The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (5 page)

Chapter 5

Eat bent down to look closer at the foot on Andy’s lab table.

“Andy, is this a joke?”

Andy had returned to her desk to find her notes for a new case she’d been assigned.

“Is what a joke? Have you seen the folder I usually use my project notes? It’s red with a sketch of bio-hazard warning on it.”

Eat ignored her and continued with what had grabbed his attention.

“Andy. The specimen you just received.”

Eat could feel the blood draining from his head, and settling in his feet. Eat picked up the plastic bag, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, and showed it to her. “This.”

“Eat! What’s wrong? Are you sick? You are as white as a ghost.”

Andy got up from behind her desk, rolled her chair around the maze of folders piled on the floor to where he was barely standing, and waved for him to sit down. It was the only chair in the office that had a back and arms. All of the others were just stools with wheels and he would have simply melted off of those, and joined the mêlée of folders piled on the floor. She took the plastic bag from his hands and put it back into the tray still on the lab table. Inside of the bag was a human foot. The subject’s tissue seemed to have been ripped twelve inches above the ankle. The bone was just as jagged and torn, as if it had been cut with a simple handsaw. There was more though. The foot within the bag still had a sock on it. A sock with the owner’s initials embroidered on them.

A.C.T.

Anderson Charles Teague.

Eat had no doubt whatsoever that he was holding his father’s left foot sealed in a plastic freezer bag in his hand. The problem was that his father was supposed to be in Eat’s car sealed in a similar bag, pulverized to a fine powder. It didn’t make any sense to have his father’s foot in Andy’s office.

It was an argyle sock, light brown with purple and dark brown triangular accents. The embroidered initials were centered within one of the brown triangles. Eat had given these to his father last Christmas. He tried not to hyperventilate and make an ass of himself by falling on the floor and spilling formaldehyde everywhere.

“Dad. I gave him three pairs of these socks last Christmas. You were there. Don’t you remember? He opened them right in front of us. He said he needed socks. He was so excited over a few pair of simple, argyle socks! Look at the initials.”

Andy was on her knees in front of him. She was holding his hands.

“Oh. Sweetie. That can’t be. Your father was cremated. You have his ashes. Remember? You’ve been trying to scatter them on the St. Croix for weeks.”

“Check the seam by the toes. On the inside. I bought these for him and then sent them off to be embroidered. I asked them to not only stitch his initials on the outside at the top but to put a number on the inside for each of the pairs. That way he could always find the matches. He hated that.”

“What?”

“When he couldn’t find the matches. He was sure the dryer did something to his socks, just to piss him off.”

Andy put on a pair of surgical gloves, unzipped the bag, and slowly extracted the socked foot. She placed it on the tray, and then went back to her desk. It had an evidence tag stapled to the top of the sock.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m looking for the paperwork that came with the . . . “

“Foot. My dad’s foot. You can say it.”

“We don’t know that yet, Eat,” she said as she touched his shoulder on the way to her desk. She picked up a manila folder. “Here it is.”

The room was silent while Andy read the papers that came with his father’s foot. For her it was a specimen. Eat didn’t care what she called it. He just couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

“It says that it was found by a man and his dog while walking by the Minnehaha Creek.”

“That’s like saying the foot was found in Minneapolis. Doesn’t it give anything more specific?”

Andy continued reading and moving her finger across the lines of text.

“Ummmm. 52nd. 52nd and James in Minneapolis.”

“I know where that is. Lynhurst area. How about a date?”

“March 2nd.”

Before that moment, Eat thought the blood was beginning to return to his head. His wobbly surroundings were beginning to settle, but he was severely mistaken. When Andy told him the date, her words acted like a magnet pulling all of his blood back down and forcing it into his two big toes. Eat furtively grasped onto the chair’s arm rests for support.

“That’s about a week after his funeral. Please check the sock, Andy. Please.”

“But Eat, think about it. This could be anything. You gave all of his old clothes to charity, right? This is probably some homeless guy who happened to get the socks.”

He loved her with all of his heart, but Eat wasn’t having any of the what-if scenarios that Andy was suggesting. He understood that she was trying to protect him, but he knew that sock, and the foot within it, belonged to his father.

