Damaged (25 page)

Wednesday, May 16, noon

“I
nstantExpress Courier, please hold.”

She waited, her fingers tapping the steering wheel.

“How can I help you?” a man finally asked, his voice harried.

“This is Becky from BioMediSol calling. I want to confirm a pickup for 2:00 p.m. Friday afternoon.”

“Let me see…”

Kate heard pages flipping. The man came on the phone again. “The pickup is listed for after 5:00 p.m. Thursday night.”

She let out a small sigh of frustration. “I don’t know who arranged this, but it should be for Friday.”

“All right, ma’am, I’ll change it for you.”

“Can you please double-check you’ve got the right address?”

“Twelve sixty-six Spicer Drive?”

A little shiver ran up Kate’s back. “That’s the one. See you then.”

She hung up.

Twelve sixty-six Spicer Drive. She’d been there just this week.

BioMediSol was located in Keane’s Funeral Home.

And suddenly it all clicked into place.

She understood why Anna Keane had tried to solicit Muriel’s body, why John Lyons recommended TransTissue settle with the plaintiffs.

She stared out the window, her mind turning over the scheme, examining its myriad facets. She could find no flaw.

The brilliance of it took her breath away. Anna Keane could ask clients if they were willing to donate their bodies “to science” or, if they were deceased, ask their family. Then she could provide the body to BioMediSol. In turn, BioMediSol would harvest the tissue and supply it to hospitals, researchers, tissue product manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies. Under Canadian law, tissue could not be sold, but the company harvesting it could charge a “fee” for its expenses. And the law of supply and demand ensured that a large fee would not be questioned when the supply was at a premium.

Kate dug around in her purse and found the consent form Enid had snatched from the funeral home. It stated the bodies would be used for a neuromuscular study conducted by researcher Dr. Ronald Gill. There was no mention of BioMediSol.

Could BioMediSol be benefiting from Dr. Gill’s research by using his study’s remains?

Or, even more diabolically, could the study be a ruse, Dr. Gill a straw man for the purposes of soliciting bodies?

Kate started the car engine.

She owed Dr. Gill a long overdue visit.

The nurses’ station was muted. Obviously Dr. Mazerski was well respected to have put such a damper on the staff’s spirits.

Ethan and Lamond flashed their IDs to the ward clerk. “We need to speak with Dr. Mazerski.”

Alarm flashed over the ward clerk’s face. “You will have to speak to the head of neurology before you can see him.”

The last thing Ethan wanted was to get mired in the bureaucratic bullshit the GH2 was famous for. He was too close to homing in on the killer. No one was going to get in the way now. “We need to interview Dr. Mazerski in private. What room is he in, please?”

The ward clerk looked around her for support. A nurse flipped a chart closed, his biceps bulging under his greens, and moved behind the clerk. He was a bulky guy with a shaved head. “He’s not able to answer questions. Why do you need to see him?”

Ethan gave him a level look. “It’s regarding a criminal investigation.”

The nurse picked up the phone. “We need to get Dr. Roberts down here. He’s Head of Neurology.”

“Fine,” Ethan said. Lamond threw him a surprised glance. They both knew their chances of actually seeing Dr. Mazerski were slim to none if the administration got involved. Ethan glanced at the clock over the ward clerk’s head. “It’s visitors’ hours. We’ll be in Dr. Mazerski’s room.” He pocketed his ID. “Come on, Lamond.”

He turned down the hall, Lamond jogging to catch up to him, ignoring the fluster of activity at the nurses’ station he left in his wake. He bet they were calling all the senior staff. And after that, they’d be calling the staff sergeant to complain. He wasn’t worried. Staff Sergeant Robbins had been around a long time. He’d smooth it over.

Ethan stopped by an unmarked door. It was slightly ajar. If he guessed right, Dr. Mazerski would be in a room right by the nurses’ station where they could keep an eye on him.

He knocked softly. There was no answer. He pushed the door open. His first glance revealed a typical hospital room with a bed, nightstand and chair. The drapes were drawn against the noonday light. It cast the bedridden patient in gloom.

“Dr. Mazerski?” he said softly.

There was no answer.

His eyes adjusted to the dimness. He approached the bed. A man lay under the sheets. He was perfectly still. Rigid.

And staring.

Ethan tried again. “Dr. Mazerski?”

The man did not turn his head.

