Always Kiss the Corpse (39 page)

“Two other patients?”

Terry looked at them. “Two successes.”

Kyra glanced at Noel. He nodded. Kyra said, “We think it likely a member of the WISDOM team injected Vasiliadis with an overdose of morphine.”

Terry shut her eyes and covered her mouth with crossed hands. “Richard feared that was—possible.”

“Did he mention this to any of the other doctors?”

“I doubt it. He told me yesterday. Before he went to the hospice. He always tries his ideas on me first.”

“Could someone have overheard him?”

“He was calling from home. He was by himself.”

“Who could have known he was going to the hospice?”

“Anybody.” She shrugged. “That's where he went on Monday evenings.”

“Even on a Monday after he'd nearly died on the boat?”

“Richard is devoted to his hospice work.”

Noel leaned forward. “Do you agree with your husband? That one of his colleagues might have brought on Sandro's death?”

“I know them all. They wouldn't—couldn't—they're physicians!”

“And yet?”

“Their purpose is to improve lives, not take them away. That's been the whole importance of WISDOM. To give new life to certain kinds of people. We all sacrificed ourselves to that ideal. We'd all do anything to safeguard WISDOM.”

“Anything?” Noel asked gently.

“Oh god,” said Terry.

≈  ≈  ≈

The Tracker drove out of the hospital parking lot. Noel said, “We need to report this to the State Patrol. The hormones, the other patients.” He took his cellphone from his pocket. “Shall I?”

“Yes.”

TWENTY-TWO

Dawn Deane knocked on Dr. Stockman Jones' door. She heard his usual interrogative, “Yes?” turned the handle, and entered. He beamed up at her from his desk chair. Then he saw her face. The smile disappeared. “Are you all right?”

“There're two men here.” She spoke quietly. The State Patrol, and the FDA.”

“What do they want?”

“To speak to someone with authority.”

“Send them in.” Did they already know about Gary and Richard? Oh dear oh dear.

Dawn left. Stockman breathed deeply. He rubbed damp palms on his trousers. The police and the Food and Drug Administration. Maybe a routine check. Except they'd not had a routine check before so how could this be routine? Should he have legal counsel present? Bob Melman was a phone call away. Ridiculous. He could handle it. A sharp knock on the door. “Yes?”

The door opened. A man in uniform entered, followed by another man, tall and thin. Carl Assounian introduced himself as the sergeant in charge of the Sandro Vasiliadis investigation, the other man as Joe Turndeck of the Seattle branch, FDA. Turndeck wore a dark suit and tie, and an open raincoat. He carried a briefcase. Stockman asked them to sit. Turndeck did, setting the case on his lap.

Assounian remained standing. “I understand your colleague Dr. Trevelyan's in the hospital. Have you heard how he is?”

Stockman sighed. “He's still in Intensive Care.”

“Had a run of bad luck, hasn't he?”

“Yes.” Damn him, why didn't he sit.

Turndeck said, “About Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“Vasiliadis? The man who killed himself?”

“Was Vasiliadis your patient, Dr. Jones?”

“A patient of the clinic, yes. We look after the patients according to our specialties.”

“You were treating him? Specifically for a sex-change procedure?”

“Yes. That's one of the treatments we do here. I am one of the team.”

Assounian glanced at Turndeck long enough to make it impossible for Jones not to notice. Assounian said, “Were you treating Vasiliadis in any way different from your other patients?”

Should he bristle? Placate? “Each of our patients is unique, Sergeant. They're all handled differently.”

Turndeck, his voice low in his throat, said, “Dr. Jones, were the procedures you were trying on Vasiliadis different from those used on others?”

Stockman smiled. “Not at all. Quite similar, in fact.” How easy to tell the truth.

Turndeck opened his briefcase. “You and your colleagues have a long-standing research contract with Bendwell Pharmaceuticals, is that correct?”

“Absolutely. We've been working with them for seven years.” Bad bad.

“And the nature of this research is?”

