Panacea (4 page)

“And then what?”

“If you can prove to me beyond a reasonable doubt that you've found something that can cure any and every illness, I will find a way to put the whole fucking Company at your disposal.”

Fife smiled. “I'll hold you to that, sir.”

He already had another panacean under observation. And if things went his way, he'd have Pickens's sample by this time tomorrow.

And then he'd close the sale.

 

3

“He didn't die of
anything
?”

Deputy Lawson stood on the far side of the autopsy table sipping coffee—leave it to Phil to know the places that still served it in the classic Anthora paper cup. His Stetson has been replaced by a paper surgical cap; an aqua paper gown and booties protected his uniform and shoes. The unidentified vic lay supine between them, hidden by a green plastic sheet. Laura had already opened and closed the chest and abdominal cavities.

Phil had stopped by to tell her who had rented the now destroyed ranch house near Sunken Meadow State Park. Perhaps
stopped by
was an understatement. He'd driven from Riverhead to the Suffolk County municipal complex in Hauppauge to tell her, confirming a more than casual interest in the case.

The rental papers had been signed by one Cornelius Aloysius Hanrahan. That didn't mean the vic was Hanrahan, but it gave her a place to start checking dental records.

She wanted to show Lawson something so he'd subjected himself to the protective wear and come down to the tiled autopsy room in the basement.

“Well, the blood and vitreous tox screens are pending, but the best I can say now is cardiac arrest.”

He popped his neck. “You've always told me cardiac arrest isn't an acceptable cause of death because every DB has a stopped heart.”

“Right. It's whatever did the stopping of the heart that's important.”

“So?”

Laura shrugged. “He's got a perfectly healthy heart. His valves are fine. Aortic stenosis could cause sudden death, so could the so-called widow-maker lesion in the left main coronary, but … all his coronary arteries are pristine—like a newborn's.”

“Newborns can die suddenly, right?”

“Sure. Sudden infant death syndrome. But the brain stem is the culprit in SIDS—it controls breathing and heart rate—and this fellow was not an infant.”

Phil was nodding. “Brain … right. So, a stroke.”

She shook her head. “No sign of stroke, no concussion or subdural, and his brain stem looks fine. No blunt trauma. I've got slides prepared that'll have to be stained and scoped, but I don't have high hopes of finding anything.”

“Y'gotta give me
something
. The arson boys say the place was definitely torched. They haven't identified the accelerant yet, but no question it's arson. Can we say the heat of the fire stopped his heart?”

“Afraid not. He was dead before the fire started.”

“Shit, Laura. You're not helping at all here.”

She shared his frustration. Her boss, the CME, would be expecting a cause of death, especially where a crime was involved. She'd be unhappy if Laura could not deliver one. And Dr. Henniger could be a real beast when she wasn't happy.

Laura spread her hands. “I can only report what I find, and there's no sign of heat or smoke damage to his oropharynx or trachea. The fire didn't kill him.”

“Okay, then the blaze was started to cover up his murder.”

Laura wanted to help him, really she did, but he wasn't going to like her final report.

“I have no evidence of murder, Phil. Not a single penetrating wound—no bullet, no blade, nothing. No organ damage, not even a hint. No internal bleeding. No sign of any violence at all, for that matter.”

“Then poison.”

“Well, that'll show in the tox screen, but I'm not holding my breath.”

Another neck pop. “So you're telling me a potential charge of drug-related arson-murder just got reduced to simple arson?”

His addition of “drug-related” to the charge did not escape her. A drug motive was the only way he could stay involved.

“Looks that way.”

He drained his cup and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket.

“How about signs of gang affiliation?”

“You mean colors?” She shook her head. “Whatever clothes he was wearing are ash or scorched beyond recognition.”

“I guess it's useless to ask about tats.”

“Not at all. That's what I wanted you to see. Pull a pair of gloves from that box and help me roll him over.”

