OMEGA

by Patrick Lynch

  Ruddock listened carefully, making notes. The way Tolbert talked, his brisk, businesslike delivery, made the whole thing sound banal, no more compelling than a parking violation. But then, Ruddock reminded himself, that was the way Tolbert was. He liked to be in control, to stay cool whatever.

  “The teletype said possible one-eighty-seven. You think he might just have drowned by accident?”

  “Could be, but I doubt it. For one thing, there were bruises on his arms and around the shoulders and minor lesions on the fingers—all consistent with a struggle. ‘Course, he could’ve got them someplace else. We’re still waiting on the autopsy report. But we also got signs of forced entry on the perimeter fence and several sets of fresh footprints in the earth round about.”

  Ruddock finished writing and circled the word several with his blue ballpoint.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, I’m still not sure what to make of this, but we couldn’t find his pants.”

  “His pants?”

  “Yeah. The guy strips off to go swimming, but all we find inside—I mean that wasn’t clean and pressed and put away—was a shirt, a tie, and a pair of socks. They were in this laundry basket. But no pants and no underpants. It’s like they walked off on their own.”

  Ruddock pushed himself back from the edge of the desk, trying to figure out if anything tied in with the crime scene in Topanga Canyon. There was nothing tangible, but the feeling he got, the feeling of things not quite stacking up, was the same.

  “Anyway,” Tolbert went on, “we’ve got the lab people crawling over the whole place looking for trace evidence. The pool itself looks promising. We got several different samples of human hair, including half a dozen strands of red hair, most with the roots attached. We already know it doesn’t match Mrs. Griffen’s. If we can eliminate any other recent visitors, we could have a very usable sample of the killer’s DNA.”

  In spite of himself Ruddock was impressed. It was quick work, but a DNA sample was no good without a suspect to go with it. At least Tolbert didn’t sound as though he’d got very far with that yet.

  “Are you checking the scene, and maybe the used clothes you do have, for traces of narcotics?”

  Tolbert laughed.

  “Great minds,” he said. “I thought the same thing when I found out what Griffen did for a living. That’s why I put the biochemistry thing on the teletype.”

  “And?”

  “Not a whiff so far. It’ll take time to check everything, but it looks like if that was the deal, he didn’t take his work home.”

  “Have you been down to his office?”

  “Planning to. And guess what: the Feds have been down there this week already.”

  Ruddock sat up.

  “The Feds?”

  Dorsey looked up from his side of the desk. This was something even he couldn’t ignore.

  “I’m still trying to get the details, and the company itself isn’t being exactly helpful. But from what I heard, the Commercial Crimes section’s been digging around, removing documents and stuff. I’m not sure why, but I should have more on it later. So what’s your angle?”

  Ruddock outlined the facts of the Novak case, which didn’t amount to a whole lot more than he’d learned on the very first day. The crime scene had yielded nothing new, certainly no unidentified hair samples or fingerprints. Checking the man’s financial records revealed the only surprise: sometime shortly before his retirement he had made a number of sizable investments both onshore and offshore. The sums involved amounted to at least three and a half million dollars, yet the origin of the money was a mystery. The most likely explanation, that he had simply inherited it from some wealthy relative, was not supported by any documentation yet discovered.

  “Griffen wasn’t short of money, either,” Tolbert said. “You should see that place they got: six or seven bedrooms, a bathroom you could get lost in, pool, views over Stone Canyon Reservoir. I don’t even like to think what it cost.”

  “Might be worth checking what it did cost. See if everything adds up.”

  “I’m already on to it,” said Tolbert. It sounded as if he was writing now too. “Any other suggestions?”

  “Not yet, except we should try and find out if Griffen and Novak knew each other. I’ll check again for that. We’ve got all Novak’s personal papers.”

  “O-kay, sounds reasonable. I’ll do the same. I haven’t had much time with Mrs. Griffen yet. I’ll start with her. Meanwhile, for reference, we’re trying to trace two unidentified vehicles seen parked in the vicinity of the house a day or two prior to Griffen’s death. Neighbor saw them while he was sorting out his trash for recycling. Said he heard what sounded like a collision and went out to take a look. Didn’t take any license plates, of course.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ruddock. “Fire away.”

  “One blue Pontiac, probably blue.”

  “Probably?”

  “It was dark. And a white Buick Century. He was pretty sure about that one. Guess an American car would kinda stand out up there, especially one all smashed up at the front.”

  Ruddock closed his eyes, trying to remember something. Then it came to him.

  “Smashed up left front or right front?”

  “Huh? Er … the right fender, he said.”

  “Jim, that car belongs to Dr. Marcus Ford. I’ve seen it myself.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the line. Ruddock was pleased to be giving Tolbert something to be impressed about, for a change.

  “Don’t tell me, another microbiologist?”

  “Nope. This one’s a real doctor, or was. Let a cop die. Got himself suspended.”

  Dorsey was watching him as he spoke, a tight grin on his face. Hearing that Dr. Ford was back in the picture seemed to please him.

  “You gonna go talk to him?” Tolbert asked.

  “You bet,” said Ruddock. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “All right,” said Tolbert. “All right. When you find him, get him to give you a hair sample, okay?”

