Death Benefit (40 page)

“They certainly were both serious infectious cases with severe erosion of the gut, both small intestine and large. Wow! Anyway they’re considered OSHA cases, which was the main reason they were autopsied.”

“OSHA cases?” Pia questioned. She’d heard the acronym but couldn’t remember what it was for.

McGovern looked up. “The Occupational Safety and Health Administration. It’s a government agency that gets involved when there are deaths in the workplace involving public safety issues. The autopsy results will be reported to OSHA as the OCME is required to do by law.”

McGovern looked back at his screen.

“Okay. Both cases were done by Dr. Jack Stapleton. He’s our super-doc who does more cases than anyone else. He’s never satisfied, always pushing for more, works hard like he doesn’t have a life.

“Let’s see. The cause of death for both cases is listed as infectious disease—typhoid fever—and the manner of death is accidental. Let me ask you, do you know why the manner of death is considered accidental?”

Pia said that she didn’t, not adding that she might be challenging that official verdict.

“If the two researchers had come down with typhoid after eating at a restaurant, like the hospital cafeteria, then their deaths would have been labeled natural, since typhoid is a food-borne pathogen. But since they contracted the disease in a laboratory, or in a workplace setting, then it’s accidental because it certainly couldn’t be considered a natural process.”

McGovern was trying his best to sound authoritative.

“And if for some reason the researchers infected themselves on purpose, then the manner of death would be suicide. And last but not least, if someone purposely infected them, then it would be homicide.”

McGovern laughed and held his hands out wide as if to say, “See what a good teacher I am.”

Pia didn’t laugh with him or even smile. For her he was acting stereotypically transparent.
He’s talking to me like I’m a college coed
, she thought.

After a slightly awkward beat because of Pia’s lack of response, McGovern said, “Do you have any specific questions about the autopsies? If you do, I can call Jack and ask him directly. I know he’s still here.”

Chet McGovern would have liked nothing better than to have Pia indebted to him for his help. An hour earlier he’d learned his Friday-night plans had fallen through, and he hated spending the best night of the week on his own. He was about to ask her if she was free and if she might like to have a bite of dinner when he noticed she was lifting her bag up onto the desk. She then reached into it and pulled out a yellow instrument, a lead, and mike-like device attached. It took McGovern a minute but he recognized it as a Geiger counter.

“Well,” Pia said, “to be honest, what I’d really like to do is check if Rothman and Yamamoto might be emitting a small amount of radioactivity. I mean, if that would be all right.”

“I suppose,” McGovern said, not wanting to say “no” but confused by the strange request. There was obviously something she wasn’t telling him, but he decided to play along. “Why do you think they might be emitting radioactivity?”

Here was the thousand-dollar question. She still hadn’t decided how she was going to respond, even though she had been reasonably certain it would come up. She could go for broke and voice her suspicions or be more prudent and try to be obtuse about it. On the spot she decided on the latter.

“I’m involved in a project for a thesis involving radioisotopes used for research,” she said. Pia decided this wasn’t the time to raise suspicion about why she was really there at the OCME. She didn’t want to show her hand just yet. She didn’t want the OCME calling up the medical center and talking about her visit because it would reveal to whoever was involved in the conspiracy that she hadn’t stopped her meddling.

“I worked in Dr. Rothman’s lab for more than three years, and I know that certain isotopes were used in that period for various experiments. I just want to be sure there hasn’t been any contamination to the personnel. I checked Rothman’s lab and there was a very small amount of what we want to believe was rogue radiation in the office by his coffeemaker. I hope you can help. It’s for everyone’s peace of mind.”

Pia stopped. She knew what she had just said didn’t make total sense, but it sounded good. She smiled as pleasantly as she could. She hoped her smile didn’t look as fake as it felt. She could tell that McGovern was suspicious and hesitant, but that he hadn’t ruled out granting her request.

“Is that what you told Marlene downstairs?” he asked.

“I told her I was interested in a couple of particular cases.”

