Organ Donor_A Medical Thriller

by Patrick Logan

  He sighed.

  “Look, this is getting annoying; I have two organs and you run a transplant clinic. Let’s just play nice and combine the two, what do you say?”

  Aaron Singh was not known for his humor and he didn’t disappoint.

  “The fact remains,” the director began flatly, “that we aren’t missing any organs. And without a requisition sheet, I’m afraid they would just sit on the shelf and go to waste.”

  Beckett threw his hands in the air.

  “All right then, whatever. I’ve done my due diligence here. Listen, if you ever need a heart or liver, you’ll find one… in the lab, where I’m going to leave the meat to rot.”

  Aaron pressed his thick lips together.

  “Dr. Campbell, I wish I could help, but I’m swamped trying to get this place up and running.”

  The man waved an arm about the hallway as if the plain surroundings were supposed to impress Beckett.

  They didn’t.

  “Yeah, sure, I understand. I’ll see you at the next board meeting, I expect that you’ll be there, too?”

  The comment peaked Aaron’s interest and he squinted at Beckett for a moment before replying.

  “You’re not… wait you are on the board, aren’t you?”

  Wow, he’s a bright one, Beckett thought. I must have been sleeping when they put hiring him to a vote.

  “Sure am.”

  Dr. Singh’s tone suddenly changed.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” he began, his eyes darting about, “I’ll ask one of my tech guys—”

  Beckett slapped the man on the back and he stumbled forward awkwardly.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll have my people look into it. Just one question for you,” Beckett said. “You think that if Dr. McEwing was still around that he’d want the organs? I’m just wondering, because, you know, I’m pretty sure he died from liver failure.”

  Dr. Singh shook his head and stared at Beckett with glassy eyes.

  “Cancer. Look, I’m sorry Dr. Campbell, I really am. It’s just so damn stressful trying to get this place up and running. I’m sure… I’m sure that the address for the delivery just got mixed up. Like I said, I’ll contact one of my lab guys and see if they can track down where they’re supposed to go. But right now… right now I have to go to another goddamn meeting.”

  The man held out his hand, but instead of shaking it, Beckett clapped Dr. Singh on the back again and offered his best fake smile.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure I’ll find someone in need,” he said as he started down the hallway. And then, under his breath, he muttered, “Asshole.”

  Organs were more valuable than enriched plutonium and yet nobody seemed to want to have anything to do with them… or him.

  Chapter 7

  If it hadn’t been for the hidden message in the note, Beckett would have washed his hands clean of the situation. After all, he’d already gone above and beyond.

  But that note…

  I know what you are.

  Beckett resisted the urge to take the piece of paper out of his pocket and look at it again.

  What I am, is fucking tired, he thought. This was followed by a stream of rationalizations, reasons why the pencil indentations weren’t meant for him, that they were pure coincidence, that they were benign, unintentional, irrelevant.

  But he knew better.

  Beckett shook his head.

  It was warm for mid-September and Beckett found himself sticking to the shade offered by the canopy of London Planes as he made his way back from the newly minted McEwing Transplant Unit to his office at NYU medical. He hadn’t cared much for the sun before his trip to the Virgin Gorda, and now, after returning, he cared for it even less.

  I know what you are…

  A shudder ran up his spine despite the warm air and Beckett instinctively picked up his pace. In his office, he hoped to be alone, inundated by AC, so that he could think.

  He had no such luck.

  Suzan sat in his chair, her worn Converse sneakers on his desk. She tucked her short blond hair behind her ears when Beckett entered and despite the half-scowl on her lips, she looked incredibly pretty at that moment. He knew, of course, that having a relationship with her was probably frowned upon given that, while he wasn’t technically her teacher — Suzan Cuthbert was still a medical student — she was his de facto TA.

  Except Beckett didn’t give a shit. He liked Suzan; he liked the way that she kept him honest, the fact that she didn’t put up with this shit. It could be frustrating at times, but it was also challenging in a way that his previous girlfriends, if you could call them such, couldn’t live up to.

  Girlfriend… is that what she is now? Beckett thought with a smirk. Are we going steady? Should I give her my pin?

  “I’m not sure why you’re smiling, because I’m not: you still haven’t signed off on the course outline.”

  Beckett rolled his eyes and swatted Suzan’s feet off his desk.

  “That’s Brazilian hardwood. Best you treat it with respect.”

  Suzan glanced under the desk.

  “It’s from Ikea.”

  “Via Brazil. Anyways, I’ll look over the outline… I just forgot.”

  “And I bet you forgot about tonight, too,” Suzan said.

  Beckett raised an eyebrow.

