Robin Cook - Blindsight

“Yeah,” Lou said. He stared into his coffee. “I wanted to know if you’d like to grab a bite to eat tonight. I know a great place down in Little Italy on Mulberry Street.”

“I’d like to ask you a question,” Laurie said. “Yesterday you asked if I was married. You never said whether you’re married.”

“I’m not married,” he said.

“Have you ever been married?” Laurie asked.

“Yeah, I was married,” Lou said. “I’ve been divorced for a couple of years. I have two kids: a girl seven and a boy five.”

“Do you ever see them?”

“Of course I see them,” Lou said. “What do you think? I wouldn’t see my own kids? I get ’em every weekend.”

“You don’t have to be defensive,” Laurie said. “I was just curious. Yesterday I realized after you’d left that you’d asked me about my marital status without telling me yours.”

“It was an oversight,” Lou said. “Anyway, how about dinner?”

“I’m afraid I have plans tonight,” Laurie said.

“Oh, fine,” said Lou. “Give me the third degree about my marital and parental status, then turn me down. I suppose you’re seeing the fancy doctor with the roses and the limo. Guess I’m not quite in his league.” He stood up abruptly. “Well, I better be going.”

“I think you’re being overly sensitive and silly,” Laurie said. “I only said I was busy tonight.”

“Overly sensitive and silly, huh? I’ll keep that in mind. It’s been another illuminating morning. Thank you so very much. If you come up with anything interesting on any of the floaters, please give me a call.” With that, Lou tossed his Styrofoam cup into a nearby wastebasket and walked out of the room.

Laurie remained in her seat for a moment, sipping her coffee. She knew that she’d hurt Lou’s feelings, and that made her feel uncomfortable. At the same time she thought he was being immature. Some of that “blue collar” charm she’d noted the day before was wearing thin.

After finishing her coffee, Laurie returned to the autopsy room and her fourth case of the day: Marion Overstreet, aged twenty-eight, editor for a major New York publishing house.

“You want anything special for this case?” Vinnie asked. He was eager to get under way.

Laurie shook her head no. She looked at the young woman on the table. Such a waste. She wondered if this woman would have gambled with drugs if she could have anticipated such a terrible price.

The autopsy went quickly. Laurie and Vinnie worked well together as a team. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The case was remarkably similar to both Duncan Andrews’ and Robert Evans’, down to the fact that Overstreet had injected the cocaine, not snorted it. There were only a few minor surprises that Laurie would have Cheryl Myers or one of the other forensic investigators check out. By twelve forty-five Laurie walked out of the main autopsy room.

After changing to her street clothes, Laurie took it upon herself to carry the specimens from each of the day’s cases to Toxicology. She hoped to have another chat with the resident toxicologist. She found John DeVries in his office eating his lunch. An old-fashioned lunch box with a Thermos built into its vaulted cover was open on his desk.

“I finished the two overdoses,” Laurie said. “I’ve brought up their toxicology samples.”

“Leave the samples on the receiving desk in the lab,” he told her. He held an uncut sandwich in both hands.

“Any luck finding a contaminant in the Andrews case?” she asked hopefully.

“It’s only been a few hours since you were here last. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“As soon as possible,” Laurie encouraged. “I don’t mean to be a bother. It’s just that I’m more convinced than ever that a contaminant of some sort is involved. If there is, I want to find it.”

“If it’s there, we’ll find it. Just give us a chance, for Chrissake.”

“Thanks,” Laurie said. “I’ll try to be patient. It’s just that-”

“I know, I know,” John interrupted. “I get the picture already. Please!”

“I’m out of here,” Laurie said. She put her hands in the air to signify her surrender.

Back in her office, Laurie ate some of the lunch, dictated the morning’s autopsies, and tried to tackle some of her paperwork. She found she couldn’t take her mind off the drug overdose cases.

What worried her was the specter of more cases. If there was some source of contaminated cocaine in the city, it meant there would be more deaths. At this point the ball was in John’s court. There was nothing more she could do.

Or was there? How could she prevent more deaths? The key lay in warning the public. Hadn’t Bingham just lectured her on the fact that they had social and political responsibilities?

With that thought in mind, Laurie picked up the phone and called the chief’s office. She asked Mrs. Sanford if Dr. Bingham might have a moment to see her.

“I believe I could squeeze you in,” Mrs. Sanford said, “but you have to come immediately. Dr. Bingham is due at a luncheon at City Hall.”

When she entered Bingham’s office, she could tell the chief medical examiner was not prepared to give her more than a minute of his time. When he asked her what it was she wanted, Laurie outlined the facts surrounding the three cocaine overdose cases as succinctly as possible. She emphasized the upscale demographics, the fact that none of the victims appeared to have been in the depths of addiction, and that all three had mainlined the drug.

“I get the picture,” Bingham said. “What’s your point?”

“I’m afraid that we are seeing the beginning of a series,” Laurie said. “I’m concerned about a toxic contaminant in some cocaine supply.”

“With only three cases, don’t you think that’s a rather fanciful leap?”

“The point is,” Laurie said, “I’d like to keep it at three cases.”

“An admirable goal,” Bingham said. “But are you certain about this alleged contaminant? What does John have to say?”

“He’s looking,” Laurie said.

“He hasn’t found anything?”

“Not yet,” Laurie admitted. “But he’s only used thin-layer chromatography so far.”

“So I guess we have to wait for John,” Bingham said. He stood up.

Laurie held her seat. Having come this far, she wasn’t about to give up yet. “I was thinking that maybe we should make a statement to the press,” Laurie said. “We could put out a warning.”

“Out of the question,” Bingham said. “I’m not about to gamble the integrity of this office on a supposition based on three cases. Aren’t you coming to me a little prematurely? Why don’t you wait and see what John comes up with? Besides, making that kind of statement would require names, and the Andrews organization would have the mayor at my throat in an instant.”

“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Laurie said.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bingham said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late as it is.”

Laurie was chagrined Bingham didn’t give her suggestion more credence, but without more conclusive proof she could hardly force the issue. She only wished there was something she could do before more of the same kind of overdoses showed up on her schedule.

It was then she had a thought. Her training in forensics in Miami had involved direct on-the-scene investigation. Maybe if she toured any future scenes, some critical clue might present itself.

Laurie went to the forensic medical investigative department, where she found Bart Arnold, chief of the investigators, sitting at his desk. Between two of his innumerable telephone conversations, she told him that she wanted to be notified if any more overdoses were called in that were similar to the three that she had had. She was very explicit. Bart assured her that he’d let the others know, including the tour doctors who took calls at night.