs and keep them viable as long as possible.”
“Okay,” Suzan replied. “But what you want me to say about them?”
“Tell them… tell we’re just waiting on some paperwork. And if they give you any trouble, tell them to call me.”
Again, another hesitation.
“Okay, I’ll take it to the lab. Are you sure that this isn’t just a messed-up prank from one of your colleagues?”
Beckett thought about this for a moment. It wasn’t impossible, of course, you had to be a special kind of weird to be a forensic pathologist, but the note, combined with the inauguration of the new transplant wing…
Beckett pictured Flo-Ann and Grant McEwing and the impeccably dressed Sir Francis England, their hands all gripping the comically over-sized scissors.
“Yeah, I don’t think so, but I’m gonna go see the venerable Sir Francis England myself. See what he has to say about all this.”
“What about the course outline?”
“The what?”
“The outline,” Suzan repeated. “You promised that if I chaperoned your organs around town, you’d read it over. But I’m guessing you haven’t gotten around to it, have you?”
“Hellllll, no,” Beckett said and then hung up the phone before Suzan could reply.
***
Beckett kept his hand on the note in his pocket as he walked down the hallway, ignoring those who milled about in lab coats. He was so focused on finding out where the organs had come from, that he didn’t initially hear his name being called. In fact, he only stopped because someone reached for and grabbed his arm.
Beckett instinctively pulled away and his free hand cu
rled into a fist.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said.
“Then you shouldn’t—” Beckett blinked. “Wait, it’s you — from the ceremony. Grant McEwing.”
Another coincidence, he thought glumly. I don’t like coincidences.
For perhaps the only time in his life, Beckett wished he’d spent more time awake at the Board Meetings for the new transplant unit.
“What… what are you doing here?” Beckett asked.
“I just came to introduce myself, but I guess you know me already. I’ll be starting as a pathology resident this semester.”
Grant held out his hand as he said this and Beckett had to deliberately unclench his fist before shaking it. Grant’s hand was clammy and his grip that of a prepubescent girl.
“I also just wanted to say that I’m a big fan of yours and after I’m done my residency, I want to be a medical examiner, too.”
Beckett raised an eyebrow.
A fanboy?
It was clear that while Grant McEwing came from some decent stock, given that the transplant wing was named after his family and that Peter McEwing was a famed surgeon, he lacked something in terms of social graces and etiquette. And he was also just plain awkward.
“Why in the world would you want to do that?” Beckett asked. It was a rhetorical question, but, of course, Grant didn’t pick up on this.
“Well, I guess I just like the idea of solving puzzles — the mystery aspect of it all.”
Beckett chuckled.
“Then I suggest you stick to Nancy Drew and crosswords. Most of the time, I’m elbow deep in entrails, trying to figure out what the last thing a person ate before they offed themselves. Trust me, kid, it just ain’t all that interesting.”
The two men stared at each other for several seconds with neither of them saying anything. Beckett knew that he should probably speak up, but he rather enjoyed seeing Grant squirm. If the man was uncomfortable in this situation, how in the world would he act when he was trying to figure out whose arm was whose after a three-car pileup?
But, alas, Beckett ran out of patience; besides, he had more pressing things to take care of.
“Well, it was great to meet you, Grant,” Beckett said. “See you in class.”
Grant nodded and started to walk away, his gait slow and awkward, much like the entire encounter.
Beckett watched the man go, grateful that Grant was destined to become a pathologist and hadn’t chosen a discipline that — God forbid — required actual interaction with patients.
Chapter 5
“Francis! Francis!” Beckett shouted, waving a hand in the air.
As luck would have it, just as Beckett was walking toward the McEwing Transplant Unit, he caught sight of Sir Francis England heading out the back.
Another coincidence…
Francis had a cell phone pressed to his ear and was walking toward the rear door of a black Lincoln Navigator, which was held open by a no-nonsense looking man in a suit.
Now who’s the fanboy, Beckett thought as he hurried to catch up to Francis. He reached him just before the man lowered himself into the car.
“Francis!” Beckett said again. This time he was positive that the man had heard him and yet the silver fox still didn’t turn. “Hey, Frank!”
Beckett reached for Francis’s shoulder, but the man in the suit holding the door blocked his path.
