Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

"I understand you haven't called an attorney," he said. "Do you wish to call one now?"

"Am I under arrest?" she asked.

"Not at the moment."

"Then I'm free to go at any time?"

He paused and looked at Lundquist, who shrugged. "This is only a preliminary investigation."

"Do you think I need an attorney, Detective?"

Again Katzka hesitated. "That's really your decision, Dr. DiMatteo."

"Look, I walked in here on my own. I did it because I wanted to

HARVEST

talk to you. To tell you what happened. I've willingly answered all this man's questions. If you're putting me under arrest, then yes, I'll call an attorney. But I want to make it clear from the start that it's not because I've done anything wrong." She looked Katzka in the eye. "So I guess my answer is, I don't need an attorney."

Again Lundquist and Katzka exchanged glances, their meaning unclear to her. Then Lundquist said, "She' s all yours, Slug," and he moved off into a corner.

Katzka sat down at the table.

"I suppose you're going to ask all the same questions he did," said Abby.

"I missed the beginning. But I think I've already heard most of your answers."

He nodded at the mirror in the far wall. It was a viewing window, she realized. He'd been listening to the session with Lundquist. She wondered how many others were standing behind that glass, watching her. It made her feel exposed. Violated. She shifted her chair, turning her face away from the mirror, and found she was now gazing directly at Katzka.

"So what are you going to ask me?"

"You said you think someone is setting you up. Can you tell us who?"

"I thought it was VictorVoss. Now I'm not so sure."

"Do you have other enemies?"

"Obviously I do."

"Someone who dislikes you enough to murder your patient? Just to set you up?"

"Maybe it wasn't murder. That morphine level was never confirmed."

"It has been. Mrs Allen was exhumed a few days ago, at the request of Brenda Hainey. The Medical Examiner ran the quantitative test this morning."

Abby absorbed his information in silence. She could hear the tape recorder, still whirring. She sank back in her chair. There was no question now. Mrs Allen had died of an OD.

"A few days ago, Dr. DiMatteo, you told me you were being followed by a purple van."

"Maroon," she whispered. "It was a maroon van. I saw it again, today."

"Did you get a licence number?"

"It was never close enough."

"Let me see if I understand this correctly. Someone administers a morphine overdose to your patient, Mrs Allen. Then he — or she — plants a vial of morphine in your locker. And now you're being followed around town by a van. And you think these incidents were all engineered by Victor Voss?"

"That's what I thought. But maybe it's someone else."

Katzka sat back and regarded her. His look of weariness had spread to his shoulders, which were now slumped forward. "Tell us about the transplants again."

"I've already told you everything."

"I'm not entirely clear how it's connected to this case."

She took a deep breath. She'd gone over this already with Lundquist, had told him the whole story of Josh O" Day and the suspicious circumstances of Nina Voss's transplant. Judging by Lundquist's uninterested response, it had been a waste of time. Now she was expected to repeat the story, and it would be a waste of more time. Defeated, she closed her eyes. "I'd like a drink of water."

Lundquist left the room. While he was gone, neither she nor Katzka said a word. She just sat with her eyes closed, wishing it were all over. But it would never be over. She would be in this room for eternity, answering the same questions forever. Maybe she should have called an attorney after all. Maybe she should just walk out. Katzka had told her she was not under arrest. Not yet.

Lundquist returned with a paper cup of water. She drank it down in a few gulps and set the empty cup on the table.

"What about the heart transplants, Doctor?" prodded Katzka. She sighed. "I think that's how Aaron got his three million dollars. By finding donor hearts for rich recipients who don't want to wait their turn on the list."

"The list?"

She nodded. "In this country alone, we have over five thousand people who need heart transplants. A lot of them are going to die, because there's a shortage of donor hearts. Donors have to be young and in previously good health — which means the vast majority of donors are trauma victims with brain death. And there aren't enough of those to go around."

"So who decides which patient gets a heart?"

"There's a computerized registry. Our regional system is run by New England Organ Bank. They're absolutely democratic. You're prioritized according to your condition. Not your wealth. Which means if you're way down the list, you have a long wait. Now let's say you're rich, and you're worried you'll die before they find you a heart. Obviously, you'll be tempted to go outside the system to get an organ."

"Can it be done?"

"It would have to involve a shadow matchmaking service. A way to keep potential donors out of the system and funnel their hearts directly to wealthy patients. Or there's even a worse possibility." "Which is?"

"They're generating new donors."

"You mean killing people?" said Lundquist. "Then where are all the dead bodies? The missing persons reports?"

'! didn't say that's what's happening. I'm just telling you how it could be done." She paused. '! think Aaron Levi was part of it. That might explain his three million dollars."

Katzka's expression had scarcely changed. His impassivity was beginning to irritate her.

She said, more animated now: "Don't you see? It makes sense to me now, why those lawsuits against me were dropped. They probably hoped I'd stop asking questions. But I didn't stop. I just kept asking more and more. And now they have to discredit me, because I can blow the whistle on them. I could ruin everything."

"So why don't they just kill you?" It was Lundquist asking the question in a plainly sceptical tone of voice.

She paused. "I don't know. Maybe they don't think I know enough yet. Or they're afraid of how it'd look. So soon after Aaron's death." "This is very creative," said Lundquist, and he laughed.

Katzka lifted his hand in a terse gesture to Lundquist to shut up. "Dr. DiMatteo," he said, "I'll be honest with you. This is not coming across as a likely scenario."

"It's the only one I can think of."

"Can! offer one?" said Lundquist. "One that makes perfect sense?" He stepped towards the table, his gaze onAbby. "Your patient Mary Allen was suffering. Maybe she asked you to help her over the edge. Maybe you thought it was the humane thing to do. And it was humane. Something any caring physician would consider doing. So you slipped her an extra dose of morphine. Problem is, one of the nurses saw you do it. And she sends an anonymous note to Mary Allen's niece. Suddenly you're in trouble, and all because you were trying to be humane. Now you're looking at charges of homicide. Prison time. It's all getting pretty scary, isn't it? So you cobble together a conspiracy theory. One that can't be proved — or disproved. Doesn't that make more sense, Doctor? It makes more sense to me."

"But that's not what happened."

"What did happen?"

"I told you. I've told you everything-'

"Did you kill Mary Allen?"

"No." She leaned forward, her hands clenched in fists on the table. "I did not kill my patient."

Lundquist looked at Katzka. "She's not a very good liar, is she?" he said, and he walked out of the room.

For a moment neither Abby nor Katzka spoke. Then she asked, softly. "Am I under arrest now?"

"No. You can leave." He rose to his feet.

So did she. They stood looking at each other as though neither one of them had quite decided that the interview was over. "Why am I being released?" she asked. "Pending further investigation."