A Brain (29 page)

“Deoxy-glucose,” he panted. “I need to look it up. Where?”

“I don't know,” said the startled librarian.

“Shit,” said Philips and turned and started toward the card catalogue.

“Try the reference desk,” called the woman.

Reversing his direction, Philips went to the periodical section where the reference desk was staffed with a girl who looked about fifteen. She'd heard the commotion and was watching Martin's approach.

“Quick . . . .” said Philips. “Deoxy-glucose. Where can I look it up?”

“What is it?” The girl eyed Martin with alarm.

“Must be some sort of sugar, made from glucose. Look, I don't know what it is. That's why I need to look it up.”

“I guess you could start with the Chemical Abstract and try the Index Medicines, then . . . .”

“The Chemical Abstract! Where's that?”

The girl pointed to a long table backed by bookshelves. Philips rushed over and pulled out the index. He was afraid to look at his watch. He found the reference as a subheading under glucose, giving him the volume and page number. When he found the article, he started to skim it but his frenzy turned the words into a meaningless jumble. He had to force himself to slow down and concentrate, and when he did he learned that deoxy-glucose was so similar to glucose, the biological fuel of the brain, that it was transported across the blood-brain barrier and picked up by the active nerve cells. But then, once inside the active nerve cells it could not be metabolized like glucose, and piled up. Down at the very bottom of the short article it said: “ . . . radioactively tagged deoxy-glucose has shown great promise in brain research.”

Martin snapped the book shut and his hands trembled. The whole affair was beginning to make sense. Someone in the hospital was conducting
experiments in brain research on unsuspecting human subjects! “Mannerheim!” thought Martin, so enraged that he could taste the venom.

He was not a chemist, but he remembered enough to realize that if a compound like deoxy-glucose was made sufficiently radioactive, it could be injected into people and used to study its absorption in the brain. If it were very radioactive, which the stuff in the box in GYN was, then it would kill the brain cells that absorbed it. If someone wanted to study a pathway of nerve cells in the brain they could selectively destroy them with this method, and it was the destruction of nerve pathways in animal brains that had been the foundation of the science of neuroanatomy. To a sufficiently ruthless scientist it was just a step to adopt the same methods to humans. Philips shuddered. Only someone as egocentric as Mannerheim would be able to overlook the moral aspects.

Martin was crushed by his discovery. He had no idea how Mannerheim got Gynecology to participate, but they had to be in on the study. And the hospital administrator had to know something too. Why else would Drake defend Mannerheim, the prima donna neurosurgeon, the demigod of the hospital. Martin sagged under the appalling implications.

He knew that Mannerheim was heavily funded by the government; millions and millions of dollars of public money went into his research activities. Could that be the reason for the FBI's intervention? Had Martin been accused of endangering a major breakthrough funded by the government? The FBI might have no idea that the breakthrough involved human experimentation. Martin was no tyro when it came to organizational snafus when the right hand had no idea what the left hand was doing. But it was a sorry
twist that the use of human sacrifice for medical research could be unknowingly protected by the government.

Slowly Martin turned his wrist to see the face of his watch. Five minutes to go before he had to call Denise. He was not sure if the agents would harm her, but after their treatment of the tramps he was not about to take any chances. He wondered what he could do. He knew something about what was going on . . . not everything, but something. He knew enough that if he could get some powerful person to intervene, the whole conspiracy might unravel. But who? It would have to be someone outside of the hospital hierarchy, but knowledgeable about the hospital and its structure. The Commissioner of Health? Someone in the Mayor's office? The Commissioner of Police? Martin was afraid that these people might have already been told so many lies about Martin that his warnings would fall on deaf ears.

Suddenly Philips thought of Michaels, the boy wonder. He could get to the Provost of the university! His word could be enough to stimulate an inquiry. It might work. Martin ran to one of the phones and got an outside line. As he dialed Michaels' number, he prayed that he'd be home. When the scientist's familiar voice answered, Martin could have cheered.

“Michaels, I'm in terrible trouble.”

“What's wrong?” asked Michaels. “Where are you?”

“I don't have time to explain; I've uncovered some gigantic research horror here in the hospital, which the FBI seems to be protecting. Don't ask me why.”

“What can I do?”

“Call the Provost. Tell him that there's a scandal involving human experimentation. That should be enough unless the Provost is involved. If that's the
case, heaven help us all. But the most immediate problem is Denise. She's being held by the FBI in her apartment. Get the Provost to call Washington and have her released.”

“What about you?”

“Don't worry about me. I'm all right. I'm in the hospital.”

“Why don't you come here to my apartment?”

“I can't. I'm going up to the Neurosurgical lab. I'll meet you at your computer lab in about fifteen minutes. Hurry!”

Philips hung up and dialed Denise's apartment. Someone lifted the phone but did not talk.

“Sansone,” Martin cried. “It's me, Philips.”

“Where are you, Philips? I have the uncomfortable feeling you are not taking this situation seriously.”

“But I am. I'm just north of the city. I'm coming. I need more time. Twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” said Sansone. Then he hung up. Martin raced back from the library with a sinking feeling. Now he was even more sure that Sansone was holding Denise hostage in order to make him give himself up. They wanted to kill him and they'd probably kill her to get him. Everything rested on Michaels. He had to get to uninvolved authority. But Martin knew he needed more information to back up his allegations. Mannerheim undoubtedly had some kind of cover story. Martin wanted to see how many of the brain specimens in Neurosurgery were radioactive.

