Bone Pit: A Chilling Medical Suspense Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 3)

by Bette Golden Lamb

  He tapped into the computer address book for the OCI offices and found the telephone number he was looking for.

  * * * *

  Outside the building, Tuva started walking down the street in the direction of her office. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alone, so scared. At one point she reached for her cell phone and was about to call her best friend when she remembered Nadia was vacationing in Europe and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. She folded the cell and shoved it back into her purse.

  Without thinking about it, she sidetracked and climbed part way up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum. It was a beautiful day and the steps were crowded with people eating their lunch; two people scooted over so she could sit down. She was already late getting back to her job, but she couldn’t focus enough to even act, much less hurry.

  Tuva glanced at the trees that bordered the sidewalk outside Central Park. The leaves sparkled in the sun. They had a transitional look that told her they would soon turn to the red-orange autumn foliage she loved. Then they would fall and it would end their cycle of life.

  Was it time to stop obsessing about her mother? Was it time to let her go and get on with her own future, especially now that she had a new job and things were really happening for her?

  She stood and climbed the rest of the museum steps, pulled her pass out, and walked through one of her favorite places in New York City. How many times had she come here just to wander around and study the different styles and expressions of art?

  It was peaceful and beautiful.

  When things were out of whack, when she was troubled or perplexed, like now, she would head for the Egyptian exhibits. In this section of the museum she knew her problems or questions would somehow be subliminally dealt with. She imagined herself back in a time and place when the mysteries of the universe must have seemed uncomplicated and orderly. Life and death were a simple equation; it was either one or the other.

  She strolled through the tomb replicas, her fingers trailing along the walls, sweeping over the hieroglyphics. Behind closed eyes she imagined herself in Egypt under starlit skies. The gods were reaching down to protect her.

  When she opened her eyes again, she smiled.

  * * * *

  Tuva returned to the office a half an hour late. Her good mood disappeared when she saw her manager waiting in her office, sitting on the edge of her chair, tapping one index finger on the acrylic top of her desk.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Susan.”

  “I took a real chance on you, Tuva. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do. But some things are even more important than a job.”

  Susan was smartly dressed but wasn’t into designer outfits. There was nothing phony about her; she was a working woman and she dressed that way. Tuva liked her direct approach and felt she would be a friend worth having. She pulled a work stool from the corner of the office, sat down and prepared for the worst.

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Tuva said. “In fact, there’s a good chance you’re going to fire me.”

  “I’m already flirting with that idea.”

  “My mother’s in trouble.” She wanted to scream the words, but she was just too tired.

  “Oh, please, don’t pull the sick mother card on me. Most people have the decency today not to use their family as an excuse for their lack of professionalism.”

  Tuva bowed her head, covered her face. She could hear her manager shifting in the only comfortable chair in the office; her voice had been filled with exasperation. But at least she was giving Tuva a chance to talk. Not like the manager at her last job.

  “My mother has early Alzheimer’s … she’s been in a national study for a new medication … and it was working. She was so much better, then…”

  Tuva dropped her hands into her lap and looked directly at her manager. “…then she suddenly became crippled by severe arthritis, and was moved to a facility in Nevada for treatment. I haven’t been able to speak to her since.”

  “How long has it been?” the manager asked.

  “Three weeks.” Tuva barely recognized her own voice.

  “I see.”

  Then the words poured from Tuva’s mouth. She couldn’t stop to even think about what she was saying.

  “I’ve done everything I can, Susan. I went to the FDA’s office of criminal investigation to have them look into it … I’ve tried to wait … be patient … but I know something’s wrong … she’s in trouble … she needs me … you have to understand … I would never make this up … I have to go to her … she needs me. … she needs me—”

  “Okay,” her manager said. “I think I see the problem now, Tuva. It’s just that I barely know you and the last company you worked for was not throwing accolades in your corner. It’s hard to ignore that.”

  “I can’t stay here and do nothing about my mother.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Susan’s voice had softened and her eyes were kind, but the set of her shoulders were still firm.

  “I have to go to Nevada … find out what’s happened to my mother. I have to do it. Don’t you see?”

  Susan rose, walked over and rested a hand gently on her shoulder. “I do understand. And if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “My job?”

  “I’ll hold it for you … for as long as I can.”

  Chapter 30

  Carl Kreuger placed the telephone receiver back in its holder and glanced at the work schedule taped to the frame of the computer screen. The damn piece of paper fluttered with the slightest breeze or movement, constantly attracting his attention. Every single item on that piece of paper had to be tied up—one way or another—before he could move his butt back to his old FBI job on the West Coast.

  He turned away from the jumble of words on the list and tried to get the Goldmich call to LA out of his head. It kept interfering with his focus.

  Dammit. Why can’t I stop thinking about Tuva Goldmich and that Zelint- Comstock Medical business?

  He clenched his thinking pencil, the one with teeth marks and chunks of missing wood, tapped the graphite point lightly on the desk.