Laura removed the sheet while Phil stretched the latex over his beefy fingers. As they eased the vic onto his belly, she said, “He was lying on his back while the fire razed the house, so the skin there was somewhat protected.”

“You call that protected?” Phil said, gazing at the expanse of blackened flesh once they had the body prone.

“I said ‘somewhat.' But look.” She pointed to a dark outline vaguely visible through the scorching. “You can make out some sort of image here.”

“Gotta be a tattoo.”

“Big one—twelve and a half inches from top to bottom. Looks like some variation on the caduceus.”

“The what?”

She smiled. “Caduceus. It's the winged staff with the coiled snakes that you see on medical offices and the like. Only I can't make out any wings on this one, and only one snake.”

“Don't know of any gang tattoo like that. You think he thought he was some kind of doctor or something?”

“Doctor of weedology, maybe. Marijuana does have medical uses, but it may have a personal meaning. I took some high-res photos. We may be able to get a clearer image through them.”

Phil was nodding. “We cooperate with Immigration and Customs on a joint task force involving gangs of illegals. They've built a nice database of tats. If we get a decent sketch we can run it through and see if we get any hits.”

He stepped back, looked at the vic's back from a couple of different angles, then shook his head.

“You've sliced and diced him and all we've got is a charcoal-broiled tattoo?”

“I'm telling you, Phil, this may just be the healthiest man I've ever posted.”

And that gnawed at Laura. Not just because it would put her on the wrong side of the CME, but because no one that healthy should drop dead.

Sure, it could happen—a perfect storm in the heart's electrical system could cause a fatal arrhythmia or sudden cardiac arrest. But his myocardium showed no signs of distress. She'd put the heart aside for sectioning of the AV node and bundle branches, maybe even selected Purkinje fibers.

She had a feeling she'd never know what killed this man. And she didn't like that. That was one of the reasons she'd taken the pathology residency. Living bodies too often refused to reveal their secrets, but cadavers always gave them up.

Or almost always.

 

4

Nervous, Chaim Brody stepped up onto the Cochrans' narrow front porch and stood rubbing his hands together. He glanced around, up and down the quiet street. Like next to zero chance that anyone he knew would wander by, but still … he was breaking all the rules by coming here—not just his job's rules but the All-Mother's as well. But he couldn't allow this to go on any longer.

The Cochrans lived in a small two-story colonial that had seen better days, but was still light-years beyond Chaim's digs. He knew Mrs. Cochran and her son Tommy from the Moriches Physical Therapy Center where everybody called him “Chet.” Chaim's idea. Less ethnic and all that. People heard “Chaim” and expected a yarmulke and tzitzis. He'd left all that stuff behind when he embraced the All-Mother.

He rang the doorbell and Mrs. Cochran appeared almost immediately—a plump woman in her mid-thirties with a round face and short brown hair.

“Chet?” she said as she opened her front door. “What are you—oh, did Tommy forget something?”

“No, Mrs. Cochran. I … I wanted to, like, speak to you in private about Tommy.”

Her smile faltered. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing you don't already know. May I come in?”

She hesitated a second, then pushed open the storm door. “Of course. It's chilly out there.”

“Downright unseasonable.”

He pulled the storm door closed behind him but did not move any deeper into the house. He stood in a super-short hallway that opened into a small, crowded living room. She looked nervous about letting a relative stranger into her home. They'd had a few conversations at the PT place where he helped out with the clients, but that was it. No reason she'd ever expect to find him on her doorstep.

Not a terribly warm person, she tended to be totally arm's length. Cordial at best. He'd pulled his piercings but he'd caught her looking askance at his short ponytail—she should have seen it before he'd trimmed it and sent it off to become a cancer wig. Not too much he could do about the tattoos and the old track marks except keep them under wraps, but every so often some ink would peek out.

“I'll get right to the point.”

“Please do. You said it's about Tommy?”

“Yes. I have something I think can help him.”

Although he'd said “think,” he
knew
he could help.

