by LM Ardor
‘Okay. I’ll let you know. It could take a while.’ Heinrich sighed loudly. His eyes were on his lunch. ‘I’ll try to hurry it up, for the family’s sake.’
‘Thank you so much. Tom’s family will be relieved. I’ll ring you in a week to see how it’s going.’
The pale lashes fluttered again but Heinrich didn’t verbalise any objection. He would do the tests. Anything to get rid of her and get to his lunch.
Dee picked up her bag. ‘When will the case come before the coroner?’ she asked as she started to get up.
‘Well, it won’t,’ said Heinrich. ‘If a death is due to natural causes, which we have no reason to doubt, that’s a waste of the court’s time.’
No coroner’s enquiry—Dee sat back in the chair as though she’d been punched—flattened, all the air gone out of her.
A coroner would consider all the evidence around a death, not only the pathologist’s findings. Unless something extraordinary came out of the extra tests, and it wouldn’t, this was the end of any hope that Tom’s death would be investigated. There was no chance of justice for Tom.
Heinrich looked at her, no doubt expecting a response. Dee had nothing. She sat back up. She had to get out.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise that,’ Dee said and clutched the desk to haul herself up.
*
She somehow made it back to her car. There was a message from Raj. He was the only person who understood about Tom but she couldn’t bear to tell him the news. It was too awful. If she told anyone it would solidify into a fact.
Nothing was going to happen. She felt too hopeless to talk.
She sent a text. ‘Sorry, extra busy. Will ring in a day or two.’
19.
Next morning Dee was tired and queasy. Last night’s red wine on an empty stomach in front of junk TV wasn’t a recipe for bounding out of bed full of energy. The children weren’t there to make her put on a show of healthy living. It would be easy to become an alcoholic if she lived alone.
Food didn't appeal but she ate a plate of Oliver’s iron man cereal; some sort of pressed cardboard coated in salt and sugar. It did its duty and the queasy feeling receded.
She checked the wine bottle. A little less than half was left. She’d broken her half bottle rule but only by a small amount. In the circumstances, she could forgive herself but she added a new rule: if she drank more than one glass she had to eat.
*
The surgery was quiet. No one in the waiting room. The other doctors on duty, William and Chris, already had their first patients in their rooms with their doors closed. She opened her computer to see who hadn’t come. An hour was blocked off, marked SB.
‘Janelle?’ she asked. ‘Who’s SB?’
‘I don’t know. You put it in a couple of days ago, after Jean Louis had his heart attack. I hope it means something. I could have filled it a dozen times.’
Dee remembered. It was the day she’d decided to check out Leah’s story then ran out of time when Jean Louis decided she was better than all the resources at the hospital. SB were the couple Leah had told her about. S, it wasn’t Samantha, maybe Sheila, something old-fashioned. The B was Ben. The pair used to live near Tom.
They’d had a gorgeous blond two-year-old boy via IVF. She hadn’t seen them since they were expecting twins. She couldn’t remember their last name. Ben had dark hair and looked southern European. Italian? The easiest way to find them was to search for letters to GenSafe IVF or Adam Fairborn.
The computer produced a list of twelve referrals over the past five years. The last one was Tom Harris. Dee had anticipated he would be there and steeled herself to remember something happy about him. She settled on the pride in his face when he had come in with Leah.
Shirley and Ben were third on the list. Their surname was Albanese. A Maltese name. Once Dee had the file open the details came back to her. The first referral to Adam was five years ago. Shirley came back six months later for a check-up after an abortion because the foetus had ‘something wrong’. Shirley was vague and didn’t seem as upset as expected. She was calmly determined to try again. Dee didn’t know whether to be impressed by Shirley’s stoicism or to probe her for repressed emotions.
Dee searched for the pathology results on the foetus. There were none. All she could find was a brief letter from Adam to say he had referred them for the termination after an amniocentesis at fifteen weeks was abnormal. He didn’t give any more details. That was odd. To predict risk in future pregnancies it was important to know what abnormality was present. Dee assumed the problem must have been chromosomal because the termination was late, eighteen weeks; after the time it took for chromosomes to be sampled via amniocentesis and cultured.
As she looked through the file she remembered that it had happened twice more. Each time, Shirley was determined to go on and was less distressed than most mothers on the IVF roller-coaster. The thrill of pregnancy then the spill of miscarriage, or in this case deliberate termination, were heart wrenching for those whose life could only be complete if they had a child. Not many couples had the stamina or the funds to do it so many times. Shirley and Ben had multiple tries till they got their perfect boy. She checked the letters from Adam. They were identical: a form letter. Where the word processing program had inserted ‘Dear Dr Flanary’ Adam had struck out the Dr Flanary and inserted a handwritten ‘Dee’ to personalise it. It didn’t work.
The most recent referral was eighteen months ago. Success came with the first cycle. Shirley was pregnant with twins when she came in to ask Dee to transfer her files to a new doctor in Springwood, in the Blue Mountains.
All the others who she had referred to Adam she remembered. A brief look at the files confirmed there wasn’t anything unusual about them.
