Endorphin Conspiracy, The (15 page)

Geoff put his ear to the door. The sound was louder, reminding him of a hammock blowing in the wind. No voices, no footsteps, no drawers opening or closing. Was someone asleep in there?

Slowly, carefully, Geoff turned the doorknob. He could see the corner of the room illuminated by the dim glow of the monitor. Above that annoying creaking sound he could hear the hum of the computer.

Someone was in there. Must be asleep at the terminal. Had Balassi stayed late tonight? Geoff had to find out, even though his instinct told him to get the hell out of there. Now.

He opened the door a little farther. A dim shadow moved back and forth like a pendulum. All of Geoff’s years of training could not have prepared him for what he saw as he entered the room.

Above Balassi’s desk, suspended from the sprinkler pipe by a rope around his neck was Howard Kapinsky, eyes bulging and mouth open wide from what must have been his last, agonal gasp for air. Pink, frothy saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and nostrils, landed on the floor below.

Geoff covered his mouth, then not able to hold back, heaved until his gut was emptied.

Chapter 25

Geoff tapped his foot
nervously as he sat in the wing-backed chair in Pederson’s office. He had been up the entire night being questioned by the homicide squad. He thought he had handled himself well. In fact, he was so jazzed up from the encounter he didn’t feel fatigued in the least, yet. He didn’t have the time to be tired now. The crash would come later when the adrenalin stopped flowing.

He was prepared to tell Pederson everything he knew: about his strange e-mail messages, Suzanne’s discovery of the new endorphin on autopsy, Kapinsky’s wild theory, the strange deaths of his patients, Balassi’s evasive behavior regarding the bizarre PET scan, and the peculiar Dr. Zelenkov from PETronics, who frankly gave Geoff the creeps.

Everything indicated to Geoff that something strange was happening on a level far beyond his capacity as chief resident to understand or investigate. He needed a powerful ally and felt he could trust Dr. Pederson, if he could only convince him this wasn’t all some paranoid delusion.

To Geoff, the interrogation session had been like something out of the movies, cops with their guns strapped in shoulder holsters, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burnt coffee, phones constantly ringing, people yelling.

The head of the investigation was a Captain O’Malley, a recent transfer from the tactical response unit to homicide. At first he looked vaguely familiar to Geoff, but after pleasantries were exchanged, Geoff realized he had seen him briefly in the NSICU just a week before visiting Jessica in the hospital.

“How’s that little girl doin’, doc? Last I seen she was comin’ around pretty good,” O’Malley asked as he wedged a piece of Juicy Fruit in his cheek.

“She died a couple of days ago.”

“Shame.” O’Malley’s green eyes shimmered with sadness, betraying his tough exterior.

O’Malley then proceeded with questioning, making it all seem pretty routine. He asked Geoff a lot of questions about Kapinsky’s personal and professional life, but very little about his own or the antagonistic nature of their relationship that would suggest Geoff was a suspect. In fact, it seemed like the cops were already calling it a suicide. There were no visible signs of a struggle—though the autopsy had yet to be performed—and a suicide note was said to have been found in Kapinsky’s apartment. O’Malley finished the session. “We may need to ask you a few more questions in a couple of days.” And that was it.

Suicide? thought Geoff, as he sat stiffly in the chair. Kapinsky was too much of a self-centered asshole to commit suicide. Kapinsky had to be on to something. His behavior had become nervous, his reasoning erratic. He had spouted his wild theory of a mercy killer in the hospital just the day before.

If he had stumbled onto some proof, why hadn’t he told anyone? What was he doing in Balassi’s office, and how the hell did he get in without the guards knowing, without setting off the alarm?

Though there was no sign of a struggle, Geoff was sure Kapinsky was murdered. The whole thing seemed to have been carefully contrived, but he dare not mention that to the police for fear of drawing suspicion to himself. He didn’t tell them about any of the strange happenings at the hospital either. They wouldn’t understand, and they probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.

So here he sat in the same chair he had started out in as chief resident a week ago, more anxious about his meeting with Pederson than he had been during his interrogation by the cops. It was reminiscent of his meetings with his commanding officer in the Navy, Major General Payne.

