Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

"This is very sad," she said. "He was the Durkins only child. Is there any other possible explanation for what happened to him?" she asked.

"Not according to the medical examiner in Florida. The holes of a bone marrow aspiration were present in the bone in each hip."

"How bizarre. Well, I didn't see Lonnie in the office very much. He was seldom sick. But I certainly knew him. Most everyone in the town did. Very sweet boy. I say boy even though he was in his twenties because, as you probably know — "

"I do know," Ben said, sparing her the explanation. "His parents told me you saw him for dizziness."

"Two years ago. Even though I never suspected anything serious, I ordered a routine laboratory panel. The results all came back normal, and his dizziness simply went away. Some sort of virus, I guess."

"The tests were done at Whitestone?"

"Yes. I could have used the hospital lab, but I've found that White stone is just a bit, well, more efficient."

"Do you know the director of the lab?"

"Shirley Murphy. I don't know her well. Single woman with a teenage child — a girl."

"Do you feel comfortable calling her to see if she could meet with me today?"

"Of course, but I suspect you won't have any problem getting in to see her."

"How do you know?"

Christiansen hesitated, smiling enigmatically.

"I see that you don't wear a wedding ring," she said finally.

"Divorced."

"Well, as I said, Shirley is single, and she's educated, and Soda Springs is, well, pretty much of a small, family 'oriented town."

Ben had never been very intuitive or aware when it came to women, but even he could tell that Shirley Murphy was coming on to him. She was an attractive enough woman, about his age, with streaked hair, large breasts, and full hips. However, whether it was the introductory phone call that Marilyn Christiansen made to her, or the way she actually came to work every day, Shirley was wearing some sort of highly aromatic perfume in addition to a great deal of makeup, neither of which he ever found pleasing in any way. Still, as long as she might be of help to him, there was no way he was going to rain on her fantasies.

The real question was how much information to share with her. If she knew anything about what had happened to Lonnie Durkin, or mentioned Ben's visit to someone who did, he would have made a mistake as grave as trying to open the RV door. It was time for some creative flirting, and some creative lying, neither of which he was particularly skilled at. Gratefully, Dr. Christiansen had agreed not to mention his real profession.

"I don't think we needed to concoct too elaborate a story around who you are, Mr. Callahan," she had said when she finished her call to the lab. "It didn't seem like Shirley heard too much beyond the words 'single and 'good-looking. I told her that you came in because of some blurred vision after your auto accident, and mentioned you were interested in the Whitestone lab. How'd I do?"

Murphy's office was tidy and businesslike, with framed French Impressionist prints on the wall, along with some diplomas and two awards for being a Whitestone Laboratories Regional Employee of the Month. The volumes filling the small bookcase didn't look as if they had seen much use.

As the doctor had predicted, Shirley was much more interested in the teller than in the tale.

"I own a small company that does HLA — you know, human leukocyte antigen — typing for transplants," Ben had said, watching her closely for any reaction. "Whitestone is on the verge of buying us out, but keeping me on as director. They want to move our headquarters from Chicago, and one of the places they're considering is Pocatello. Another, from what they told me, is Soda Springs. Something about a smaller town having more employee loyalty and longevity."

"That's certainly a fact. Most of our people have been here since we opened, three years ago. Funny, I haven't heard anything at all about this." "It's only now being made public. I'm sure that after they narrow their choices down to this area, you'll be brought in."

"I suspect you're right," she had said, and that was that.

"So, Ben," she said now, clearly taking pains to hold her shoulders back, her eyes locked tightly on his, and her head at just the right angle, "tell me about Chicago."

"Oh, it's a great city," he replied, wanting to bring the subject back to HLA typing, but not wanting to appear to ignore her. "Vibrant and very alive. Museums, symphony, great music, and of course, Lake Michigan."

"Sounds exciting."

"And romantic. I think you would love it."

"Oh, I definitely think I would, especially with the right guide."

"Perhaps that can be arranged."

"Well…perhaps you'd like a tour of beautiful downtown Soda Springs first. My daughter has cheerleading practice after school and won't be home until six. I think I can get off early. Wait, what am I saying? I'm the boss. I know I can get off early."

"After I finish here I have some calls to make, so I can only say that I'd like a…um…tour very much, but we'll have to see."

The implied promise brought her shoulders back another half inch.

"So, Ben, tell me what I can do to help you learn about our operation. We're doing half again as many tests as the hospital lab and as I said, we've only been open for about three years."

"Only three years. Impressive, very impressive. What do you do with your HLA typing now?"

"To tell you the truth, we don't get much call for it. Transplant candidates from here usually have been worked up in one of the university medical centers. What little we do get, we send out to Pocatello."

"Do you keep a record of those you tissue-type?"

"Not specifically. We do have the capability in our quality control program to pull up a list of those who had a specific test drawn, including tissue-typing, but I'd have to think a bit about sharing our patients names. Oh, heck, I suppose if it's really important to you, Ben, I could make an exception. I mean, you are about to become one of the Whitestone family, so to speak."

She favored him with intense eye contact and an expression that spoke of many long, lonely Idaho nights. He knew that given his imminent position with Whitestone, her willingness to share patient data with him wasn't all that unprofessional, just desperate. She was asking him to take advantage of her. There was strong reason for his wanting to get a printout of those whose blood had been drawn for tissue-typing. Finding Lonnie Durkin on that list would mean that Marilyn Christiansen, for all of her kindly, concerned ways, would have some serious explaining to do. Still…

"Listen, Shirley," he heard his voice saying, "that's really kind of you to offer, but I'll be okay just taking a look around the lab. And about getting together later, I'd love to take you out for dinner and some conversation, but I need to tell you that I've just gotten into a relationship with someone back home that's starting to get pretty serious, so conversation is all I can do."

All right, that's it! If you're going to succeed in this private detective business, no more Rockford reruns or Travis McGee books for you.

Shirley Murphy's expression reflected something other than disappointment. Oddly enough, Ben thought it might be relief.

"Thank you, Ben," she said. "Thank you for being honest with me. Come, let me show you the lab."

As he followed the director around the busy operation, a surprisingly vivid scenario began running through his mind. He was in an ornate courtroom of some sort, pacing back and forth as he cross-examined a fidgeting woman his mind's eye could not see clearly. He felt certain, though, that the woman was Shirley.

Let's assume, he was saying, that Lonnie Durkin would never have been used as the donor in a bone marrow transplant unless his blood had been tissue-typed. And yet…and yet, we must start with the reality that such a transplant did, in fact, take place. Could blood have been drawn on Mr. Durkin without his understanding that it was being done? After all, the man has been acknowledged by his parents and his physician to have been somewhat slow. Perhaps someone drew his blood, then threatened to harm him or his parents if he told anyone it had been done. Does that make sense to you? It sure doesn't to me. Why would they have chosen him in the first place? No, ma'am, it really couldn't have happened that way. The only place it could have happened was right here in -