“I brought a suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and socks to the funeral home. That is one of the socks I brought. It should have been burned to a crisp along with the foot. They don’t take the clothes off during cremation. Neither of them should be sitting here in your office staring back at me,” Eat pointed to the foot still on the table. “There is a number one stitched on the inside. I’m sure of it.”

Before Andy could start removing the sock, her telephone rang. They looked at one another and he gave her a resigned look. This was her job. He had to accept that he was in her domain. She put down the foot, and returned to her desk.

“Forensics. McCorkendale,” she said.

Eat couldn’t tell what she was talking about or to whom, but he knew that they weren’t going to make much progress with the foot. Andy looked at her watch and nodded.

“How bad?” She grimaced. “Ok. I’m on my way.”

She hung up the phone and started pulling equipment off of the floor and packing it into duffle bags. “Some body parts have been found in a garbage bin next to a diner downtown. I have to head over there.” It was as if she could read his thoughts. “No. They appear to be female.”

Andy walked over to a cabinet, and pulled out a small container. Its top was sealed with plastic. Inside were a plastic bag, a cotton swab, two empty vials, and alcohol pads. She handed it to him.

“This is what I use for DNA analysis. Take out the cotton swab, wipe it against your inner cheek, and then seal it in one of the plastic vials. Just put it in the fridge when you‘re done. You can throw everything else in the trash. Can you leave your father’s ashes here?”

She held his face in both of her hands and kissed him.

“We’ll figure this out Eat. I promise. But I have to go.”

Andy stacked her duffle bag straps on her shoulder, grabbed her cell, uncovered her car keys under a mound of paper on her desk, and walked out of the office. The wall facing the hallway was a made of glass and the vertical blinds were open. As she walked to the parking garage, she turned and blew him a kiss.

Eat smiled at her.

It was a very weak smile.

Chapter 6

It was almost 11:45, and Eat knew that his mother would be heading to brunch. Every aspect of her life now, including meals, was on a very precise schedule. Despite the events of the previous day, Eat could not remotely consider canceling his regular Sunday meal and visit with his mother. He called ahead so they could have a table set up and ready just for them. After lunch, he’d scheduled time to meet with her nurse, Joey.

Eat pulled into the parking lot, and looked up at the five-story building. His mother’s room was on fifth floor, right in the corner. She had two picture windows that provided a view looking down into the center’s gardens. He couldn’t believe that she’d been living here as long as she had. Initially, he didn’t think he, his father, or his mother would survive the first six months. To say that the ordeal was trying, was a vast understatement.

Two years ago Eat and his father made the agonizing decision that his mother needed more help than what either of them knew how to or could provide. Her Alzheimer’s was getting worse, and they were both afraid that she might hurt herself, or leave something burning on the stove, besides a grilled cheese. Eat’s parents were on a fixed income, so his father was initially worried about the expense of any assisted living center. Despite the fact that Eat constantly told them not to worry about anything, they resisted every attempt he made at providing them a financial cushion. By using a combination of her Social Security and retirement income from his father, they were able to find a very nice facility, the Sunshine Meadows Assisted Living Center. The proximity made it easy for Eat’s father to visit each day; which he did up to the day he died.

The physical impacts of Alzheimer’s were easy to quantify. Easy to understand. Easy to see. Accepting was another story. The emotional aspects were excruciating for all involved. Eat and his father saw the woman they both loved, slowly slip away and become another person who at times couldn’t remember who either of them was. The disease was also agonizing for his mother because she didn’t understand why things were changing. From her point of view, she was being taken away from her home. Many times she believed people were stealing her clothes and going into her purse and taking her money.

It was painful to see her degrade as fast as she had, to see her fall below the point where neither her husband nor son could help her. It was as if she was becoming a child again.

Betty Lou had her own apartment with all of the comforts of home except a stove; which probably wasn’t a huge deal as she probably wasn’t going to be making her carbonized sandwiches for the other residents. For any cooking she wanted to do, she had to use a microwave oven—like mother, like son. For coffee, she was allowed a small, 4-cup coffee maker as long as it was on a timer and shut itself off after two hours. Everything that went into her room had to be approved by the property’s board of directors, and nursing staff. She had cable TV, a phone, and even an option to get Internet access if she wanted. A washer and dryer were available on each floor, and the residents had to schedule them on a daily, or weekly basis.