Geoff’s wandering thoughts were interrupted by the shrill, but muffled tones of Lynne Evers. “Yes, Dr. Pederson, he’s inside.”

Geoff stood and turned towards the doorway.

Pederson smiled sympathetically as he entered the room. “Sit down, Geoff. Sit down.” He motioned with his hand. “You’ve had quite a long night, I hear.”

Geoff sat down, studied Pederson. His brow was deeply furrowed, his hooded lids heavier than usual, dark circles beneath them. His eyes did not radiate their usual glimmer. He looked aged beyond his years, like a general who had fought and won many battles in his day, but had stayed in command for one bloody battle too many. Geoff felt sorry for him.

Maybe it was the feeling as if the entire weight of what had happened was on his shoulders as head of the department. Or the paternalistic way in which he related to the residents. Or maybe it was Geoff’s own feelings he had let him down with all of this by not filling him in along the way. He had to tell him everything. Geoff nodded his head. “Yes,sir. It has been a most interesting twenty-four hours.”

“A poor choice of words. Tragic might be more appropriate.”

Suddenly, the full weight of what had happened struck Geoff. He had been so distracted by surrounding events—his own brush with the security guards, his night with the cops—he hadn’t really faced the enormity of what had happened. Was it denial?

His mind flashed back to the image of Howard Kapinsky in the lab the night before. The creaking noise of the pipe as his body swayed back and forth. Geoff’s mind’s eye scanned slowly upward from the shadows below. Howard was wearing running shoes, old jeans, his frayed Columbia t-shirt. He was off duty. Must have been at home before he came to the lab. No white coat. No I.D. badge. How did he get past security dressed like that?

Ashen skin, cool to the touch. The jaw froze open in anguish, the blood-tinged frothy saliva, the eyes popping from their sockets. Geoff’s shock, his wave of nausea. He’d doubled over and vomited, then recovered.

Standing on top of the desk, he’d untied the rope from the pipe and set Kapinsky down on the floor. He was struck by the weight and stiffness of the body. Quickly, he checked for any respirations or pulse: none. He checked his pupils: pinpoint and non-reactive. No use doing CPR. He was long dead. How long, Geoff was not sure. Maybe half an hour. Dead. Howard Kapinsky was dead.

“Yes, tragic,” Geoff replied softly.

Pederson leaned back in the chair and swiveled, looking out his window at the Hudson River. “You know, I never really understood what made Howard Kapinsky tick. On paper, he was a brilliant physician, but he just couldn’t put it all together when it came to people.”

“Except with kids. He was great with kids.” Geoff remembered Kapinsky at Jessica’s bedside, making balloon figures.

“The police are calling it a suicide,” said Pederson, turning and facing Geoff.

“So they told me last night.” Geoff poised to tell him everything. He was like a dam ready to burst. “There’s—”

“Did they ask you any questions about your relationship with Howard?” Pederson looked Geoff squarely in the eye.

Geoff hesitated. He was caught off guard, not sure of Pederson’s intent.

“The way you two argued,” Pederson said.

“No, they didn’t.”

“Of course they would have no reason to ask questions like that. It was a suicide, wasn’t it? Note and all?”

“Yes.” Geoff shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “That’s what it appears to be.”

“Good thing they found that note, or you might still be at the police station answering questions.”

Geoff began to reconsider his plan to share the information with Pederson. He forced a smile and nodded.

Pederson leaned forward in the chair. “What the hell were you doing in the lab on a Monday night?”

Geoff was caught off guard once again. “I was looking for a chart I—”

“Do you realize what a commotion you caused? I know the alarm went off. Someone from security told Balassi the whole thing, and he hit the roof. I’ve spent most of the morning calming him down, telling him you must have had a goddamn good reason for doing that!”

“I did,” Geoff said.