  Connecting with the OCI regional office in LA had left him unsatisfied. Like his office, they were understaffed and overworked. Only a few words into his conversation with one of their agents told him that Tuva Goldmich’s mother was headed for a trip to the bottom of someone else’s work stash.

  He shifted in his chair, tried to get comfortable. But the seat felt too small no matter where he slid his rump.

  Well, I kept my damn promise and made the call.

  His wife’s picture kept staring at him. She still seemed to have a disappointed turn to her mouth.

  Everyone was disappointed in him: his wife, because he didn’t love New York the way she did; the Goldmich woman, because he wasn’t giving enough attention to her mother; his supervisor, because he wasn’t diminishing his backlog of case files.

  He tried again to push the whole Goldmich business from his mind. He’d done what he promised to do.

  That should be the end of it!

  But he knew that wasn’t the end of it; he wasn’t satisfied that someone would soon get around to that mother and daughter’s problem in the near future.

  He couldn’t explain why, but that truly bothered him.

  A lot.

  He envisioned his work pile escalating with every blink. He really needed to get on the stick. Instead, he picked up his pencil and started tapping again.

  In a flash, he tore the work list off the screen, put it in his top drawer, and slammed the drawer shut. Then he hit the keys of his computer and brought up Zelint Pharmaceutical’s website. Staring back at him was a picture of the twin brothers who owned the pharmaceutical company. Their home office was in Reno, Nevada. As expected, the company praised their business operations and their dedication to humanity. It was obviously set up to woo potential investors, although there was the usual disclaimer to
that notion.

  No surprise there.

  He cleared the screen and hit into OCI’s file on the company and its facilities.

  LA’s regional office had very few consumer complaints regarding Comstock.

  All small stuff.

  That in itself would guarantee the overworked staff wouldn’t be checking into Zelint in any hurry. He also saw a recent updated bulletin: AZ-1166, the Alzheimer’s treatment medication was pending a Class IV drug status.

  Tuva Goldmich’s sad face flashed into his head. Against his better judgment, he continued to be drawn to this woman who refused to let go of her mother.

  He picked up the phone and called Zelint’s offices, asked to be put through to David Zelint, the listed contact for the company. It took more than a few minutes of dancing through a chorus line of assistants before he actually reached the man.

  “David Zelint, here.”

  “Mr. Zelint, this is Carl Kreuger from OCI in New York City.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, of course. I’ve read about you. You’re a branch of the FDA. Right?”

  “Yes, we’re the investigative arm of the agency.”

  “I see,” Zelint said. “What can I do to help you?” An uneasy chuckle followed. “Are we under investigation?”

  “Well, of course you are, sir. You have applied for Class IV, FDA status.” Carl didn’t like the tingling at the base of his neck. Something was off about the man’s responses.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “I’m sorry to say we’ve had a complaint about one of your facilities—Comstock Medical.” Carl could have sworn Zelint was holding his breath.

  “Complaint?”

  “Yes. It seems you have a woman by the name of Emma Goldmich at Comstock. Her daughter, Tuva Goldmich, has filed a complaint at our offices. She states she has not been able to reach her mother by mail or telephone. She’s extremely concerned.”

  “I’ll look into it immediately, Mr. Kreuger. May I have your telephone number so I can get back to you?”

  Carl gave him the information.

  “You said you’re in the New York City office of OCI?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Aren’t we somewhat outside your sphere of operations?”

  “Normally, but Ms. Goldmich’s complaint was filed here. However, I’ve also relayed the information to our LA office, which handles your region.”

  “We’ll take care of everything at our end, Mr. Kreuger, rest assured.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll expect your call.” Carl hung up, but he was less than satisfied.

  * * * *

  Ethan’s smartphone vibrated in his pocket. It startled him, even more so when he saw David Zelint’s name in the window. Of late, every time he’d tried to reach the man, all he’d gotten was grief. Ethan allowed it to ring for a few times before answering.

  “David! You’re calling me for a change?”

  “I call when it’s necessary.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “For one thing, you can take care of business, like you’re supposed to do.” David Zelint usually raised his voice and almost shouted when they talked. Now, his tone was low and menacing.

  Ethan sat down at his desk and waited for his heart to stop racing.

  Bad! This sounds bad.

  “What do you mean? I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “Really? What about Emma Goldmich? What about Emma Goldmich’s daughter, Tuva? Does any of this jar your memory, Ethan?”

  He immediately pictured the woman’s file, remembered that if it hadn’t been for a foul-up, she would have been out of their hair some time ago.

  “Yes, I know who you’re talking about.”

  “The daughter has filed a complaint with the OCI. Claims she can’t get in touch with her mother. Not by mail, not by telephone. Why is this happening?”

  “OCI?”

  “Remember them? We’ve had conversations about them before. That’s the FDA’s police force. The F-D-A. Do you get the picture now?”

  Ethan’s mouth was frozen. Raw fear roiled in his gut.