“I’m sorry,” he began, placing a hand firmly on the center of Beckett’s chest.
Beckett immediately swatted it away.
“You will be if you touch me again,” he warned. The change in tone finally got Francis’s attention.
“Yes?” the man asked, turning to face Beckett. “How can I help you?”
“I’m on the board of directors for the new transplant unit.”
The man’s expression never changed, although Beckett wasn’t sure if this was because he was pumped so full of botulin or if he just didn’t give a shit.
Francis’s response confirmed the latter.
“And?”
Beckett fought back an insult.
“I just had a couple of questions for you.”
“Be quick. I have several meetings to get to.”
Oh, how I would love to throttle ye.
“Yeah, sure, I get — cryogenics and all that. I was just wondering if you were missing a liver.”
Francis’s eyebrows moved upward or his forehead stretched — Beckett couldn’t be sure which — but he was certain he had the man’s attention now.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, I was just, uh, wondering if you lost a heart and liver. You see, they just wound up on my desk and I have no idea who they belong to.”
Francis stared at Beckett for a good thirty seconds or so, clearly trying to figure out if he was joking or not.
Beckett remained stone-faced.
“Who did you say you were again?”
“I didn’t. But this is no joke. Imagine what the media might say if they found out that on the day that the McEwing Transplant Unit opened, a heart and a liver went missing. I wonder how that would play out?”
Francis frowned.
If he was the person responsible for the organs ending up on Beckett’s desk, then he wasn’t taking any of the bait.
“I’m sorry, but I’m just a figurehead. If there’s been some sort of mix-up, you’re going to have to speak with the director… Dr. Aaron Singh. I have nothing to do with the daily operations.”
“But I—”
Francis nodded to his driver and the man closed the door so suddenly that Beckett’s t-shirt almost got caught in it.
“Fuck,” he swore, leaping backward. He was still collecting himself when the driver peeled off. “You fucking asshole.”
Beckett had wanted to throttle Francis earlier, but now he wanted to eviscerate the man.
Oh, I hope you’re behind all this. I would love to cut you.
His fingertips started to tingle and it took several deep breaths before the feeling passed.
I know what you are.
As the Lincoln disappeared from sight, Beckett turned back to the transplant unit.
He couldn’t believe that six months ago the area had just been an empty field. Now, after lightning fast construction, an entire wing had been added onto the hospital. Made of white-washed stone and colorful glass inserts, it extended approximately a hundred feet from the southern side of the building.
Above the entrance, written in large, block letters was the name: The Grant McEwing Transplant Unit.
For some reason, those letters, even though they were made of metal, reminded Beckett of the note written in black ink.
Home is where the heart is.
Beckett hurried to the entrance, only to find it locked. Frustrated, he pressed his thumb on the intercom beside the door.
A second later, a female voice answered.
“I’m sorry, but the Grant McEwing Transplant Unit won’t be open until next week. For all related inquiries, please contact the Long Island Transplant Unit.”
Beckett leaned away from the door and stared at the ribbon that had yet to be cleaned up.
Didn’t they just have the grand opening a few hours ago?
“Yeah, I’m not a patient, I’m a doctor — Dr. Beckett Campbell. I need to talk to the Director… to Dr. Aaron Singh.”
There was a short pause, during which time Beckett suspected that the secretary or whoever the woman inside the tiny box was, searched for his name.
“Is he expecting you?”
Beckett chewed the inside of his lip and bit back a snide remark.
“No, I don’t think so. Just let him know that I have some fresh organs I’d like to donate.”
Chapter 6
“I’m sorry, you said you were a forensic pathologist? So why are you asking about organ transplant?”
Beckett frowned. When the man in the sparkling white lab coat, clearly just moments ago removed from its packa
ging, walked down the hallway to greet him, Beckett realized that they’d met before. While he hadn’t recognized the man’s name — Dr. Aaron Singh — his face, the broad nose, the thick lips, jolted his memory. If it served him correctly, Beckett thought they’d even co-chaired a symposium a couple of years back. But while Beckett remembered Dr. Aaron Singh, it was clear that this wasn’t reciprocated.
Organ Donor_A Medical Thriller Page 2