Pederson continued, his face now crimson. He lowered his voice, forcing Geoff to lean uncomfortably close in order to hear. “First, my senior resident wanders into the lab and hangs himself, then my chief resident breaks in like some cat burglar and sets off the alarms. Patients that should be in the rehab unit by now die suddenly, one jumping out the window, the first suicide at the NYTC in years. What the hell kind of department do you think I’m running here? This is the New York Trauma Center, Dr. Davis, not an episode of Grey’s Anatomy!”

“But—”

Pederson put up his hand, his voice a mere whisper. “It hurts me to do this, Geoff, but I have no choice but to put you on probation. You’re suspended for thirty days, effective immediately. Stay home, spend some time in the countryside, get yourself and your priorities together before you come back. It’s the only way to protect the interests and reputation of the department and the medical center. You should consider yourself fortunate to still be in the program.”

Geoff could not believe what he was hearing. He had been wrong to break into the lab, but he was shocked at Pederson’s implication about his having some connection with Kapinsky’s death. Did Pederson really believe Geoff might do something so horrid? Was Balassi behind all of this?

Geoff looked down, his gaze coming to rest on Pederson’s desk: the compulsively arranged desk photos, the Monte Blanc desk set, the Tiffany crystal paper weight. On the far corner, a stack of imaging folders that must have been covered up by the papers now on the floor. The computer generated name on the top folder came into focus.

Geoff closed his eyes, massaged them with his thumb and index finger. He could feel Pederson’s ire from across the desk.

Consider yourself fortunate to still be in the program.

He opened his eyes, it was all a bad dream. Worse than that—it was real. The scan on top was Romero’s.

Chapter 26

“Thanks for stopping by, Geoff. I’ve been very worried about you.” Suzanne closed the door behind Geoff, invited him into the living room. The warm, sweet smell of fresh-baked bread filled the air. “When you left the message last night you couldn’t make it over, I knew something bad had happened.”

“It was bad, all right. Pederson placed me on probation today.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

Geoff smiled knowingly. “For breaking into Balassi’s lab. But it was worth it. Except for Kapinsky.”

“
You’re
the one who found Howard Kapinsky? That’s awful.” Suzanne touched Geoff’s hand, furrowed her brow in concern. “I’ve never been able to understand a person’s motivation to commit suicide, especially in so gruesome a way as he did. He must have been tormented by inner demons we never appreciated.”

“I think his demons were external,” Geoff said.

“You think he was pushed to the brink?”

“No. I think he was murdered.”

A silent pause. Suzanne appeared momentarily lost in thought. “That’s quite an accusation, Geoff. I have those scans you wanted to review. Can you stay for dinner?”

“I’d love to. It’s been a hell of a day.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Sounds great.”

Suzanne walked to the kitchen, grabbed the chardonnay out of the fridge, poured a couple of glasses.

Geoff remained in the living room, standing by a bookshelf. He browsed her CD collection, much of it jazz, then glanced at her framed photographs—the usual collection of graduation and family shots—resting on the shelf below. One in particular caught his attention. A black and white picture set in an antique pewter frame stood alone. A man and a woman smiled, cradled a beautiful, dark-haired baby girl between them. The man looked distinguished, hair dark with streaks of grey at the temples, starched white shirt, thin striped tie, knotted perfectly, stare intense. The woman tall, striking, could have been Suzanne’s older sister, but by the clothes and hairstyles, Geoff dated the photo in the early sixties. He presumed the baby was Suzanne.

Suzanne returned to the living room, handed Geoff his wine.

“These your parents?” Geoff picked up the framed picture.

Suzanne appeared to tense momentarily, her eyes became glassy. She stared at the photograph, seemed to force a smile, took the picture out of Geoff’s hands, and set it back down in its resting place. “My father died not too long after that picture was taken. Unfortunately, I never had a chance to get to know him. Mom’s still alive, in a nursing home. She always told me what a great man he was. He was a political science professor.”

Geoff realized he had over-stepped his bounds. He thought of the pain of his own father’s agonizing death, how lucky he was. Though they had had their differences, he had a father while he was growing up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Suzanne motioned him towards the couch, touched her glass to his with a clang. “To better days.”

They each took a sip, sat down. “Couldn’t be much worse than the last two,” Geoff said.