Stockman hated it when somebody asked him a question while all the time knowing the answer. Sneaky. “We're trying to develop,” be technical, or speak to the cop? To the cop: “to develop a drug or drugs which will abet the transgendering process with as little surgical intrusion as possible.”

“I see.” Turndeck took a file from his case, closed the lid, set the file on top and opened it. “You've been successful, right, with both mice and rabbits?”

“That is correct.” As well as nearly public knowledge, Stockman almost declared, but decided they might think he was taunting them.

“Have you experimented with monkeys?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

“No.” But Stockman could hear the next series of questions.

“Have you experimented with humans?”

“It would be the logical next step.” Maybe now was the time to call Melman? But they knew everything already.

Assounian took over. “Were you transgendering Sandro Vasiliadis with the same drugs that had been successful with mice and rabbits?”

Stockman closed his eyes. He massaged his brow. Hard.

“Dr. Jones?”

“Yes.” Barely audible, but he knew they'd heard. And anyway, they knew.

“But with Sandro Vasiliadis, you weren't successful.”

“We were.” He looked up. “Nearly. We would have been, if—if he hadn't killed himself.”

“You would have been? How do you know?”

“Because—because—”

“Because you'd achieved success with two other patients?”

Oh My Dear God help me here. Stockman Jones crossed his arms over his chest and tried to breath deep into his diaphragm.

“Dr. Jones, we'd like to see your file for Sandro Vasiliadis. And the two others.”

“No. You can't. Files are confidential. Vasiliadis is—was—a patient here.” Stockman stood, pushing himself up with his hands on the chair arms.

Turndeck stood also, grasping his case. “You can show the files to us, which will suggest you want to help in the investigation. Or we'll get a search warrant. Your choice.”

“Very well. Follow me.” He led them, on legs firmer than he'd feared, out the door to Dawn Deane's reception counter. He gestured to the cabinets behind her. “Dawn, would you pull the Vasiliadis file, please.”

She stared at Stockman.

He nodded. “It's all right.” It wasn't. But he had no choice.

She shrugged, circled her chair around, pulled open the
T–U–V
cabinet, bent over it, ran her fingers forward along the files. Ran them back. Separated several files. Turned. “It's not here.”

Turndeck glanced at Assounian, then asked Dawn, “Could someone have it out?”

“I don't think so. When I give out a file—”

To Jones, Assounian said, “The other two files as well, please.”

Jones frowned. “I don't think— I mean, that's not— There's a difference, these women are alive, they have their lives.”

“The same principle, Doctor. We can see them voluntarily, or—”

Stockman's eyes felt like they'd filmed over. “Dawn, bring the files for Johnson and Gustafson.”

A new voice: “What's going on, Dawn? Stock?” Gary Haines glared at Assounian and Turndeck. “Who are these guys?”

Stockman introduced them. Dawn explained what they wanted.

Gary grabbed Stockman by the arm and drew him a few feet up the corridor. “Are you crazy?” he whispered. “They've got no right to ask, and you've no right to show those files to anyone!”

“They said we could cooperate. Or they'd get a search warrant.”

“No judge in this state is going to give them a warrant to poke around in the files of one of our patients!”

“They said—”

“I don't care what they said! Did you call Melman?”

Stockman shook his head.

“This is why he's on retainer!” Gary whirled and strode to the counter. “Dawn, call Melman. And nobody gets to see confidential files.”

Dawn reached for the phone. She looked up at Gary. “The Vasiliadis file seems to be missing.”

Gary sighed through his teeth, a deep dramatic breath. “And what else is going wrong?” He squinted at Assounian and Turndeck. “You gentlemen better leave. Now.”

Turndeck looked at Assounian. Assounian nodded. He said, “See you soon.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Stockman turned up his driveway. He knew the pitch and shift of the gravel surface as well as he understood the disaster facing him, but his concentration hadn't been on driving since he'd left WISDOM. He parked the Jaguar in the redone barn, beside the Pathfinder. Bonnie was back. Good. He knew what he had to do next.