His stillness was eerie. As if his muscles were poised for flight.

Ethan edged closer.

The man did not move. Did not blink.

Did this disease his wife said he had—CJD, Dr. Clare had said over the wails of her hungry baby—make him so crazy that they had sedated him?

The man’s arm lay on top of the sheet. Around his wrist was a hospital ID bracelet. It occurred to Ethan that he’d better double-check that this was, in fact, the man they were looking for. He could just imagine the staff sergeant’s reaction if he found out Ethan had bulldozed his way into a suspect’s hospital room and then interrogated the wrong guy.

Ethan leaned over the man to read his bracelet.

The man’s body spasmed. His arm jumped off the sheet.

Ethan jerked back.

Lamond snickered softly.

“Shut up,” Ethan said.

He forced his heart to slow back down and read the name printed on the man’s bracelet: Mazerski, Michael Bogdan.

He studied the man’s hand. Long fingers, the nails slightly longer than he would’ve expected. Was this the hand of a killer or a giver of a new chance at life? Or both?

What would drive a man to give with one hand and take away with the other?

He moved his gaze to Dr. Mazerski’s face. He looked to be in his late forties. His wavy hair was graying around a receding hairline. His most striking feature was his eyes, deep set and brown under dark eyebrows. His skin was stretched taut over his facial muscles. Ethan suppressed a shiver. The neurosurgeon’s face looked like a death’s-head. He thought of the round, soft cheeks of Dr. Mazerski’s little children. His heart squeezed unexpectedly.

He squashed his pity. If this man had committed the crimes he thought he did, he deserved none.

Dr. Mazerski had not moved under Ethan’s scrutiny. His gaze had remained fixed to a spot on the wall several inches to the right of the clock. Ethan moved his hand slowly in front of the neurosurgeon’s eyes. He blinked.

Ethan tried again. Same response. He swore softly under his breath. They weren’t going to get any answers from the doc in this state. The frustration that had been his constant companion for the past two weeks surged in him.

“We’ve got a visitor,” Lamond said in a muted voice. The room had that kind of effect on a person. It was as if they had entered a twilight zone.

“Detectives.” A woman dressed in surgical scrubs stood in the doorway, her broad shoulders and solid frame tense. Her sharp glance took in Lamond stationed by the door, Ethan hovering over Dr. Mazerski. She strode past Lamond to plant herself by the bed.

Ethan glanced at her hospital ID. “Dr. Lachlan. I’m Detective Ethan Drake, Criminal Investigations Unit.”

She darted a quick look at Dr. Mazerski’s catatonic face, then met Ethan’s gaze. “Why are you here?”

“We have some questions for Dr. Mazerski.”

“Why?” Her gaze challenged him. She looked like a real fighter, someone who was used to being first in everything and would steamroll her way to the finish line if need be. Looking at her size and speed, he also bet she’d played sports as a kid, probably basketball. Her steely gaze was on level with his eyes. Pale brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a few wisps falling around her smooth, strong-jawed face. Her hair was the only soft touch about her, although when she glanced at the patient lying next to them, empathy flowed like heat through the iron of a radiator.

“Dr. Lachlan, we believe Dr. Mazerski may have been involved in a crime we are investigating.”

“What?” She snorted. “You’re on the wrong track, Detective.”

“I don’t think so.” He jerked his head toward the inert man. “What drugs is he on? You need to take him off them so we can question him.”

She cocked her head, a small smile twisting her lips. “Remember doctor-patient confidentiality, Detective,” she chided. “I can’t tell you anything without the permission of his wife.” She glanced at her watch. “She’ll probably be back tonight.”

Ethan crossed his arms. Dr. Clare hadn’t wanted them to come, especially when she realized they were investigating a murder. It had been a surreal conversation, brief and stark over the frantic hunger cries of her baby. Ethan had discreetly turned his gaze away when her breasts began to leak. It was the realization she was at the mercy of her body that made her relent. Her gaze was direct and
hopeless. “You won’t get any answers from him. He’s got advanced CJD.”

He couldn’t wait until she could disengage herself from the demands of her children to come down to the hospital. “Look, Dr. Lachlan, the case I’m investigating is urgent.”

She studied him for a moment. Perhaps she read the determination in his gaze, because she finally said, “I’ll call his wife. See if she agrees to me talking to you. After that, I’m leaving. I was just dropping in between procedures to check on Mike.” She strode quickly out of the room.