  “Of course not… it’s your birthday… and Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day,” Beckett took a deep breath and spewed out every holiday that he thought might hold relevance to… a girlfriend. “Christmas, Hanukkah, Ramadan, Father’s Day, Independence Day, uhhh, Kwanza? Chrismukkah?”

  This last one turned Suzan’s frown into a grin.

  “Ah, that’s better. Did anyone ever tell you that you should smile more? A pretty girl like you…”

  Beckett knew that this particular comment grated Suzan, but she was used to his jabs and didn’t take the bait.

  Instead, she reached for a folder on his desk and tossed it at him. Beckett caught it and inside found a single sheet of paper. On this paper were seven names, but he only recognized one of them: Grant McEwing.

  Beckett shrugged.

  “Yeah, the new residents. So, what?”

  Again, the patented Suzan scowl.

  “I swear to God, Beckett, you’d forget your penis if it weren’t attached to your body.”

  “I’m not sure who would be more sad about that… me or you.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself; half the time I can barely find the damn thing. Speaking of which, I think you should open this year’s course with an hour-long lecture on micropenises. Teach what you know. What do you say?”

  “I’d say that I’m in the market for a new TA. Willing to pay with smokes and beer. Must have clean, recent STD test.”

  “Touché,” Suzan replied, rising from his chair.

  As soon as it was vacated, Beckett plopped himself down in it. That was another thing about Suzan, he could just let go in front of her. Relax. He didn’t have to pretend to be the all healing doctor, the unfailing pathologist, crime fighter extraordinaire. He could be tired in front of her, he could be sad, in fact, he could almost be his true self.

  Almost.

  I know what you are.

  Beckett shuddered and a look of concern crossed over Suzan’s face.

  “You okay? You haven’t been yourself lately — haven’t been yourself ever since you got back from the Virgin Gorda.”

  This wasn’t true, of course; in fact, if anything, Beckett was more himself since returning.

  “I’m just tired,” he said. This wasn’t a complete lie; his sleep had been pretty shitty ever since what had happened on the boat with Donnie DiMarco.

  And before that with Craig Sloan.

  “Well, sorry to break the news, but you’re not going to get caught up on that sleep anytime soon. At least not tonight.”

  “Why? You get something special planned for me? A new outfit, maybe? A ball-gag? You know how much of a sucker I am for a good ball-
gag.”

  Suzan shook her head.

  “No, dumbass. I don’t have something planned, you do.”

  Beckett, more confused than ever, held his hands out at his sides.

  “Non ho capito una parola, Mademoiselle,” he said with a smile.

  “Classes start tomorrow, Beckett. Which makes tonight, hazing night.”

  Chapter 8

  It wasn’t technically hazing night. Hazing went out of style and fashion when some ‘roided up football player decided it would be a hoot to ram a broomstick up a couple of rookie’s colons.

  Not Beckett’s idea of fun, and evidently not the rookie who pressed charges, either.

  So, it wasn’t hazing night. It was… orientation evening.

  And while to an outsider, it might just look like a night of drinking and debauchery — and it mostly was — Beckett had a method to his madness.

  Either that, or his madness had a method.

  He could never tell the difference.

  “A quick toast,” Beckett proclaimed, raising a shot glass filled to the brim with tequila. His voice could barely be heard over the music, and he motioned for the bartender to turn it down a few notches.

  The man, a good friend of Beckett’s, obliged.

  “A quick toast,” he repeated, louder this time. The eyes of his soon-to-be residence class, as well as Suzan’s, all focused on him. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and apprehension; like last year, and the year before that, these greenhorns didn’t know what to make of the young forensic pathologist with bleach blond hair and tattoos covering his chest and arms. A man who liked to drink tequila straight from the bottle, or in this case, from a shot glass. But that was partly the point; Beckett wanted to show them that their biases and preconceptions were just tricks that the brain used to simplify a complicated world.

  But that didn’t mean that they were accurate. And in the field of forensic pathology, an inaccurate cause of death might result in somebody ending up behind bars for the rest of their lives.

  And it was also about drinking.

  “This is no test,” Beckett continued. “Tonight is going to be one of the last nights that you’ll have the freedom to go all out, to indulge in whatever your heart desires. I recommend that you take advantage of this, that you party like it’s 1999.”

  Beckett regretted saying this last part — he wasn’t sure that half the people in the room were alive in 1999, let alone know what the hell he was talking about. Still, he tilted his shot glass and said, “So drink up, and I look forward to seeing everyone in class tomorrow.”

  With that, Beckett glanced over at Suzan and she raised her own shot glass in the air. They drank in unison.