  5

  The investigation into Apex Inc. was covered by several of the Los Angeles dailies, though only the LA Times felt it rated the front page. Featured below an extensive update on the resistance problem facing the city, the Times article stated the facts as far as they were known and speculated about the investigation’s purpose. It ended with a pithy comment on the precarious nature of the biotech industry and was topped by a grainy photograph of three men emerging from No. 1 Century Plaza carrying boxes.

  Ford read the piece, sipping coffee in an Au Bon Pain on Pico Boulevard. He felt as if he was, at last, getting somewhere. West had been as good as his word, and Ford only wished that he had gone to him earlier. But the whole process was going to take time. Whatever the imperatives of his personal timetable, whatever the gravity of Sunny’s predicament, the investigation would take as long as it took. All he could do was hope for some quick answers. In the meantime … He folded the paper and stood up. He couldn’t postpone seeing Dr. Lee any longer.

  Entering the Willowbrook, Ford was struck by the clear signs of further deterioration. Someone had kicked a hole in one of the doors of the staff entrance, and there were pieces of glass all over the floor. Buckets and mops stood in the corridors next to waste bins that looked as if they had not been emptied for a week. The elevator linking the abandoned Emergency Department to the first-floor ORs and ICU was out of order—pieces of machinery and what looked like gears were scattered across the dirty blue linoleum. Ford walked up to the first floor.

  He found Lee on one of the wards set aside for resistance cases. All of the nurses and attending physicians were wearing lightweight plastic visors, plastic gowns, and rubber gloves. The plague ship and its crew.

  Lee came down the central aisle, gesturing for Ford to go back. He waited until they were outside the ward to push up his visor.

  “Didn’t you read the sign?”

  He pointed to a sheet of computer paper taped to the door on whi
ch someone had scrawled ISOLATION—OBSERVE STRICT BARRIER TECHNIQUE.

  Ford apologized.

  “Every time I come here, the place seems to have gotten worse.”

  “Tell me about it.” Lee sighed.

  He picked up a staff telephone and punched in a number.

  “I just need to … Yes, yes, Dr. Allen? Dr. Ford is with me, so if you can … In the little cupboard near to radiology, right.”

  They set off along the corridor.

  “We’ve had CDC people in with Patou trying to do something about cross infection. Naturally they do the easy things like make everybody put on masks and gowns. But our real problem, as I see it, is waste collection. I mean, did you see the state of the corridors?”

  He pointed to a pile of what looked like dirty dressings outside the inoperative elevator. Ford shook his head.

  “It’s the subcontractors,” said Lee. “The sanitation people are worried about lawsuits from their staff in case somebody comes down with something. Personally, I think they’re just scared.”

  They entered a windowless room in which there were two plastic chairs and a small autoclave unit that looked as though it had been dropped from a great height.

  “What happened to your office?” asked Ford.

  Lee opened the autoclave and took out a sheaf of papers held together in a torn binder.

  “It’s currently housing around two thousand TV dinners.”

  “Wow.”

  “Absolutely. It feels like the whole place is about to collapse in on itself, you know? Like a neutron star? Haynes is calling us in every day. Pep talks. Warnings about the media. We’ve still got no caterers.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve gained a pound in the last three days eating subs.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Lee gave his tie a little tug. Then checked his watch. It was obvious he didn’t want to get into a serious discussion any more than Ford did.

  “Dr. Allen will be joining us any moment,” he said, flipping open the dossier to reveal a page of cramped notes.

  “In the meantime, why don’t we … I’ve put this material together so that you can have a clear view of the situation.”

  He pulled the dossier round on the desk, and Ford sat forward, pretending to look at the page.

  “How’s she doing?” he said.

  Lee glanced up from his notes.

  “You haven’t been in to see her?”

  “I came straight in to you. I wanted to get this out of the way first thing. It’s been hanging over my head ever since you mentioned that word options a few days ago. I mean with respect to Sunny’s treatment. I can’t believe any of them are very attractive.”

  Lee gave a little shrug.

  “I understand,” he said. “Well, in answer to your question, she’s about the same this morning. Like I told you before, we’re having limited success with the current treatment. We got a breathing space, but that was all. The toxin levels remain consistently high even after forty mils of the CDC antitoxin. And the bug, as you know, seems to be impervious to any of the antibiotics we have.”

  He looked down at his notes for a moment.

  “What you have to understand is … I mean I dare say you worked this out already, but … well, this is uncharted territory. We are effectively…”

  He turned over his empty hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “In the dark,” said Ford.

  “That’s right. Feeling our way. My worry is that at some stage Sunny’s body will react to the equine serum, and then I think we’ll be facing the um … well, a crisis. Which is why I wanted to talk to you about alternatives.”

  There was a brief silence in which Ford stared at the broken autoclave.

  “I’m talking, of course, about surgery,” said Lee.

  Ford sat back and brought his hands together on his lap. He had considered this possibility, had even decided it was the most likely next step, but so far had been unable to muster sufficient courage to contemplate exactly what might need to be done.

  “I know it’s not what you want to hear,” said Lee, “but that’s where we’re at.”

