Blindsight (31 page)

at Franco. "You got to find out what's going on."
"I've put out some feelers," Franco said. "I'll be asking around as well as tailing Angelo and Tony. Somebody's got to know."
"I have to do something," Vinnie said. "I can't sit around forever while they ruin everything." "Give me a couple more days," Franco said. "If I can't figure it out, I can get rid of Angelo and Tony." "But that would mean a war," Vinnie said. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that either. That's even worse for business."

"You know something, Doc?" Cerino said. "That wasn't so bad at all. I really was worried but I didn't feel a thing when you operated. How'd it go?" "Like a dream," Jordan said. He was holding a small penlight and shining it in the eye on which he'd just performed surgery. "And it looks fine now. The cornea's as clear as a bell and the chamber's deep." "If you're happy," Cerino said, "I'm happy." Cerino was in one of the private rooms of the Goldblatt wing of Manhattan General Hospital. Jordan was making late postoperative rounds since he'd finished his last corneal transplant only half an hour earlier. He'd done four in that day alone. In the background Angelo was leaning against the wall. In an armchair next to the door to the bathroom, Tony was fast asleep. "What we'll do is give this eye a few days," Jordan said, straightening up. "Then if all goes well, which I'm sure it will," he hastily added, "we'll do the other eye. Then you'll be as good as new." "You mean I have to wait for the other operation, too?" Cerino demanded. "You didn't tell me about that. When we started you just said I had to wait for the first operation." "Relax!" Jordan urged. "Don't get your blood pressure up. It's good to put a little time between operations so that your eye has a chance to recover before I work on the other one. And at the rate we've been going today, you shouldn't have long to wait." "I don't like surprises from doctors," Cerino warned. "I don't understand this second waiting period. Are you sure this eye you operated on is doing OK?" "It's doing beautifully," Jordan assured him. "No one could have done better, believe me." "If I didn't believe you I wouldn't be laying here," Cerino said. "But if I'm doing this good and if I got to wait for a few days what am I doing in this depressing room. I want to go home." "It's better that you stay. You need medication in your eye. And should any infection set in--" "Anybody can put a couple of drops in my eyes," Paul said. "With all that's happened, my wife Gloria has gotten pretty good at it. I want out of here!" "If you are determined to go, I can't keep you," Jordan said nervously. "But at least be sure to rest and

stay quiet."
Three quarters of an hour later an orderly pushed Cerino to Angelo's car in a wheelchair. Tony had already moved the Town Car to the curb in front of the hospital's entrance. He had the engine idling. Cerino had paid his hospital bill in cash, a feat that had stunned the cashier who was on duty. After a snap of his boss's fingers, Angelo had peeled hundred-dollar bills off a big roll he had in his pocket until he'd surpassed the total.
"Hands off," Cerino said when Angelo tried to help him out of the wheelchair when it reached the side of the car and the orderly had activated the wheel brakes. "I can do it myself. What do you think I am, handicapped?" Cerino pushed himself into a standing position and swayed for a moment getting his considerable bulk directly over his legs. He was dressed in his street clothes. Over his operated eye he had a metal shield with multiple tiny holes.
Slowly he eased himself into the front passenger seat. He allowed Angelo to close the door for him. Angelo got in the backseat. Tony started driving, but as he reached the street he misjudged the curb. The car bounced.
"Jesus Christ!" Cerino yelled.
Tony cowered over the steering wheel.
They drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway. Cerino became expansive.
"You know something, boys," Cerino beamed, "I feel great! After all that worry and planning, it finally happened. And as I told the doc, it wasn't half bad. Of course I felt that first needle stick." Angelo cringed in the backseat. He'd been squeamish about going into the operating room from the start. When he'd seen Jordan direct that huge needle into Cerino's face, just below the eye, Angelo had almost passed out. Angelo hated needles. "But after the needle," Cerino continued, "I didn't feel a thing. I even fell asleep. Can you believe that? Can you, Tony?"
"No, I can't," Tony said nervously.
"When I woke up it was done," Cerino said. "Jordan might be an ass, but he's one hell of a surgeon. And you know something? I think he's smart. I know he's practical. We might very well go into business, he and I. What do you say about that, Angelo?" "An interesting idea," Angelo said without enthusiasm.
12