“Oh, okay. She said you wanted to know about the OCME electives. Never mind. Listen, we have radiation detectors down in the mortuary area just in case, and nothing has sounded recently, especially not yesterday. I know that for a fact.”

“Well, that’s not surprising because the isotopes we’ve been using in the lab were all alpha emitters for targeted alpha therapy such as bismuth-213 and lead-212, which wouldn’t be picked up by general radiation detectors made for beta and gamma radiation.”

Pia smiled again and McGovern nodded knowingly, even though he had no idea what she was talking about. The last time he read much about radioisotopes was over a decade earlier when he was studying for his boards. McGovern looked pensive. Pia thought he was thinking about alpha particles. In fact McGovern was running a mental checklist. At first he’d questioned himself, but no, he was certain. He’d never seen a better-looking medical student, which was saying something as they were, in his opinion, getting better-looking every year, at least at NYU, which was where most of the medical students he met in his position as OCME teaching coordinator were from. He should spend more time at Columbia, he thought.

“So you just want to make sure Rothman’s and Yamamoto’s bodies are not emitting alpha radiation?” McGovern asked, just to be certain he understood.

“That’s right. That’s why I brought this Geiger counter. It’s specially programmed for detecting alpha particles.”

McGovern went back to his monitor.

“Let’s see. There might just be a problem. The bodies of infectious cases like these don’t stay around here very long, for obvious reasons.... Yup!” he said suddenly, tapping the screen with a forefinger. “Just as I thought. There’s a problem. As I said, in serious infectious cases like typhoid fever and a few other communicable diseases, the bodies aren’t held here in the OCME. After the autopsies are completed and the cause and manner of death corroborated, the bodies are released to the families and the respective funeral homes and cleared for cremation. In other words,” McGovern said, “the researchers’ bodies are no longer here. You’re about twenty hours too late.”

Pia mouthed a repressed “shit,” which McGovern caught and appreciated. He associated colorful language with feistiness, and he loved feistiness in a woman. It was his hope that now that he’d ascertained the bodies were no longer at the OCME, perhaps they could move on to more interesting topics, like Friday-night plans. Meanwhile, Pia stared into the middle distance, thinking. She could hardly reproach herself; twenty-four hours ago, when the bodies left, she’d never even heard of polonium-210.

Watching Pia’s expression, Chet suddenly was afraid that after hearing the news she might get up and leave. She was clearly disappointed. In his mind, her leaving at that point would be a major tragedy because so far he’d not gotten either cell phone number or an e-mail address from her.

“The guy who did both autopsies is just down the hall,” Chet reminded Pia. “And he’s a friend. So if you have a specific question about what he found, I’m happy to go ask him.”

Pia was disappointed. It had never occurred to her that Rothman’s and Yamamoto’s bodies would have already been sent to funeral homes. She thought briefly about trying to find out the names of the funeral homes, but she didn’t know how she would do that without raising a lot of suspicion. As for talking to the ME down the hall, what would possibly be the point?

 

 

E
arlier, while Prek and Genti had sat in the van, Neri Krasnigi, the recruit foisted on them by Buda for God knows what reason, had been continually walking along 168th Street and the small portion of Haven Avenue from the medical school entrance back to the van. He’d been ordered to have his cell phone in the radio mode to act like a walkie-talkie to stay in contact. Neri was dressed in one of the security guard uniforms, which now looked pretty wet from the rain. Prek knew he was taking a chance that Neri might bump into one of the real security guards, but he had been willing to risk it. Prek wanted as much notice as possible when either Pia or George appeared, heading in their direction on their way to the dorm. Nevertheless Neri had been ordered back inside the vehicle.

Prek was as content as he could be given the situation. He was certainly keyed up as he always was before a hit, especially with a couple of Red Bulls under his belt. He had another beside him just in case he needed it. The radio in the van was playing heavy metal with the volume turned low. As he sat and waited, Prek methodically rubbed the scar on his upper lip. It was a habit that he wasn’t even aware of. It was now almost five-thirty.