Martin took an empty elevator to the Neurosurgical floor in the research building. He'd dispensed with the surgical hat and nervously ran his fingers through his tangled hair. He only had minutes left before calling Denise's apartment.

The door to Mannerheim's lab was locked and Martin looked around for something to break the glass. A small fire extinguisher caught his eye. Detaching it from the wall, he threw it through the glass panel of the door. With his foot he knocked out some remaining shards, and then reached in and turned the handle.

At that exact moment the doors at the far end of the hall burst open and two men charged into the corridor, both carrying pistols. They were not hospital security; they were dressed in polyester business suits.

One of the men dropped to a crouch, grabbing his gun with both hands while the other shouted: “Freeze, Philips!”

Martin fell forward onto the broken glass inside the lab and out of view from the hall. He heard the dull thump of a silencer as a bullet ricocheted off the metal door frame. He scrambled to his feet and slammed the door, knocking a few more bits of glass from the broken pane.

Turning into the lab Martin heard heavy footsteps pounding down the hall. The room was dark, but he remembered its layout and rushed down between the counter-top room dividers. He got to the door to the animal room as his pursuers reached the outer door. One of the men hit the light switch, filling the lab with raw fluorescent glare.

Martin functioned in a frenzy. Inside the animal room, he grabbed the cage housing the monkey who had electrodes implanted in his brain turning him into a raging monster. The animal tried to grab Martin's hand and bite him through the wire mesh. Pushing with all his might, Martin got the cage over to the door of the lab. He could see his pursuers coming
around the nearest counter top. Holding his breath Martin released the door to the cage.

With a shriek that rattled the laboratory glassware, the monkey launched itself from its prison. In a single jump it reached the shelves under the counter tops, scattering instruments in all directions. Startled by the appearance of the raging beast trailing wire electrodes, the two men hesitated. It was all the animal needed. Powered by its pent-up fury, the monkey leaped from the shelf onto the shoulder of Martin's nearest pursuer, tearing at the man's flesh with its powerful fingers, and sinking its teeth into his neck. The other man tried to help but the monkey was too fast.

Martin did not stay to observe the results. Instead he dashed across the animal room, passing the long rows of preserved brains, and entered the stairwell. Down he plunged, taking the stairs as quickly as possible, leaping to the landings, turning, down again in a dizzying effort.

When he heard the stairwell door crash open far above him he hugged the wall but did not slow his descent. He wasn't sure if he could be seen but he didn't stop to check. He should have known that Mannerheim's Neurosurgical lab would have been guarded. Martin heard loud running footsteps begin descending the stairs but they were many floors away, and he reached the basement and entered the tunnel without hearing any more pistol shots.

The ancient two-way hinges on the doors to the old medical-school building squeaked as Philips burst through. After sprinting up the curved marble stairs, Philips raced down the partially demolished corridor until he reached the old amphitheater entrance. Then he abruptly stopped. It was dark, which meant that
Michaels had yet to arrive. Behind him there was silence. He'd outrun his pursuers. But now the authorities knew he was in the medical center complex, and it would be only a matter of time before he was discovered.

Martin tried to catch his breath. If Michaels didn't arrive shortly he'd have to go over to Denise's apartment no matter how helpless he'd feel. Anxiously he pushed on the amphitheater door. To his surprise it opened. He stepped inside and was enveloped by the black coldness.

The silence was broken by a low-pitched electrical snap familiar to Philips from his days as a student. It was the sound the lighting system made when it was activated. And just as in those former days, the room filled with light. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Martin looked down toward the pit. Michaels was waving up at him. “Martin. What a relief to see you!”

Philips grabbed the handrail in front of him to help propel him along the horizontal aisle that used to lead between tiers of seats when the amphitheater had been used as a lecture hall. Michaels had positioned himself at the base of the stairs and he waved Philips down.

“Did you get the Provost?” shouted Philips. Seeing Michaels gave him the first glimmer of hope he'd had for hours.

“Everything is okay,” yelled Michaels. “Come on down here.”

Martin started down the stairs which were narrow and criss-crossed with cables to the electronic components that stood where the seats had once been. Three men were waiting with Michaels. Apparently
he'd already gathered help. “We have to do something about Denise instantly they . . .”

“It's been taken care of,” yelled Michaels.

“Is she all right?” asked Martin, halting his progress for a moment.

“She's fine and she's safe. Just come on down here.”

The closer Martin got to the pit the more equipment there was and the more difficult it was to avoid the wires. “I just barely got away from two men who shot at me up in Neurosurgery lab.” He was still breathless and his voice came in spurts.

“You're safe here,” said Michaels, watching his friend come down the stairs.

As he arrived at the edge of the pit, Martin lifted his eyes from the cluttered stairs, and looked into Michaels' face. “I didn't have time to find anything in Neurosurgery,” said Martin. He could now see the other three men. One was the congenial young student, Carl Rudman, whom he had met on his first visit to the lab. The other two he didn't recognize. They were dressed in black jumpsuits.

Ignoring Martin's last comment, Michaels turned to one of the strangers: “Are you satisfied now? I told you I could get him here.”

The man who had not taken his eyes from Philips said, “You got him here, but are you going to be able to control him?”

“I think so,” said Michaels.

Martin watched this strange exchange, his eyes moving from Michaels to the man in the jumpsuit. Suddenly he recognized the face. It was the man who'd killed Werner!

“Martin,” said Michaels softly, almost paternally. “I've got some things to show you.”

The stranger interrupted. “Dr. Michaels, I can
guarantee that the FBI will not act precipitously. But what the CIA does is not under my control. I hope you understand that, Dr. Michaels.”