She checked referrals from the other doctors in the practice. Two had come in for post-termination check-ups after vague abnormalities. Neither case had any pathology results—only the brief identical notes from Adam with the personalised crossing out of Dr and the handwritten first name.
On the letter to William, Adam shortened the name to Bill. William hated his name to be shortened. Dee could imagine the grimace on his face as he read the letter. Adam was hopeless at human relationships—never got the social things right and never paid enough attention to anyone to even notice.
Dee would ask William what he remembered about the case next time they got a moment free together.
The other case was seen by a registrar, Alison, who had been in a training position at Dee’s practice for six months. Ali wrote very detailed notes. It was the same story. Two late terminations and eventual success. No pathology results, and the same brief note from Adam. Ali recorded that she had rung Adam’s practice twice to get pathology results. Dee searched and found nothing. The last she’d heard of Ali was that she had followed her husband overseas and lived in Malaysia. Dee sent an email to Ali’s old email address to ask her to get in touch. It didn’t bounce immediately.
The waiting room screen lit up with her first patient, then, as she watched, another three phone messages blinked at her.
*
It was evening before she had time to think about anything but the immediate needs of others.
Dee wanted to tell Raj about what she’d found. There was a message from him on her phone. It was 6.45. The kids deserved to see her too and they would be starving by now. She sent back a text ‘Lots to tell you but too busy. Tomorrow? I’m childfree, takeaway at my place?’
If she could make the story more coherent she would approach the police again. Marlena might be able to help. She didn’t want to exploit patients for her own needs but Marlena wasn’t her patient; only the relative of a patient.
Her phone buzzed with Raj’s reply.
‘Tomorrow’s good. I’ll bring food. 7.30?’
‘Good. I’ll let you know if I’m late. No wine! D’
20.
Raj came in with two large bags trailing a scented cloud of lemongrass, turmeric, coconut and lime.
The hopelessness of it all had descended over her again and Dee wondered why she had invited him. He had gone to so much trouble, she had to make an effort.
She set the coffee table with bowls, napkins and water glasses. The lounge had dim light and was less conducive to the detailed formal discussion she wanted to avoid. It was good she’d said no alcohol. Wine wouldn’t help them to stay away from the pain and hopelessness around Tom’s death.
Raj unpacked salt and pepper eggplant; duck and prawn wrapped in Vietnamese pancake; turmeric chicken curry; wood ear, oyster mushroom and lotus root stir fry and coconut rice. It was too exotic to be from any of the local places. Good food was worth any amount of trouble for Raj.
‘I told you it was just us, didn’t I?’ Dee asked as they sat down.
‘Yes, why?’
Dee waved her arm across the array of food. There was far too much for two.
‘Oh yes, silly. Back in a minute.’ Raj got up and went outside.
In a minute he came in with a six-pack of Coronas and two limes. ‘You said no wine.’
For a moment Dee thought she might cry with relief. She so wanted to forget all that happened. Raj could be relied on to make her remember there was a world beyond the one her head was stuck in. He loved excess: in clothes, in entertainment, in food. No matter what happened, Raj had all his senses open to pleasure—or maybe not all his senses—he never admitted to anything sexual. His private life remained a mystery.
He didn’t appear to notice that everyone’s eyes, male or female, were on him wherever he went. Or perhaps he didn’t mind. Constant attention was his norm.
A while later, the coffee table was full of empty plastic containers and dirty plates. They were stretched out at either end of the couch in the semi-recumbent position Rob’s low-slung architectural masterpiece forced you into. Raj put a wedge of lime into the necks of two more beers and handed one to Dee. A mild tide of alcohol had comfortably soothed away the need to fix anything.
She’d invited Raj over to tell him what had happened. She levered herself partially upright and gave him a summary. First, Leah and her terror that someone, ‘the professor’, Adam, was waiting for her outside the surgery, then the autopsy results, which meant there would be no coronial investigation. She filled him in on the insurance payout and the thirty-day rule. Lastly, she told him about Tom’s investigations into GenSafe, and Leah’s assertion that Shirley and Ben, and others, had bought designer babies from them.
‘Okay, why don’t we think about this like detectives?’ Raj asked.
‘Sure.’
She knew her own interest in the victim could impair her judgement. It was the same reason why acting as doctor for one’s family was dangerous. It was too easy to take shortcuts due to prior knowledge or avoid proper procedures because of emotional barriers. Logically, it would be the same for a detective with an emotional connection to a victim. The problem was that there was no one official, or emotionally disengaged, willing to do anything for Tom. It was them or nothing.
‘Sticking to the facts, what do we have about motive, means and opportunity?’ said Raj.
‘The police haven’t even considered those. They refuse to accept a crime has been committed.’
‘Well, if we stick to the facts, do we come to the same conclusion?’
Dee thought for a bit. The central fact was Tom’s dead body and the results of the autopsy. His lungs were congested, the same as in death due to asthma. Oxygen couldn’t get through the narrowed airways to reach the bloodstream.
‘For means we have to have something which causes the same changes as asthma. The killer—’ Dee paused; it was the first time she had used that word. ‘—would have to use something that induced congestion and narrowing of airways. Anaphylaxis causes the same pathological findings in the lungs as asthma.’