7:45 a.m., Saturday
Manhattan
Since it was Saturday, Laurie did not set her alarm. But she woke up before eight anyway, again troubled by her nightmare about Shelly. Vaguely she wondered if it would help if she were to see someone professional.
Despite not being on call, Laurie had decided to go into the office. Her intentions notwithstanding, she'd not been productive with her work the previous evening after Lou had dropped her off. Wine and work did not mix well with Laurie.
Emerging from her building, Laurie was pleasantly surprised to find a crisp fall day. The sun had already taken on its weak winter look, but the sky was clear and the temperature moderate. Being a Saturday, the traffic and its resultant exhaust was minimal on First Avenue, and Laurie enjoyed the walk up to Thirtieth Street.
As soon as she arrived, Laurie went straight to the ID office to check on that day's cases. She was relieved to see there were no new candidates for her overdose series. The schedule was filled with the usual Friday-night homicides and accident cases reflecting a normal night of murder and mayhem in the Big Apple.
Next Laurie headed for the toxicology lab. She was relieved she wouldn't have to dodge John DeVries. He certainly wouldn't be in on a Saturday. She was pleased to find hardworking Peter at his usual spot in front of the newest gas chromatograph.
"Nothing yet along the lines of a contaminant," Peter told her, "but with that huge new sample I got yesterday, we might be in luck."
"What kind of sample?" Laurie asked. "Blood?" "No," Peter said, "pure cocaine taken from the gut." "Whose gut?" Laurie asked.
Peter checked the specimen tag before him. "Wendell Morrison. One of Fontworth's cases from yesterday."
"But how did he get a sample from the gut?" "I can't help you there," Peter said. "I have no idea how he got it, but by giving me as much as he did, it makes my job considerably easier."
"I'm glad," Laurie said, puzzled by this unexpected bit of news. "Let me know what you find." Laurie left the toxicology lab and went to her office. After finding his number in the office directory, she called George Fontworth at home. He answered on the second ring; Laurie was relieved not to have awakened him.
"Don't tell me you're in the office," he said when he heard who it was.

"What can I say?" Laurie said.
"You're not even on call," George said. "Don't work so hard. You'll make the rest of us look bad." "Sure," Laurie laughed. "I'm not impressing anyone around here. You know what Calvin told you: you weren't even supposed to talk with me yesterday." "That was kinda stupid," George agreed. "What's on your mind?" "I'm curious about the first case you did yesterday," Laurie said. "Wendell Morrison." "What do you want to know?" George asked. "Toxicology told me that you had given them a cocaine sample from the deceased's gut. How did you come by that?"
"Dr. Morrison took the drug orally," George said. "I thought you told me both your cases mainlined it," Laurie said. "Only the second case," George said. "When you asked me the route of administration, I thought you were only referring to that one."
"All of my cases took the drug IV, but one of Dick Katzenburg's took it orally only after trying to take it IV."
"Same with Dr. Morrison," George said. "His antecubital fossae looked like pincushions. The guy was overweight and his veins were deep, but you'd think a doctor would have been a bit better at venipuncture."
"There was still a lot of cocaine in the gut?" Laurie asked. "A ton," George said. "I can't imagine how much the guy ate. Part of the gut was infarcted where the cocaine had closed down the blood supply. It was just like one of those cocaine "mule' cases where the condoms break in transit."
"Was there anything else of note?"
"Yes," George said. "He had a CVA from a small aneurysm. It probably burst during a seizure." Before Laurie hung up she told George about the little bit of tissue she'd taken from beneath Julia Myerholtz's fingernail and sent up to the lab. "I hope you don't mind my butting in on your case," Laurie said. "Hell no," George said. "I'm just embarrassed I missed it. With the way she had excoriated herself, I should have looked under her nails."
After wishing George a good weekend, Laurie finally settled down to her paperwork. But as she experienced lately, she couldn't take her mind off the troubling aspects of her overdose series. Despite her conversation with Lou, some of the details of the Myerholtz case continued to bother her.

