by Shawn Grady
He progressed down to the neck and removed the entire windpipe. He handed me the trachea, all dangly and fleshy with ribbed cartilage up around the voice box.
Holding it up like a telescope, I stared past Letell’s epiglottis and through his vocal cords. “It looks like there was some trauma around the larynx.” I thought of how Bobbi the nurse said he’d yanked out his endotracheal tube.
Eli smiled. “Atta boy. Knowing your anatomy will save you.”
He moved on to the heart, the lungs, each major organ – excising them one by one and verbally documenting his findings. Letell’s coronary arteries were coated with a fine layer of plaque, yellow like a hamburger bun. There was a bit of blackened alveoli in the lung tissue, likely from a prior history of smoking. Letell’s gall bladder sac spilled out a host of white BB-shaped stones when lacerated.
Dr. Eli finished up, bagging a few specimens for pathological testing. “Nothing obvious yet, I’m afraid. Definitely no other blatant trauma. I expect we’ll learn more from this man’s liver and kidneys than anything else.” He peeled off his gloves and nodded to the tech. “Let me know when our next one is ready, if you would, Steve.”
My radio chirped traffic again.
Eli raised his eyebrows. “Do you need to go?”
“No. It’s for another unit.”
“Care to join me in the office?”
We washed up and sat down in the glass-walled office adjacent to the exam area. Outside, Steve the tech sewed up the Y cut in Letell’s torso with a pen-sized needle and thick thread. Eli set the bagged samples in a specimen refrigerator beneath a microscope on the far wall of the office.
“You still do most of your work down here?” I said.
“Hmm?” Eli looked up. “Oh, instead of in that closet-sized office in the old hospital wing?” He smiled and sat on the edge of a desk chair. “You know, my father always thought I’d be a family physician.” He pulled a chain out from his scrub shirt. Two flat round pendants dangled at the end of it. He unclasped the necklace and held the brass circles out to examine them. “This was a gift from him when I made it into medical school.” He pulled one off of the chain and handed it to me. “The Hippocratic Oath is inscribed on it.”
I ran my thumb over the etchings.
“Do no harm.”
He rested his forearms on his knees. “Even though I work with the dead, I still endeavor to fulfill that oath.”
I handed it back. “It’s a special gift.”
He put up a palm. “I would like for you to have that one.”
“Doc, I can’t take this.”
“Jonathan, you are the closest thing to a son that I have. I am so proud of your accomplishment. I want you to have it.”
“Eli,” I looked at the pendant. “I am honored. This means a lot. Are you – ”
“I insist. He gave me two for just this reason.”
I clenched it in my fist. “Thank you.”
He sat back in the chair and propped up his glasses. “So tell me – what was it about this patient?”
I took a seat and told him the story of getting Letell back from cardiac arrest, the strange things he had said, his last request to give a note to someone named Martin, and how I’d finally found him dead outside of his motel room.
Eli rested his chin on his thumb, his forefinger stretched across his lips, his eyes searching in thought. “What do you know about his Arepo comment?”
I shared what Bones and I had found on the Internet that morning.
He straightened. “Well, for one thing, he sure was determined to tell you that. So much so that he fought off the grave to say it.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “It’s just so out of left field. I’m probably making too much out of nothing.”
He nodded. “Perhaps.” He took his glasses from his head and examined them. “When searching for the unknown, it is best to start with what we know.”
“But where do you go from there?”
He sat back in his chair. “I’ve often found that when answers elude me, I need to cut deeper to see the story. Simon Letell related to you a message that coincides with an ancient Latin palindrome square.”
“Right.”
“How ancient?”
“Oldest depiction found is in Pompeii, from 79 AD.”
“And many scholars believe it is early Christian in origin?”
“There’s debate, but yes.”
“And if I take all the letters from that square and use them once, I can form a cross that says, ‘Our Father’ in Latin with two Greek A’s and two O’s left over.”
“Right.”
“And you think that it’s some kind of code persecuted Christians used?”
“Yes. Back when they had to meet in secret.”
“Because they were persecuted.” He looked as if he’d reached a conclusion.
“Right . . .”
“So, if we attribute what we know about these early Christians to Simon Letell, then we may have just learned something about him.”
“You think Simon was being persecuted?”
“Assuming he was not simply insane or just disoriented, then it is a possibility.”
I stared at the tile floor. “He was speaking in code?”
“Because he was forced underground, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “This seems really farfetched.”
He fingered strands of his bushy white eyebrow and grinned. “Only one way to find out for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Find Martin.”
CHAPTER 08
Bones couldn’t stop laughing.
We sat in the parking lot outside the morgue. “I’m glad you’re amused by all this.” I put my foot on the dash. “Mind if I use your laptop?”
He put on a cockney accent. “Right. Whatever you need, Inspector.”
I felt like saying, “What does that make you? Dr. Watson?” But it was a lame comeback, so I just kept quiet. I got out, opened the outside cabinet where Bones kept his laptop bag and brought it back in. I opened the Web browser, and his home page popped up. In the Search field I entered the names Simon Letell and Martin.