  Ford nodded. It was not what he wanted to hear, but, after all, it was only what he had recommended for Denny—what he had recommended to Denny’s wife. Amputation is really the only alternative, Mrs. Denny. I urge you to consider it.

  “But it didn’t work,” he said under his breath.

  “Pardon me?”

  Ford took in Lee’s frowning face.

  “How do you know surgery will work?”

  The other man shrugged.

  “I don’t. But we’re fighting for Sunny’s life here. My belief—and there is nothing in any of the tests I and the CDC have carried out to indicate the contrary—my belief is that this bug is reproducing in Sunny’s gut, precisely speaking, in her large intestine. I fear that if we don’t do something … something radical, we’re going to lose…”

  He stopped himself, but Ford knew exactly what he had been about to say. We’re going to lose this one. He had heard it said a million times. It was part of the rough-and-ready vernacular that kept all the Willowbrook medical staff at one crucial remove from the suffering around them. For Lee, Ford realized, Sunny was one of many. His discomfort might be greater because Sunny was the daughter of a colleague, but she was still part of a larger picture—necessarily so. The Willowbrook was full of people facing similar choices every day. Thinking about it now, Ford wondered how he had ever been able to do this job. How he had ever been strong enough to use a scalpel. He was not strong enough to be the father of a patient—that was becoming increasingly clear. He framed the beginning of a question.

  “So…?”

  Lee placed his hand flat on his loose bundle of notes, pressed down, as though swearing by his bible.

  “So … So I’ve been considering this possibility. I have discussed it with Dr. Allen. He agrees that—”

  “Conrad?”

  “Yes. Conrad Allen. Obviously I wanted some expert input on this. As I say, he’ll be joining us to give his—”

  “Yes. Of course. What is it that you … What do you have in mind exactly?”

  Lee pushed his hand back through his hair, and Ford could see that he was working himself up to saying what had to be said. “I think we have to consider a colectomy.”

  Ford blinked. They were going to cut open Sunny’s belly, cut through her sleek child’s body, reach into her, cut out her bowels.

  “Colectomy,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  Lee averted his eyes for a moment.

  “We’ve gone into this in great detail, Dr. Ford—considered it from every angle. Dr. Allen agrees with me that Sunny’s best chance is, in fact, with a panproctocolectomy and ileostomy.”

  Ford gasped.

  “What?”

  “The simultaneous removal of all the colon and rectum and the construction of a spout ileostomy on the anterior abdominal wall.”

  “I know what it is, Dr. Lee. I’m just having a little trouble … I can’t quite…”

  “We’re just talking now,” said Lee putting up a hand. “You know we have to talk. We owe it to her.”

  “Yes,” said Ford, trying to keep a grip, trying to be reasonable. He had seen ileostomies done, had even assisted in one or two. It was a long complicated process that came down to pulling the end of the small intestine out through the abdomen to allow the excretion of waste. If all went well, the patient survived on a special diet and regular care. Sunny would be left with a little spout—the stoma—protruding just below and to the right of her navel. Out of nowhere phrases from a manual pushed into his mind—the edge of the everted bowel being sutured to the skin … when completed the stoma is inspected to ensure it is pink and healthy. A stomach spout to shit through. They wanted to do that to his baby.

  He was on his feet.

  “Dr. Ford.”

  But he could no longer hear. There was too much pain, too much anguish to ju
st sit there and take it. He felt as though he were being torn in two, ripped open. He tried to breathe, pressed both his hands against his face, pushing back against the chair.

  “This … this is…”

  He tried to say what it was, but the word, the term was buried too deep, hooked deep inside, already part of him like a rib. He would never be able to say what he felt about the cruelty, the arbitrariness, the ugliness of what was happening to his daughter—it was literally unspeakable.

  Conrad Allen was in the room.

  Then Ford was drinking Lee’s bourbon again, taking a long drink and holding out the plastic cup for a refill. For a while nobody spoke. Ford drank thirstily, feeling the heat build inside, not even wiping the tears from his face. Allen had taken a seat on top of the autoclave.

  It was Ford who eventually broke the silence.

  “I won’t do it,” he said simply. Then, addressing Allen: “I won’t allow it.”

  Allen sighed, kicked his worn crepe heels against the autoclave for a moment.

  “Yeah, you will,” he said gravely. “You’ll do it.”

  Ford looked at his friend’s face. He saw tiredeness, compassion, but also determination.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s her only chance,” said Allen.

  “Dr. Lee is staking his reputation on this thing replicating in Sunny’s colon. We can’t hit it with a drug. We know that much. If we take out the colon, take out everything below the colon, with a little luck this … this bug goes too. Sunny lives.”

  Ford closed his eyes, thought of the life Sunny would have. The years of readjustment. Inch by inch. The humiliation, the suffering. The reconstruction of her whole personality around one terrible fact. A beautiful young girl on the brink of womanhood … with all her vitality, her drive, her ambition. When completed the stoma is inspected…

  “Lives?” he said.

  Allen nodded slowly. Then he reached over and took a drink of the bourbon himself. He sat staring down into the plastic cup.