The Art of Forgetting (16 page)

              “Mr. De Luca…”

              “Call me Nick.”

              “Nick, I really should –”

              “Right, you would know your own bike is Italian. You been in this office long?”

              “I’ve been here for years.”

              “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” De Luca turned to scan the room once more.

              “So how can I help you?”

              “Strange you didn’t report the incident to security.”

              Lloyd shrugged. “I just didn’t think about it.”

              “Well, I wish you had. Sure wish you had. You see, this lowlife’s been snatching purses from nurses for the last two weeks. Hides in the parking lots, jumps out at them and pulls the purse right out from their hands when they’re busy trying to find their keys. And then he runs off into the apartment complex across the street. Slippery son-of-a-gun! He was just a bit north of a nuisance until last week when he punched a nurse in the face.” He frowned. “Broke her jaw… a damn shame.”

              “Well, I don’t think I can help much.”

              “Can’t give me a description?”

              “He had his back to me the whole time,” Lloyd said. “And then…”

              “You got pepper sprayed.”

              “Right.”

              “Well, that’s just what I figured,” De Luca said scratching his jaw. “I mean, after talking to Miss Kennedy this morning.”

              “You spoke to Erin?”

              “Charming girl, no?  Quite a looker. You two been dating long?”

              “Oh, we’re not…”

              A thin smile appeared on De Luca’s face. “I see. I just assumed, seeing how you came to her rescue and all… and then the two of you leaving together, you know… seeing as you’re uncommitted.”

              “What makes you say that?” Lloyd said.

              “Well, you’ve been in this office for years but there’s no pictures anywhere.” He pronounced it,
pitchers
. “No pitchers on the desk, no pitchers on the wall. And no ring on your finger.”

              “Well aren’t you the Sherlock Holmes,” Lloyd said.

              “Part of my job, you know. I try to notice things.” De Luca reached into his jacket pocket. “Well, I told you that I’d only be a minute.” He pulled out a business card and dropped it on Lloyd’s desk. “You know, if you think of something, give me a buzz.”

              De Luca extended his thick, beefy hand. Lloyd grasped it and felt his hand being squeezed far too tightly. As De Luca reached for the door handle Lloyd asked, “These cameras, are they all over campus?”

              De Luca turned slowly, studied Lloyd’s expression. “They’re used strictly for security matters.”

              Lloyd wrinkled his brow. “Are they inside the hospital?”

              “You see, the precise location of our cameras is a security issue in itself… but yes. Of course we’re very sensitive to the issue of patient confidentiality.”

              “How about in the laboratory tower?”

              De Luca rubbed his chin. “Is there something we need to talk about, Dr. Copeland?”

              “I was just wondering.”

              De Luca squeezed his lips together. “You’ve got my card.”

              When De Luca left, Kaz entered the office carrying a large rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper.

              “Special delivery. It came in this morning,” he said.

              From its dimensions it looked like a frame of some kind.

              “You can set it against the wall,” Lloyd said.

              “Aren’t you going to open it?” Kaz asked.

              Lloyd smiled. “You want to open it?”

              “I can’t help it Lloyd. I’m like a little boy when it comes to opening presents,” he said. He tore at the tape wrapped around the edges.

              “Who’s it from?” Lloyd asked.

              “I don’t know. It just says,” he read slowly, “from the never-ending happening.” He raised his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

              “It means someone is sending me a message.”

              Kaz tore the paper off unceremoniously and held up the painting that was wrapped inside.

              “Wow! Where is this?”

              “Lake Como,” Lloyd said.

              “It’s beautiful.”

              “I know where you can get one just like it.”

              Lloyd thought of Cecil Spalding, sitting at his easel painting the same scene every day, stopping to shower his wife with kisses every time she happened to step back in his line of sight.

              “How many vials of prion do we have left in the freezer?” Lloyd asked.

              “Six full vials. So we’re down to eighteen doses,” Kaz said. “What are you thinking, Dr. Copeland?” Kaz asked in a mischievous voice.

              Lloyd looked him in the eye. “Are you ready to run some experiments today?”

              Kaz carried the plastic tray, set it on the counter top where Lloyd was sitting and pulled up a wooden stool. “Six vials,” he said. He picked up the first one and read aloud, “Lot number JP four, one, six, four.” He set it down and picked up another vial. “JP four, one, six, four.” He puckered his lips and picked up a third vial. “Same,” he said. He twirled the remaining three vials and said, “they’re all the same lot, JP four, one, six, four.”

              “That was Wolfgang’s lot,” Lloyd said.

              Kaz pushed the plastic tray a few inches farther away from him and wiped his palms on his jeans.

              “I say we use one vial,” Lloyd said.

              “Three mice,” Kaz said, his shoulders drooping. “Are you sure?”

              “I’ll inject them myself if you’re not up to it.”

              “Thank you but I always do my own job. I was just thinking of Wolfgang. You don’t think…”

              “We’ve used this same lot on, how many other mice? And they were all fine,” Lloyd said.

              Kaz nodded. He slowly got to his feet and picked up the tray.

              “I was thinking Debussy, Rachmaninoff and Vivaldi,” Kaz said.

              “Not this time. No names. Nothing to make them stand out from the other mice,” Lloyd said.