‘You said before he had allergies.’
‘Yes, they’re common in people with asthma. Tom had known allergies to a few plants: wattle, plumbago and echinacea. The last time he had a bad attack he was seventeen. Skye gave him “a natural immune system booster” and he was severely ill in minutes. He was old enough to take emergency prednisone and make her call triple-O instead of me. They were in time and he made it, just. The natural remedy contained echinacea, common name, cone flower. They’re pretty with purple petals and an orange centre. You see them all over in public parks. The official name is echinacea purpura. Lots of people have severe allergies to them.’
‘So the attack that killed him could have been an allergic reaction?’
‘It’s very likely. There are more results to come that will prove that either way.’
‘Doesn’t an allergy make the possibility that it was natural causes more, not less, likely?’ asked Raj calmly. ‘I guess someone who knew he was allergic could administer an allergen.’
‘Everyone close to him would know. Certainly his mother and anyone who knew his medical history. But why didn’t he take prednisone? And ring an ambulance? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Didn’t you say he’d taken rohypnol? That could stop him from doing anything.’
‘Tom was absolutely against drugs. You knew him. How likely is it that he’d take anything?’
Her plan to stay calm and logical was impossible. Her emotions vacillated between anger and helplessness. Anger took more energy but was easier to bear. How could she get someone to listen?
‘Forget that for a minute,’ Raj said. ‘One step at a time. Let’s get all the pieces lined up then look at them. We don’t know if he did ring for help.’
She struggled to banish the image of Tom on the bed. Raj was right. She should follow his lead and consider just the facts.
‘What about phone records?’ she said. ‘Can we get those? Surely the police would know if he’d rung an ambulance?’
‘But his phone wasn’t responding,’ Raj said. ‘Maybe it was flat or turned off?’
‘There’s an old couple I see regularly downstairs from Tom’s flat. No one can do anything in the vicinity without Jock seeing. I’ll get him to let me know if any mail arrives—maybe we can check Tom’s phone bill. I don’t want to have to ask Skye.’
‘I have a contact. It may be possible to get that info without illegally opening Tom’s mail, and who gets paper bills anymore. You’re supposed to be able to access the metadata the phone company keeps about you. Maybe the next of kin can apply for that.’ Raj was excited.
‘Next of kin is a touchy subject. I don’t see that being sorted out anytime soon. Skye’s not likely to be happy about Leah getting half the insurance money or anything else of Tom’s. Leah doesn’t appear to care, but that could be an act—maybe, I don’t think so though. Anyway, she’s disappeared.’
To take that request to Skye or Leah would be pointless. Dee sat up and started to put the detritus of dinner into the paper bags it came in.
Raj sat up too.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
Dee had gone back to the image of Tom with Leah, the pride he had in showing her off to Dee. Even the good memories didn’t help make it easier. Her eyes were moist.
‘This is all wrong. It’s not our job to make difficulties for the people who are trying to cope with this loss,’ she said.
Raj passed her a pressed handkerchief. She wiped her eyes. He looked concerned.
Raj stood, picked up the rubbish and asked where the bins were. Dee took their bowls and cutlery into the kitchen and stacked the dishwasher. When she came back, Raj was on the walkway looking toward the harbour. Dee stood beside him. The heat of the day was now a cool touch on their skin.
‘Do you want to stop?’ Raj asked.
‘No. Someone has to do this. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Brighter light might banish the images lurking in the corners.’
Dee made coffee. They sat on hard chairs in the kitchen with the lights on and the sliding doors open to the green balm of eucalyptus from the bush. The night air was cool and soothed their bare arms.
�
�Let’s stick to how he died. The allergy could kill him?’ Raj asked.
’Yes, absolutely.’
It felt okay to talk now, a comfort to share.
Dee had seen near-deaths from allergic reactions. They could be rapidly fatal without medical intervention.
‘There are three possible ways he could be in contact with something he was allergic to: accidental, deliberate by Tom, deliberate by someone else.’
‘Raj, this is what I’ve been on about. The first two are impossible. You knew him too. What do you think?’
‘There’s no way to be sure but I agree the first two are unlikely.’
Dee started to splutter in protest.
Raj talked over her. ‘Very unlikely. Which brings us back round to motive.’
‘Money or sex are the big hitters as motives for murder, according to my expert knowledge from TV,’ Dee said.
‘Tom earned around $100,000 salary when he worked for me so possibly double that for freelance; more if he was collecting bug bounties.’
Dee tilted her head and wrinkled her eyebrows together.
‘Money professional hackers get for discovering new threats and the way to disable them,’ Raj explained.
‘He didn’t seem to have much money that I knew about. He must have been renting the flat. He gave Skye regular money to help with care for Charlie. I know the bank accounts would help but I can’t approach Skye, sorry.’
‘It’s okay. The insurance is enough of a motive on its own. Five hundred thousand is enough to be murdered for.’ Raj paused and looked at Dee to check if she was all right before he went on, ‘So Leah and Charlie, the beneficiaries, have to be on our list of suspects.’
‘Charlie can’t dress himself or speak, and Skye wasn’t the most competent parent but she loved Tom. I’ve been around this family for twenty-five years.’