Laurie pulled out the folders on the three cases she'd posted on Thursday: Stuart Morgan, Randall
Thatcher, and Valerie Abrams. Using a scratch pad, she jotted down each of the three's address. In another minute, Laurie was out the door. She caught a cab and visited each of the three scenes. At each residence, Laurie talked with the doorman. After explaining who she was, she obtained the names and telephone numbers of the doormen who had been on duty Wednesday evening. Back at the office, Laurie began her calls. The first she put through was to Julio Chavez. "Did you know Valerie Abrams?" Laurie asked after explaining who she was. "Yes, of course," Julio said.
"Did you see her Wednesday night?" Laurie asked. "No, I didn't," Julio said. "At least I don't remember." Lou was probably right, Laurie told herself after she'd thanked the man and hung up. She was probably wasting her time. Still, she couldn't resist dialing the next name on the list: Angel Mendez, the evening doorman at Stuart Morgan's apartment.
Laurie introduced herself as she had before, then asked Angel if he knew Stuart Morgan, and the answer was the same: "Of course!"
"Did you see Mr. Morgan Wednesday night?" Laurie asked. "Of course," Angel said. "I saw Mr. Morgan every night I worked. He jogged after work every day." "Did he jog on Wednesday night?" Laurie asked. "Just like every other night," Angel told her. Again Laurie wondered about the inconsistency of a guy who thought enough of himself to run every night taking drugs. It didn't make a lot of sense. "Did he seem normal?" Laurie asked. "Did he seem depressed?" "He seemed fine when he went out," Angel said. "But he didn't jog as far as usual. At least he came back very soon. He wasn't even sweaty. I remember because I told him he'd not worked up a sweat." "What did he say in return?" Laurie asked. "Nothing," Angel said.
"Was it usual for him not to say anything?" Laurie asked. "Only when he was with other people," Angel said. "Was Mr. Morgan with other people when he came back from jogging?" she asked. "Yes," Angel said. "He was with two strangers."

Laurie sat up. "Can you describe these strangers?" she asked.
Angel laughed. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I see so many people in a day. I just remembered he was with strangers because he didn't say hello." Laurie thanked the man and hung up. Now this was something. She could still hear Lou's admonition warning her not to play detective, but this striking similarity to the Myerholtz case could be the beginning of a big break.
Finally, Laurie called the last name on her list: David Wong. Unfortunately David couldn't remember seeing Randall Thatcher on Wednesday night. Laurie thanked him and hung up. Laurie decided to turn her attention to one more case before returning to her paperwork. She went to Histology and asked for the slides of Mary O'Connor. Back in her office, she scanned the heart slides under her microscope to study the extent of atherosclerosis. It was moderate on microscopic just as Paul had said it had been on gross. She also didn't notice any cardiac myopathy. With that out of the way, Laurie couldn't think of another reason to avoid her work. Pushing her microscope to the side, she pulled out her uncompleted cases and forced herself to begin.

"So this is it?" Lou asked. He waved a typed sheet of paper in the air. "That's what we've been able to come up with," Norman told him. "This is a bunch of doctor gobbledygook. What the hell is "keratoconus'? Or here's a gem: "pseudophakic bullous keratopathy.' What is this crap? Will you please tell me?" "You wanted the diagnoses of the victims who were seeing Dr. Jordan Scheffield," Norman said. "That's what the teams came up with."
Lou read the page again. Martha Goldburg, pseudophakic bullous keratopathy; Steven Vivonetto, interstitial keratitis; Janice Singleton, herpes zoster; Henriette Kaufman, Fuchs endothelial dystrophy; Dwight Sorenson, keratoconus.
"I was hoping they would all have the same condition," muttered Lou. "I'd hoped to catch twinkle-toes Scheffield in a lie."
Norman shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "I can get someone to translate those terms to regular English--if there's any English to cover it."
Lou settled back in his chair. "So what do you think?" he asked. "I don't have any bright ideas," Norman said. "When I first saw the doctor's name pop out of the data, I thought maybe we had something. But now it doesn't look that way." "Any of the patients unhappy with their care?" Lou asked. "Only positive in that arena is the Goldburgs," Norman said. "Harry Goldburg had initiated a malpractice

suit against Dr. Scheffield after the doctor took out his wife's cataract. Apparently there was some
complication and she wasn't seeing much through that eye." "What's all this other stuff?" Lou asked, grasping at a fat file folder filled with typed pages. "That's the rest of the material that has been gathered by the investigative teams," Norman said. "Jesus Christ," Lou said. "There must be five hundred pages in here." "More like four hundred," Norman said. "Nothing's jumped out at me yet, but I thought you'd better go through it, too. And you might as well get started: there'll be more coming as we interview more people." "What about Ballistics?" Lou asked.
"They haven't gotten to us yet," Norman said. "They're still on last month's homicides. But preliminary opinion is that there were only two guns involved: a twenty-two and a twenty-five caliber." "What about the housekeeper?" Lou asked. "She's still alive but has yet to regain consciousness," Norman said. "She was shot in the head and she's in a coma."
"Do you have her protected?" Lou asked. "Absolutely," Norman said. "Around the clock."