After the two men had left the clinic, Gary had berated him for ten minutes, first in front of Dawn, and when Stockman wouldn't listen and marched back to his office, Gary followed and rebuked him some more. Gary couldn't figure which was Stockman's worst offense, talking to those guys in the first place instead of bringing the attorney in, or saying he'd show them Sandro's file. A good thing it was missing. To even think of letting them see the other files! The castigation had stopped only because Stockman refused to respond. Gary strode out.

Stockman left the barn door open and walked toward the house. Some nerve, Gary, upbraiding me when I'm protecting you! The hilltop lay in deep fog, the mock fascia and crenellation blurred. The whole house felt soggy. The knob turned with a squeak. In the kitchen he called, “Bonnie!” She'd only spent one night at Franny's, checking out the house their daughter had made an offer on. It felt like a week since he'd seen her. “You there?”

A voice came to him from around a couple of corners. “In my office!”

He found her behind the computer, working on a kitchen design. “Hi.” He stood in the doorway. Sheets of house plans covered the long work table, her overnight case unopened on the loveseat.

She turned and smiled. “Give me a moment to save.” She returned to the screen, clicked several times. “There.” She stood and hugged him. He hugged her back limply. “Not much of a greeting.”

“Not much, no.” He hugged her hard.

“That's better.” She stepped back and looked at his face. “What's wrong?”

One thing at a time. “You haven't heard?”

She shook her head, a small fear batting her eyelids.

“Richard, last night, he was mugged. Shot, he's in ICU.”

“Oh dear God.” She hugged him again, and held him. “Oh, poor Terry—”

“It's awful.” He pulled away. “But there's worse.”

“What could be—”

He led her to the loveseat, picked up her case, set it on the carpet and sat down.

She sat beside him, and took his left hand in both hers.

He covered her fingers with his right and squeezed. “It's all over. We're all done.”

Her face said she didn't understand. “What's over?” She pulled away. “God! Us?”

He gave her a weak smile. “No, not in that way.” He hugged her to him. “I'll love you beyond death.” He drew back. “The work. The clinic.”

“What's happened?”

He sighed. “Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“But you had that under control, didn't you?”

“It came out of control. We had a visit today from the State Patrol and the FDA.”

“Oh. Oh dear. That's what you were worried about.”

“Partly. The human trials, yes—”

“But your successes, Stock, they should be worth a great deal.”

“It might have been worth everything. But then we had the Sandro—mishap.”

“Sure, he killed himself, but that shouldn't—”

“Bonnie. He didn't kill himself.”

She squinted at him. “Then it really was an acci— Oh my God.” She leaned close to him and took his forearm. “What?”

He couldn't look at her. “We were all responsible. Except Richard, I mean. He wasn't around, we couldn't find him. In truth, we didn't want him around. If only he had been.”

“But—what did you do?”

“Gary and Lorna and I talked about it, we had to quiet Sandro down, we had to silence him till—till—I don't think we knew till what. We agreed, we'd do whatever it took. We were in my office. We'd go to Sandro's home that Friday evening and—deal with him. We all agreed, we'd do whatever it took. The work of the clinic was too important to let him mess it up. We drove to his house. Down near Clinton. Not Lorna, she had to be at Teeseborough. Or so she said. But she agreed, Gary and I to do what was necessary.”

Bonnie said, “Necessary?”

“Sandro was in such pain when we arrived. He nearly didn't let us in. He was wearing a housecoat and he looked like a hag with streaked makeup. We tried to talk to him but he only screamed, he called us quacks and torturers, and then he pulled the housecoat open to show what the hormones had done to his testes. ‘Here!' he shouted, ‘Look! See what you've done!' and— It was a disaster. They were huge, like they might burst.”

“Oh, Stock, the poor guy.”

“Gary had his bag, we got Vasiliadis onto the bed, we said we'd help him, but he didn't trust us, he fought us so I had to hold him down and Gary shot his arm with morphine, a substantial dose, but it only quieted Sandro down a little so Gary grabbed another syringe and shot more morphine into him but it still didn't put him out, he was still moaning, I said ‘Gary! Enough!' but Gary took another syringe and—”

“Another? Three?”