Aleksander Buda had called to check in at five o’clock, and Prek had to explain that they had spotted the girl but lost her in the subway. When Buda exploded with a string of choice expletives in Albanian questioning the virtue of Prek’s mother and parentage, Prek had held the phone away from his ear and even blushed slightly. Neri, who could hear Buda clearly even though he was sitting on a milk crate in the back of the van, let out a chuckle before he could stop himself, earning a scowl from Prek. As soon as Buda’s volcano subsided, Prek held the phone to his ear again.

“Was she carrying anything, like an overnight bag?”

“No. Just a shopping bag and an umbrella. I’m sure she’s coming back.”

“She better be.... What about the guy?”

“No sign of him yet. He may be in class or whatever it is medical students do. They’re just getting out now, streaming by the van. Of course he could be in his dorm room having passed by before we got here. But from watching her like we did, I’m sure they’ll meet up. And we’ll be here.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Buda said, and ended the call.

Prek looked around the floor of the van by his feet and picked up one of the empty Red Bull cans he’d dropped there and hurled it into the back of the van in the direction of Neri.

“You ass, you think this is funny? Get the dry hospital security uniform on. You’re going back out for a walk.”

 

 

T
he command-performance radiology lecture George Wilson had made a point of attending had finally finished. Unfortunately it hadn’t been great. The speaker had a soporific voice, and George and the rest of the attendees had had a difficult time staying awake. Late lectures were a problem in that regard for most people, especially when the lights dimmed for the de rigueur slides. Halfway through the talk, George’s mind had wandered to what Pia was finding downtown and whether or not she was safe and keeping out of trouble. George knew that if she caused trouble and the OCME called Bourse to complain, it would probably be the end of Pia’s medical school days, at least at Columbia. As the lecturer had droned on, George found himself wishing he’d gone with her.

George got his stuff together and exited the lecture hall. He certainly hadn’t learned anything. Reaching the street, he donned his coat and turned up the collar. It wasn’t raining so much as drizzling. He had a knot in his stomach from worrying about Pia. He was worried that he’d allowed her to go on her own and wondered when he’d hear from her.

Along with a large clot of first- and second-year students, George walked through the early-evening air toward the dorm and past a young security guard who seemed to be patrolling the front of the building. George looked at him quickly, as he had no umbrella and his black fake-leather coat with its fake-fur collar appeared soaked. He looked about seventeen, and George paid him no mind. He walked into the dorm building and waited with the throng of students for an elevator. For the fiftieth time, George checked his phone. There was no text message from Pia, no call or e-mail.

When he reached his room, George flopped down on the bed, exhausted and hungry. He suddenly felt alone and afraid. He knew he wasn’t nearly as tough as Pia. Armed with what little he knew of her upbringing, he was aware of how much she’d been through in her life. It was so much more than he had ever experienced. Sure, his dad died when he was young, and there hadn’t been a lot of money around when he was growing up, but his mother had always made sure he was loved and looked after. She paid attention to his education—made sure he studied and guided him through high school and college and on to medical school. She was always there, making sure he worked hard enough to justify the scholarships he needed to attend Arizona State University and then Columbia Medical School. All in all George had had support and security all his life, exactly the opposite of Pia. Vaguely he wondered where he would be today had he shared Pia’s experiences. Probably in something like a hamburger joint slinging hash.

Suddenly George missed hearing a friendly voice. He called his mom but got the ancient answering machine she still insisted on using. He didn’t leave a message. Then he looked at his watch and called his grandmother Sally Mason in Phoenix. He thought the middle of the afternoon would be a good time to catch her, but it was not meant to be. This time he left a message.

 

 

A
fter George had passed by and entered the dorm, Neri went to the driver’s-side window of the van. Prek lowered the window and looked at the rookie and felt sorry for him. He looked bedraggled with his dark hair plastered against his forehead. “Okay,” Prek said. “Get back in the van but stay in the uniform.”