  When he was done, Beckett slapped his hands together and waved the bartender over for a second time. Leaning in close, he whispered in the man’s ear and the bartender pulled back, a smile on his face.

  Then he ducked below the bar only to reappear a moment later with an entire bottle of Patron and nine clean shot glasses at the ready. The bartender cracked the bottle and filled the glasses in one pour.

  “You guys better drink up, because tonight is on the good doctor,” the bartender exclaimed before blasting the music again.

  Beckett held his hands up and a small and somewhat confused cheer rippled through the crowd.

  “Beckett, you are the man,” he said, taking another shot glass and downing it. “And you’ve earned a few drinks.”

  ***

  Beckett slumped into a booth and wiped the sweat from his brow. He knew that his face had turned red as it often did when he drank, but he didn’t care. Like his residents, this would be one last time for him to let loose as well.

  “You having a good time, Suze?” he asked. Suzan was one of the few people in the bar who appeared relatively sober, which was something considering it was coming up on 2 AM.

  “Oh, just peachy,” she replied. Only then did Beckett notice an open three-ringed binder in front of her. He reached out and grabbed it before Suzan could react, and then he started to read.

  “Graves’ disease? Seriously? You have to study something this easy?”

  “Easy for you,” Suzan shot back. When she reached for the binder, Beckett let her take it back.

  “Easy for everyone. Go on, ask me anything.”

  Suzan closed the binder and rested a hand on top.

  “Okay, fine. What’s your natural hair color?”

  Beckett chuckled.

  “This is a wig — I’m bald. Ask me about Graves.”

  He could tell by the expression on her face that she didn’t like when he did this, when he showed off, but Beckett was feeling pretty good about himself and the alcohol had loosened his tongue.

  “Fine, I’ll just tell you then. Graves’ disease is an autoimmune disease that primarily affects the thyroid. It occurs in roughly half a percent of the male population, three percent in women, and is often associated with the following symptoms: tremors, weight loss, muscle wasting, goiter development, and tachycardia. The most common observable sign is a bulging of the eyes. You want me to continue?”

  Suzan shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Seriously, I don’t mind. The most common cause of hyperthyroidism, Graves’ disease results from thyroid stimulating immunoglobulins that bind to the TSH receptor. This causes secretion of T4 and T3 by the thyroid, as a result… can I help you with something?”

  Suzan raised an eyebrow, but then Beckett turned around to address the two men who had approached from behind. He recognized one as Grant McEwing and the other as a resident named Pedro or Pablo or something of the like.

  The men were startled that Beckett had noticed them, but the truth was he knew that they were there all along.

  He’d only hoped that they would walk away without him having to address them. Clearly, that wasn’t happening.

  “Well? Are you just gonna stare at my pretty face or do you have a pressing question that you want to ask?”

  Grant blushed, but the other man, imbued with liquid courage, cleared his throat.

  “Me and a couple of the guys… you see, we have this bet… about your finger.”

  While no actual question had been posed, Beckett was a doctor and not a lawyer.

  He decided to play along.

  “This little thing?” he said, raising his right hand and wagging the middle finger. It was only two thirds as long as the others, ending just before the final knuckle in a flap of smooth skin.

  “Lawnmower accident when I was younger. Fought with two reciprocating metal blades and lost.”

  Pablo or whatever his name was smiled and looked at Grant. Then he slapped the man roughly on the back.

  “Told you,” he exclaimed. “I told you… now you owe me a drink.”

  Grant turned to look at Beckett for support.

  “No — no he doesn’t,” Beckett said. “Not tonight, anyway. Tonight’s on me. Now move along and let me enjoy my drink, would you?”

  When they were alone again, Beckett turned back to Suzan and was surprised to see that she was shaking her head.

  “Lawnmower accident? Really?”

  Beckett shrugged.

  “A man has got to have some secrets. Speaking of which, I’ve got something to show you…”

  Chapter 9

  Beckett sighed and stared up at the ceiling, which was bathed in a bluish glow from the moonlight that filtered in through the open window. It had been a hot night, unseasonably so, and he was sweating profusely.

  It was also the alcohol — he could smell it coming out of his pores.

  Suzan rose and went to the bathroom and when she returned, she’d thrown on one of Beckett’s T-shirts. Without saying a word, she curled up beside him and rested her head on his bare chest. For several minutes they just lay there, breathing in unison in the near darkness.

  Beckett liked times like these, times when he didn’t feel the need to fill the emptiness with speech. Even though he spent most of h
is days among the dead learning their secrets, his mind was always working, always trying to put together pieces of a rounded puzzle. Lying in bed beside Suzan was one of the few times that his mind went quiet.