“Help him how?”

“With his arthritis.”

“Oh, Chet, you have been helping him. The exercises—”

“No-no. I mean with like a medication of sorts.”

She frowned. “He has a rheumatologist for that.”

“I know, I know, and I'm not saying anything against Doctor Sklar, but I'd just like Tommy…” He reached into the pocket of his parka and pulled out a small glass vial with a red rubber stopper. “I'd like him to try this.”

Her frown deepened as she took the vial and stared at the half ounce of cloudy fluid within.

“What is it?”

“An ancient herbal mixture.” More true than untrue. “From the Orient.”

Totally untrue.

“Oh, dear. I don't know about this.”

“One dose. Please, Mrs. Cochran. One dose and you'll see a miraculous improvement in Tommy.”

He didn't want to say “cure,” because no way she'd buy that. Worse, she'd think he'd gone shuggy. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis wasn't curable—at least not by accepted medical practices. But the
ikhar
in that little vial operated far, far outside those accepted boundaries.

Her eyes narrowed. “Does the PT center know you're going around selling—?”

“Oh, no. I'm not going around and I'm not selling anything. This is, like, strictly from me to you for Tommy—no strings, no cost.”

And speak of the little devil, look who just rolled around the corner in his wheelchair. Jeans covered his swollen knees and his rashes were hidden under a blue Giants sweatshirt.

Chaim's heart swelled at the sight of the little guy. He didn't know what it was about Tommy, but he'd bonded to this kid. An instant thing—
bam!
—on day one of working with him. He was sweet and brave and tough. His limbs were all stiff and getting more and more twisted by the day, but he never let it get him down. He kept smiling and kept trying. The kid was a fighter. Lots of the kids had attitudes about the therapy, but once Chaim told Tommy that the exercises would keep his muscles from wasting away, Tommy was
there
. When the kid had told him he was gonna ride his bike again someday, Chaim had gotten totally
verklempt
.

“Hey, Chet!” Tommy said with a big grin that revealed a missing tooth. “What are you doing here?”

He caught Mrs. Cochran's warning look as she enclosed the vial in her hand, hiding it, but Chaim hadn't intended on saying anything about the
ikhar
.

“Hey, buddy. Just talking to your mom. You know, like checking up on you. You missed therapy yesterday.”

“Yeah. Got this cold and Mom doesn't want me going out.”

“Don't take that tone, young man,” Mrs. Cochran said. “You know the medicine makes your immune system weak.”

“I know.”

Chaim had tried every trick he knew to slip him a dose of the
ikhar
during therapy, but his mother was a total helicopter—no, make that a flying saucer, always hovering within a ten-foot radius so she could keep Tommy in her tractor beam and haul him up at any moment. She had hand cleanser ready at all times and never let him eat or drink anything at the therapy place—like everything was germy or something.

That had left Chaim no choice but to take the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns.

So far in his life he'd caused a ton of bad feelings and misery and harm—to himself and others. But he'd gotten clean, quitting the shit he used to squirt into his veins—H, meth, even tried Berzerk, but only once. Now that he had the means to make up for all his past failings, he was determined to take it seriously. Tommy needed—no, more than needed—Tommy
deserved
the
ikhar,
and by the All-Mother, he was going to get it.

“Tommy, dear,” Mrs. Cochran said, “why don't you set up the chessboard on the kitchen table and we'll play.”

“Chess at eight years old!” Chaim said, avoiding the grown-up gosh-wow enthusiasm that kids instinctively scoped out as phony. “What are you, like some kinda prodigy?”

He grinned. “I'm getting there.”

“He's a natural,” his mother said. “Beats me all the time.” She shooed him away. “Go ahead. Chet and I will be finished in a minute.”

“Are you gonna be talking about me?”

You got it, kid.

“Damn straight,” he said. “We're talking about changing your therapy and such like.”

No way could Chaim make changes—he was just a helper, not an RPT—but Tommy wouldn't know that.