              “I don’t like to break tradition. That’s bad luck.”

              “You’re not getting superstitious on me?”

              “But they deserve names,” Kaz said

              “No names. No distinguishing features,” Lloyd said.

              “They deserve something.”

              “I want every mouse in the lab to have a serial number. Four digits would be good. And only you and I will know the numbers of the treated mice.”

              “Like secret agents,” Kaz said with a smile. “Like James Bonds.”

              “Sure, whatever.”

              Kaz headed for the refrigerator but stopped midway. “I know. We’ll give them double-o numbers. Double-o-five, double-o-six and double-o-seven, with an extra digit in front so it’s not too obvious.”

              “Fine.” Lloyd returned to his desk and dialed the extension to Dr. Kowalski’s office. His palms became clammy as he punched in the number.

              Kowalski answered in his usual chipper tone.

              “What the hell happened to our deal?” Lloyd asked.

              “Our deal?”

              “You left me high and dry.”

              “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kowalski said.

              “The damn autopsy report!  You were supposed to call me first, remember?”

              “But … but I never received the specimen.”

              Lloyd froze. “Come again?”

              “I haven’t done the autopsy. I never got your little mouse.”

              “Hold on a minute,” Lloyd said. He tapped on his keyboard to open his e-mail account. There were six unread messages. He scrolled down to the one from Lasko’s secretary, clicked on it and opened the attached file. Lloyd scanned the pathology report and zeroed in on the last line.
Report electronically signed by Todd English, M.D
.

              “Who the hell is Todd English?” Lloyd asked.

              “Todd English?”

              “Todd English, M. Fuckin’D.”

              “He’s a surgical pathology fellow. Why do you ask?”

              “His name is on the autopsy report,” Lloyd said.

              “That can’t be right. Do you have the case number on that report?”

              Lloyd scrolled to the top of the page and read out an alphanumerical code.

              “Give me just another minute, Lloyd,” Kowalski said. “Well, now that’s odd. There’s no attending of record assigned to this case number.”

              “Do you see the actual autopsy report?” Lloyd asked.

              “Final diagnosis: spongiform encephalitis?  Oh, oh, oh, what have you done, Lloyd?”

              “Don’t give me that. The report’s wrong.”

              “Are you using a different prion?” Kowalski asked.

              “Same one as always.”

              “What I don’t understand is why a fellow signed out the case. I’m the prion disease expert here. And this should’ve been my case anyway. Tell you what, my friend, let me pull up the slides and review the case. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

              “Hey, Dr. Kowalski,” Lloyd said, “I’m sorry I busted your chops.”

              Kowalski laughed. “No need to apologize among friends.”

              Lloyd hung up the phone. Funny. He didn’t realize they were friends.

              Lloyd sat there a while and stared at his computer screen. After a minute or so, he sprang up, pressed control-print on his keyboard and a couple of seconds later his printer hummed and rattled as it delivered a single sheet of paper on its output tray. Lloyd picked up the page and read the report in its entirety.

             
Brain sections show global spongiform changes with neuronal loss and the formation of amyloid plaques. Other organs reveal no significant pathologic abnormalities. Final diagnosis:  spongiform encephalitis consistent with prion disease.

              Lloyd accessed the physician directory and typed “English, Todd” in the search box. The entry had no direct extension, just a pager number. He picked up the headset of his desk phone, keyed in the number, hesitated at the prompt and entered his cell phone number before returning the handset to its cradle. Then he sat back in his chair. All he could do now was to sit tight and wait.

              He pulled the Zippo lighter out of his pocket, popped the lid open with his thumb, ignited the flint and gazed at the blue flame. He waved a finger back and forth making the flame bend and dance.

              The phone rang. Lloyd snapped the lid of the lighter shut with a whip of his wrist and reached for his cell phone.

              “This is Dr. English. I was paged?”

              Lloyd introduced himself. “I was calling about an autopsy report… on a laboratory mouse.”

              “Oh. That report’s already been posted.”

              “You performed the autopsy?”

              “Like I said, the report’s been finalized. You can access it on the laboratory portal.”

              “I’ve read the report,” Lloyd said. “I just have a couple of questions.”

              “Look, doctor, I don’t mean to be rude,” the voice on the phone said, “but the report is complete… and I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

              “Can you show me the slides?”

              There was no reply. The line clicked and a tone sounded.
The prick hung up on me
!

              It was time to pay a visit to the pathology department in person. Lloyd stood up, folded the pathology report in thirds and slipped it in his lab coat pocket. He walked out of the office with his heart pounding.

              There was only one bank of elevators that accessed the offices of the Department of Pathology, which was sandwiched one floor beneath the surgical suite and just above the morgue. When Lloyd walked off the elevator there was no one sitting at the reception desk. He stood there a moment, craned his head inside the reception window and seeing no one, began to walk down the hallway of offices.

              He stopped in front of a glass display case which held articles published by department faculty. In the middle, a glossy sheet was pinned to the felt maroon backboard. Its heading read,
Residents and Fellows, Department of Pathology, 2012-2013
. Lloyd scanned the headshots of the two dozen men and women in nearly identical poses in front of the same dull gray background until he found one near the bottom left that read, Todd English, M.D., Surgical Pathology, PGY5.