Bones raised an eyebrow. “Yahtzee?”
“So now you’re interested?”
“I have been equally interested and entertained.”
I scanned the search results. One match. “Yeah. I found something.” “What?”
“Simon Letell and a Richard Martin are mentioned together on the UNR Web site.” I followed the link and scrolled down the page. “Looks like Simon was a well-educated man . . . earned his master’s degree in chemistry alongside Richard Martin some years back. Martin went on to earn his doctorate and is . . . presently professor at the chemistry school.”
“At UNR?”
“At UNR.”
Bones dropped the transmission in drive.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to the university.”
“We already pulled strings just to be here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
A sustained tone let out from the radio. I let my feet down off the dash and pulled out the map book.
“All units, this is an informational broadcast only. Please extend your congratulations to our own paramedic/soon to be UNR Med School lackey, Jonathan Trestle. Great job, Jonathan! Aprisa dispatch clear.”
A scattering of radio mic clicks from other rigs gave the sound of static applause.
I smiled and looked at the floor. “Someone put you up to that?”
Bones extended his hand across the center console. “Congratulations, bud. It won’t be the same out here without you. Just keep your head out of your you know what when you’re an ER doc. All right?”
We shook.
“Now . . .” Bones pulled out his phone. “Leave this to me.” He held it by his ear. “Hello. Hi, this is McCoy. Yeah. I know. He’s blushing. Nice work. Hey, you mind if we swing by the university so he can check
up on some scholarship paperwork? . . . It’s not? Great. Thanks. We’ll be listening.” He hung up and pulled the ambulance onto Kirman Avenue. “Free and clear, Inspector.”
We found the chemistry building off of Ninth Street, though only after Bones insisted on buying me coffee from the Record Street Café. The mature trees and manicured lawns of the university were a nice alternative to the muddled concrete grays of parking lots and city streets. Spring burst forth at every turn, buds on cherry trees that would soon send tear-shaped petals twirling through the courtyards like snow flurries. I took a deep breath with the realization that I was walking on the campus that would soon be my new home.
The sixties-style three-story Chem building sported narrow elongated windows bordered by white walls that were interspersed with wide columns of red brick veneer. In the foyer we found a directory with white lettering affixed to a black background. Martin’s name was listed under the heading Faculty, with 307 adjacent to it.
I tapped on the glass. “Third floor.”
Bones motioned with his hand. “After you.”
Time for some answers. I started up the stairwell, wondering what, if anything, Dr. Martin would reveal. I pulled Simon’s note from my side pocket. Each step echoed, as though the building were vacant. Bones trailed behind, holding his espresso cup.
We crossed the second-floor landing and started in on the third flight. It occurred to me that we’d walked quite a ways from the ambulance.
I stopped. “If we get a call, we’re going to have to hoof it back.”
Our radios beeped.
Bones made a hands-in-the-cookie-jar face.
“Medic Two, respond priority one for a possible cardiac arrest.”
Our boots drummed as we flew down the steps. I swung off the handrails around the corners.
We hit the ground floor. I pulled out my pager. “Did you get that address?”
Bones dropped his coffee in the trash. “No.” He lifted his radio. “Aprisa dispatch, Medic Two. Could we have that address again?”
“Ten-four, Medic Two. It’s at UNR – room three-zero-seven of the chemistry school.”
I froze. Bones looked at me.
The air snapped like a cable breaking.
He shot out the door. “I’ll get the stuff.”
I ran up the steps, two and three at a time.
Second floor. Blood rushing through my chest.
Third-floor landing. I threw open the door. The smell of sawdust and drywall came from the long hallway. Artificial light reflected off of Visqueen taped over the walls. White dust coated the tile floor, and there were sounds of power tools at the far end.
This can’t be right. I sprinted down the hall. A Hispanic construction worker emerged from behind one of the clear plastic curtains.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Did you call 9-1-1?”
“No, no.”
I put my hands on my head and looked around. “Can you tell me where 307 is?”
“Tree-seben?”
“Yes. Yes. Three hundred and seven.”
“Oh, oh. Trescientos siete?”
“Yes.”
“Sí.”
“Where?”
“No está aquí. Ahora está en el otro edificio. Temporalmente.”
“No esta? What do you mean?”
“Esta en el otro edificio. Para la física.”
“Otro edificio? Other building?”
“Sí, sí. Para la física.”
“For . . . for physics?”
“Sí. Con la construccion.”
“Got it. Thank you so much.” I took off back down the hall, hearing a faint and quizzical “De nada” from behind.
I sailed down the stairs and busted out the front doors. Bones wheeled up the gurney with all our bags.
I grabbed the foot of the cot. “Not here.”
Dispatch came over the air. “Medic Two, I have an update on that location.”
I pulled my radio from my belt. “Go ahead.”
“Apparently room three-zero-seven has been moved to the first floor of the Physics building during construction.”
“Medic Two, copy.”