  “You get this taken care of,” David growled. “Fix it. Now!”

  Chapter 31

  Emma lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every part of her, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, was hurting. When she tried to move or change positions, it became a rollercoaster of screaming pain. The medicine Delores had given her two hours ago had worn off—they all wore off so quickly now—leaving her breathless.

  She pressed her bedside call button once, twice. When nothing happened, she pushed it over and over. She watched her bedside clock lose fifteen minutes before the nurse finally appeared.

  “Yes, Emma, what can I do for you?”

  “I would like to use my cell phone so I can call my daughter. It’s been three weeks since I’ve spoken to her.”

  Delores frowned with annoyance. “I told you, we don’t have cell phone reception here. It’s the mountains.”

  “Then I want to call her from the nurses’ station.” Emma could hear the shrill in her voice. “Please! I have a right to talk to my girl.”

  Delores made a point of looking at her watch. “Your daughter is probably in bed sound asleep. It’s late in New York. You wouldn’t want to wake her up … would you?”

  “Yes! I want to wake her.”

  “Well, I can’t let you do that. Besides, the phones are for medical personnel only.” Delores turned around and started to leave.

  “Delores, please help me.”

  The nurse swung around to face Emma again. “It’s too early to give you more meds for your pain, Emma. And you know that.”

  “No, it’s not the pain.” Emma held onto her bedside table, tried to raise herself, but she couldn’t. “Please, Delores! Help me call my daughter. You could do that if you really cared.”

  Delores’s face turned a bright red. “We have our rules, Emma. I have to follow instructions.”

  “What are those instructions?”

  Delores raised her voice. “You know what they are. You can’t use our telephones to call your daughter. Every single day I tell you the same thing. Over and over. I’ve had enough!”

  “What did you do with my cell phone?” Emma screamed. “Whether I can use it or not … it’s mine! I want it back!”

  Delores stepped to the bed and pounded her fists on the mattress; the violent movement caused Emma stabbing pain, like electrical fingers crawling all over her.

  “You listen to me, you … you … Emma! Your cell phone is useless, and that’s not going to change.” Delores thrust her face inches from hers. “Get it! Now don’t ask me again.”

  Delores returned to the doorway and swung around to glare at her before she left. “Why don’t you accept it? Your daughter doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  Emma bit back the screams that kept welling up inside. Delores would hurt her again if even one of them escaped her lips.

  * * * *

  Ethan sat at his laboratory desk, brought up Emma Goldmich’s file. He remembered how the woman had been scheduled out. Then the arrival of the two new nurses had delayed the finalization.

  The patient should have been gone from the equation. She should be dead. Just a brain floating in a glass specimen container.

  Then there would be no complaint from David Zelint; no complaints from anyone.

  David’s angry face was there every time Ethan closed his eyes, and every time he saw that face, a glob of fear would stick in his throat.

  He looked around the room at all the preserved brain specimens. He’d done hundreds of dissections … and to what end?

  No conclusions! No supportable theories. All he had was garbage, and brains floating in jars.

  He turned back to the computer and in a frenzy he began to review the data and observations he’d carefully documented. He moved to his paper files and compared all his notes, as well. Frustrated, he threw the papers up i
n the air and let them fly everywhere.

  “Where is the pattern?” he screamed at the brains. “Where is the logic, the harmony, the progression of scientific thought?”

  He’d had all the advantages of studying living tissue. What did he learn? What definitive information had it given him? Where did it take him?

  Nowhere. Only down dark, empty alleys.

  He scrolled his computer files, tried to make sense out of his observations. But the more he searched, the more it all turned into gibberish.

  He scratched at his arms until there were tracks of blood. Where had he gone wrong?

  “I was supposed to be a pioneer,” he said to the specimens. “I was to create new pathways for others to follow, to find new information about the functions of a living brain. I was to create maps for future explorations.”

  He’d not succeeded in his quest, had not answered any of the vital questions.

  Ethan pulled up the original platform for his personal research, the one he’d used to convince David Zelint that it was worth the money to purchase special equipment for Comstock.

  How does AZ-1166 actually affect the functioning of the brain?

  Do the fewer nerve cells and synapses in Alzheimer’s patients cause the remaining neurological survivors to morph into superhero status? Become superhero cells by taking on more responsibility? Does AZ-1166 help accomplish that, or do all brain cells try to compensate in the same manner?

  Could there actually be brain tissue regeneration?

  “I’ve learned nothing!” he shouted at the room.

  He jumped up, paced around the lab, scanned the collection of brains that surrounded him. Yes, they were his. He remembered every single one of these subjects.

  “You were all willing participants.”

  Jar after jar of brain matter seemed to stare back at him.

  “You were supposed to be a part of world-shattering discoveries!” he yelled at the jars.

  He surveyed every container, each carefully labeled with the name of the donor, the date and time it was received.

  Derek Kopek was floating next to Rhonda Jenkins.

  He rested a finger on an empty slot on one shelf.