Lamond resumed his post against the door and watched the hallway.

There was a loud grunt from the neurosurgeon. He folded at the waist and sat upright in bed.

Ethan tensed. “Lamond,” he said quietly.

Lamond turned and started at the sight of Dr. Mazerski. The neurosurgeon’s eyes stared straight ahead. He gripped the sheets in his hands, his mouth working.

His body spasmed.

Ethan caught him before he fell onto the floor. He gently pushed Dr. Mazerski back onto the pillows. The neurosurgeon kept jerking under his hands.

“Shit,” Ethan said. “Lamond, get a doctor!”

“Get your hands off him!” Dr. Lachlan cried, barreling into the room toward the bed.

Ethan let go of Dr. Mazerski, panting as if he’d run a marathon.

“He’ll keep spasming if he’s touched,” Dr. Lachlan added in a calmer voice.

Ethan took a deep breath. “Did you talk to Dr. Clare?”

“Yes. She gave me permission to speak to you.”

Ethan sized up Dr. Lachlan. Her desire to protect her colleague was written all over her. “I’d rather get my
answers from him. We want him taken off whatever drugs are doing this to him. Just for a few hours.”

“He isn’t on anything.” Her voice was flat. “That’s what the disease is doing to him.”

Ethan threw a disbelieving glance at the catatonic neurosurgeon. “You’re kidding. What is CJD, anyway?”

“Its full name is Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. It’s a degenerative brain disease. Incurable. Caused by a prion—”

“A what?” He cast his mind back to his high school biology class. He’d been more interested in how girls worked than frogs. His brain came up empty.

“A protein that the brain cell generates. In CJD patients, it somehow mutates. No one knows how.”

Lamond gave a low whistle. “So how’d he get it?”

Dr. Lachlan crossed her arms. “CJD can occur spontaneously in some people or it can be inherited. It can also, in rare occasions, be transmitted from someone or something.”

“You mean, like HIV?”

Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. CJD is not sexually transmissible, and in cases of classic CJD, there are no reported cases of it being transmissible in blood.” She added, “But we really don’t know how it is transmitted. However, there is a new form of CJD, called variant CJD, which is believed to be caused by mad cow disease and that may be transmissible in blood.”

“So what form does Dr. Mazerski have?” Ethan asked.

“Hard to say. It could have happened spontaneously. Or he may have contracted it while operating on a patient.”

“Which means it’s classic CJD?” Lamond asked.

“Possibly.”

“But he got it from the patient, right?” Ethan asked, staring at Dr. Mazerski’s rigid body.

“I don’t think he got it from the patient. My own theory
is that it was from the dura mater—the transplant material we used to patch the tissue around the brain.” She shook her head. “Most neurosurgeons don’t use cadaveric dura mater anymore. But Mike always felt it gave a better patch. So he kept a little supply on hand.”

“That had CJD?”

“That’s what I think. It most likely was infected with classic CJD, but until we trace the donor, the dura mater could have come from someone who ate infected beef.”

Ethan stared at Dr. Lachlan’s set features. His mind darted around the facts, looking for the holes. “Isn’t that stuff screened?”

Dr. Lachlan’s jaw tightened. “It’s supposed to be. Those bloody tissue suppliers claim they use the highest screening standards, but I think they’re full of it.”

“So you can get CJD just by handling the infected tissue?” he asked.

Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I know how Mike could have gotten it. About eighteen months ago he was doing a craniotomy. His scalpel slipped as he was trimming the patch. He nicked himself. And if the dura mater had CJD, the scalpel blade would have been loaded with CJD prions.” Her gaze swung over to him. “And now here he is.”

“What about the patient who received the dura mater? Did he get CJD?”

“We don’t know yet,” Dr. Lachlan said. “We’re tracking her down. And the tissue supplier.”

He stared at Dr. Mazerski’s masklike features. What a mess. But he couldn’t forget one important fact: eighteen months was a big gap between getting infected and showing symptoms. Dr. Mazerski could have killed a lot
of girls before he was put on leave on Friday. “Does Dr. Mazerski have periods of lucidity?”

Dr. Lachlan shook her head. “No. His symptoms are progressing very rapidly. That can happen in his kind of transmission, but even so, he seems to be an extreme case.” She paused for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I doubt he’ll ever speak cogently again. He’s also losing his vision.”