We bumped and rattled down the sidewalk, following a lawn sign over to the Physics building. A sandwich board in the foyer read Adjunct Chemistry Offices with an arrow pointing to a side hall. An office door hung open at the far end. We jogged down the hall, parked the gurney by the wall, and grabbed the bags.
A young Asian woman in a lab coat met us inside, her eyes swollen and red, her cheeks wet. Beyond her, a man with thinning silver hair slumped over a stout oak desk, his arms spread out on a scattering of papers. A plaque on the desk read Richard Martin, PhD.
I came beside him and lifted his head and chest. His arms remained extended, but now pointed toward the ceiling. Rigor mortis had already set in. Purple painted his face.
I set Martin down and looked up at Bones, his expression an amalgam of surprise and confusion.
Abaddon was staking his claims.
Two dead men and the wheels at work.
CHAPTER 09
“Spitzer wants to see you in the office.”
I looked up from the chart I was finishing to see Bones leaning in the doorway of the time-clock room at Aprisa headquarters.
“Why just me?”
“Oh, he tried with me, but I just changed the subject and deftly slipped out. Good luck.”
“Wait. What is it for?”
Bones disappeared down the hallway.
Intolerable.
If Spitzer wanted to see me, then he could come see me. I turned my attention back to the chart I’d been trying to finish for the last twenty minutes. The clock clicked to ten past six. Late getting off shift, again.
“Hey, pal.”
I looked up, this time to see the ingratiating smile of Dale Spitzer, the words Paramedic Supervisor engraved into the glinting rectangular name badge on his shirt.
Spitzer nodded at my chart. “Didn’t get your paperwork done in time again, huh?”
“I guess I didn’t effectively use the time between the ten calls we had in the past twelve hours.”
I meant it to be facetious. He took it as a confession. “Well, hey, that’s all right, pal. You’ll get better. Just keep trying.”
I’d been on the streets for four years – which like dog years, is more than it seems – but Spitzer still spoke to me as if I’d just made it out of paramedic school. I’d gotten past taking it personally, so now I just tried to have fun with his daily condescension.
“I can only hope I will get better, someday.”
He patted my shoulder. “Come on, now. You’ll get there.” It was like listening to Barney in a paramedic uniform. “Hey, when you’re done with your chart, why don’t you come on down to the supervisor’s office, and we’ll have a chat.”
I nodded. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”
He breathed in through his teeth. “Yeah, there’s just a little something we need to go over.” He made a clicking sound and winked. “All right?”
I didn’t say anything. In fact, I just stared at him.
He turned and greeted someone passing in the hallway. “Hey, pal.”
Spitzer spun around in his office chair, his elbows on the rests, fingers tented. I stood in the doorway.
“Go ahead and come on in. Close the door behind you, if you would, pal.”
Okay, I’ll admit, the whole “pal” thing still got to me. I honestly wanted to punch him in the gut, but I couldn’t help imagining my blow being absorbed by a purple dinosaur belly. I sat on the edge of a chair.
“How’s everything?” he said.
“Good.”
Spitzer took a deep breath. “So, I’m sure you’re aware this has been an issue before.”
I pushed my lips together, looked to the side and then back at him.
“Response times,” he cued.
I shook my head. “And . . . ?”
He rubbed the back of his neck
and blew out. “Well, that’s why we’re here, Jonathan. This can’t keep happening.”
I scratched my chin. “I’m not sure I’m following you. I thought we were pretty dialed on our responses today.”
“Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds. You know what those numbers mean?”
I’d placate him. “Of course. It’s what the county contract stipulates.”
“Right. And as long as we make those response times, you and I have jobs.” He spoke as if he were talking to a preschooler.
I couldn’t resist. “And what happens if we don’t make those response times?”
He sat back, looking for an instant as if he doubted my credulity. “Jonathan, if we don’t make our response times, we could lose our contract for service. Another company could replace us in this area.”
I mimicked his breathing in through the teeth. “And that would be bad.”
“Yeah, pal. That’s why we’ve got to call “on scene” every time, on time. If you don’t do that, dispatch can’t record when you actually got there. It’s very important that you call “on scene” before five minutes and fifty-nine seconds.”
Something in the way he put that didn’t sit right. “And . . . what if we’re not actually able to be on scene in that time frame?”
“Come on now, Jonathan. You have a great job. You know how many people are lined up out there who’d take your place in a heartbeat?”
How many wet-behind-the-ears, fresh-out-of-paramedic-school job applicants out there willing to be paid pennies to slog it out on the streets for a couple years? Yeah, I did. And the number was, unfortunately, limitless.
He stood and pushed in his chair.
I instinctually rose. Was this the part where we wrestled?
He stepped close, then patted my shoulder and inserted his right hand into mine, forcing a shake. “That’s why we need to always be sure to get there in time.” He looked me in the eyes, and all fabricated friendliness fell away. A moment later Medic Barney snapped back. “All right, pal?”
I wanted to tell him to shine on. To invite the line of folks wanting my job. They could pay them even less than the burger-flipping wage they paid me. And maybe that new employee would figure out sooner than I did that this job had a tendency to be a stepping-stone to somewhere else.