Assisted living allowed her to live a relatively normal life. She didn’t have a roommate, and she wasn’t relegated to a hospital bed. Eat could even sleep on her small sofa, and spend the night with her if he wanted. Nurses came to visit her each day, and all of her meals, which were quite good, were provided on a very precise schedule. It wasn’t always a version of chicken surprise with Jell-o cabbage salad, and a can of Ensure. Some nights were beef stroganoff. Some were salmon. They even had special sea food nights once a month. Typically, they offered two entrées, and the resident had to choose one. Making decisions, however small, was actually beneficial. Her nurse ensured that she was taking her meds that her blood pressure was where it should be, and even did periodic blood sugar tests, to make sure that diabetes was not creeping up from behind. There was a beauty salon on the first floor that the residents could use. Eat simply maintained a balance in her small “mad-money” account, and each time she used their services, the fee was automatically deducted. When it hit $10, they let him know and he simply deposited whatever was needed to get it to $50, the max allowed by the center.

Bingo was two or three nights a week, and cost twenty-five cents.

Movie nights were every Friday.

Not a bad setup, really.

For BLT, this was now home.

The first week in the center was interesting for all involved. On her second day as a resident, her primary nurse, Joey, tried giving her a bath. That did not go well, and Eat, having learned of the story second-hand, wished he could have seen it unfold. It took some persuading, but Betty Lou finally calmed down, and her blood pressure returned to normal. The staff relented, and agreed that until she absolutely needed it, that bathing would be her responsibility, within reason. Her nurse would draw the bath, ensuring that the water was not too hot, and wait outside the door until she finished.

“This is new for her and for us. We both have to learn our limits with one another,” her nurse, Joey, told Eat as he soothed the cheek that still had the red shadow of the palm and fingers of Betty Lou’s right hand.

“She’ll be just fine.”

Feisty was a very good adjective for her.

Dedicated was a very good adjective for Joey.

Chapter 7

Butch woke up each and every morning thankful that the sights he opened his eyes to were of his bedroom ceiling and not of a cellblock. It was almost noon. He was rarely able to sleep in this late, but today was Sunday, and he had worked ‘til 3:00 am.

Each morning was like the rest. He woke thankful for the comforting, familiar surroundings. The trees outside of his window. The trophies on the bookshelf that his mother refused to put away even though he was thirty-three. The sounds of cooing mourning doves in the tall, white, paper birches outside of his window. He was thankful for the same familiar, comforting smells that defined his youth. His father’s pipe that billowed puffs of cherry vanilla smoke. His mother’s strong coffee, and her favorite K-Mart perfume. The nose-hair-curling scents of vinegar, garlic, and dill during his mother’s seasonal efforts to can her neighborhood-famous pickles. His father’s workshop that smelled of grease, diesel fuel, empty beer cans, and the same pipe smoke that permeated the house.

He had come close to losing it all.

Very close.

He had come close to spending the next fifty years of his life in a ten-by-ten cinderblock cell at Leavenworth where he could only reminisce about the memories and smells of home. A prison where murderers, rapists, and traitors spent their days with other murderers, rapists, and traitors. Where they compared stories and bragged about their violent conquests. His windows, if he had any, would have been measured in inches and barred. His scenery would have been razor wire, gray painted cinderblock walls, electrical fences, and guards with guns. Big guns with big bullets. The smells would have been of piss, the sour aroma of body odor, and of stale cigarette smoke.

His life had been put into a blender, and set to purée because some political consultant heard a story from an assistant, who heard it from a cameraman, who heard it from an embedded reporter, who was gunning for a Pulitzer. The consultant convinced the congressman that he could be a cause-celeb by championing the anti-war fervor. Re-election was certain if he played his cards right, and followed the consultant’s lead. The consultant planted the seed during a Sunday morning talk show; the talking head took the bait, and ran for a touchdown causing the story to go viral in a matter of two short days. The congressman feigned surprise and outrage. Butch instantly became a pawn in a game that he didn’t know how to play, and didn’t have the resources to compete in. He was a solitary quarterback who had neither the equipment to suit-up, nor a team to support. His opponent was running straight at him to take the ball. The media and certain politicians made him sound inhuman and cruel. Un-American. The Speaker of the House, the Senate Majority Lead, the Attorney General, and the Secretary of Defense all lined up against him. Everyone played an excellent game of political showmanship.

Everyone, that is, except Butch.