Suzanne brushed back her long, auburn hair, extended her arm across the top of the couch in Geoff’s direction. “Tell me about your meeting with Dr. Pederson.”

“Pederson’s in on it,” Geoff said. “I can’t believe it.” He shook his head in disgust. “He had Romero’s scan, the one everyone has denied the existence of. The same one I was able to pull up on Balassi’s computer. That’s the
real
reason he put me on probation. He probably thinks I’ll get scared and back off.”

Suzanne smiled. “But you won’t, will you? In fact, if he really knew you, he’d understand you’d see his ploy as a challenge.” Geoff knew she was right, but wondered how she knew him so well. He felt suddenly uncomfortable. He stared at her chestnut eyes, searching for any hint of deceit. He was beginning to feel manipulated, but then again, he was using her to get the information he wanted. The thought assuaged him.

She returned his stare, her warm smile reassuring.

Geoff took a sip of the cold, dry wine. “Anyway, I’ve got evidence.”

Suzanne leaned closer. “Let me play devil’s advocate. You spot a missing PET scan of a crazy man on Dr. Pederson’s desk while he’s placing you on probation for illegal entry into Balassi’s lab. While you’re in the lab, you stumble upon a dead body, under mysterious circumstances, though they’re calling it a suicide for now. The dead man and you never got along real well, and were often at odds in public. Tell me, Geoff, what are you going to do, call the FBI? Who do you think they’ll arrest? Balassi and Pederson, or you?”

Geoff sighed, sipped his wine. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Quite honestly, it doesn’t. Neither does your theory. Josef Balassi, world renown researcher by day, mad scientist by night, stalking the hospital and injecting patients with lethal doses of medication.”

“I didn’t say he was the one who did it.”

“That’s what your accusation amounts to.”

“I said he was somehow involved in a cover-up.”

“Your evidence is circumstantial. It would be thrown out of court in a second.”

Geoff grinned. “I’ve got something a lot more than circumstantial.”

“Besides sighting the mysterious scan on Pederson’s desk? Like what?”

“A couple of things, actually.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“I found Walter’s isotope log book. There was nothing wrong with the isotope used for the PET scan on Jessica. Balassi lied.”

“Hmm. They could say it was a mistake. Maybe Walter made the wrong entry, transcribed his initials in the wrong column or something.”

“Maybe, though Walter’s a pretty compulsive guy. I guess you’re right. They could try and explain it that way.”

“What else did you find?” Suzanne asked, her interest clearly piqued.

“Two vials of synthetic endorphins, one of which probably matches the substance found in the brains of three of the patients who recently died.”

Suzanne’s pupils dilated in surprise. “How did you—”

“They were in Balassi’s refrigerator in his lab. I have them well hidden right now, but I’ll get them to you tomorrow. Run the assays, and we’ll have our smoking gun.”

Suzanne tensed, leaned back on the couch. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“I haven’t told a soul, Suzanne. You’re the only one.” Geoff thought about the e-mail messages, the encrypted message he copied from Balassi’s computer. He debated whether or not to let Suzanne in on the rest, then had second thoughts. Maybe after the assays were run and they had their evidence documented, but something told him not just yet.

“Then don’t tell
anyone
. You’re getting in pretty deep, Geoff. You just never know who you can trust.” Suzanne straightened up, finished her wine.

Geoff looked at her warm, brown eyes, saw a hint of sadness behind them. She was holding something back. He leaned toward her, smiled, placed his hand beneath her chin, looked her in the eye. “I think there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Suzanne Gibson.”

“I could say the same about you, Geoffrey Davis.”

Geoff brushed a wisp of hair off her face. A scent wafted by him. Fendi, Sarah’s favorite. He pulled back, fought the urge to get up and leave.

“Something wrong?” Suzanne asked.

“Not a thing,” Geoff said. He leaned closer to Suzanne, caressed her smooth cheek.

“Want to review those scans?” she whispered.

Their lips met, Geoff feeling a warmth he had not known in many months. He was unhappily certain he knew what the scans would show. “How about in the morning?”