Robin Cook - Blindsight

Bingham put his face in his hands and rubbed, particularly his eyes. When he looked up again at Laurie his eyes were red. “We’re dealing with a lot of bad press about possibly mishandling a Central Park murder case; we’ve got a rash of brutal, professional homicides that are on top of the usual nighttime New York mayhem; and on top of that, you’re in here causing trouble. I don’t believe it, Laurie. Truly I don’t.”

“I want to be allowed to pursue these cases,” Laurie said evenly. “Now there are at least fourteen. Someone has to be looking at the whole picture. I think I’m the person to do it. I’m convinced we’re on the brink of a widespread disaster. If there is a contaminant, and I’m convinced there is, we must issue a public warning!”

Bingham was incredulous. Gazing up at the ceiling and throwing his hands up in the air, he muttered to himself: “She’s been on the staff for about five months and she’s telling me how to run the department.” He shook his head. Then he turned his attention back to Laurie. This time he sounded a lot fiercer.

“Calvin is an able administrator. In fact, he is more than able. He’s excellent. What he says goes. You hear me?! That’s it; the issue is closed.” With that, he turned his attention to the pile of letters stacked in his in-box.

Laurie headed straight for the lab. She decided it was better to keep moving. If she paused to think about these last two interviews, she might do something rash she’d later regret.

She was looking for Peter Letterman but ran into John DeVries instead. “Thanks for putting in a good word for me with the chief,” she said sarcastically. As angry as she was, she couldn’t contain herself.

“I don’t like to be pestered,” John said. “I warned you.”

“I wasn’t pestering,” Laurie snapped. “I was merely asking you to do your job. Have you found a contaminant?”

“No,” John said. He pushed past her without giving her the courtesy of a more detailed reply.

Laurie shook her head. She wondered if her days at the New York Medical Examiner’s Office were numbered.

She found Peter over in the corner of the lab, working on the largest and newest of the gas chromatographs.

“I think you should try to avoid John,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t looking for him,” Laurie answered.

“I haven’t found any contaminant, either,” Peter said. “But I’ve been running samples on this gas chromatograph. It has what they call a “trap.’ If we’re going to pick something up, this is the apparatus that will do it.”

“Keep at it,” Laurie said. “We’re up to fourteen cases now.”

“I did learn something,” Peter said. “As you know, cocaine naturally hydrolyzes to benzoylecgonine, ecgonine methyl ester, and ecgonine.”

“Yes,” Laurie said. “Go on.”

“Each batch of cocaine that is made has a unique percentage of these hydrolysates,” Peter said. “So by analyzing the concentrations, you can make a pretty educated guess as to the origin of the samples.”

“And?” Laurie asked.

“All the samples that I’ve recovered from the syringes have the same percentages,” Peter said. “That means the cocaine has all come from the same batch.”

“Meaning the same source,” Laurie added.

“Exactly,” Peter said.

“That’s what I suspected,” Laurie said. “It’s nice to have it documented.”

“I’ll let you know if I find any contaminant with this machine.”

“Please do,” Laurie said. “If I had proof of a contaminant I think Dr. Bingham would make a statement.” But as she returned to her office, Laurie wondered if she could be sure of anything.

“Don’t hold my arm!” Cerino shouted. Angelo had been trying to guide him through the entrance to Jordan Scheffield’s office. “I can see more than you think I can.” Cerino was carrying his red-tipped cane but wasn’t using it. Tony came in last and pulled the door shut.

One of Jordan’s nurses guided the group down the corridor, making sure that Cerino was comfortably seated in one of the examination chairs.

When Cerino came to Jordan’s office, he did not use the usual entrance, and he bypassed the waiting room altogether. That was the customary modus operandi for all of Jordan’s VIP patients.

“Oh dear!” the nurse said as she eyed Tony’s face. There was a deep scratch that extended down from in front of his left ear to the corner of his mouth. “That’s a nasty cut on your cheek. How’d you get it?”

“A cat,” Tony said, self-consciously putting a hand to his face.

“I hope you got a tetanus shot,” the nurse said. “Would you like us to wash it out?”

“Nah,” Tony said, embarrassed at the attention in front of Cerino.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” the nurse said, heading for the door.

“Gimme a light,” Paul said as soon as the nurse had left the room. Angelo hastily lit Paul’s cigarette, then pulled one out for himself.

Tony found a chair off to the side and sat down. Angelo remained standing a little to Cerino’s left and a little behind. Both he and Tony were exhausted, having been roused out of bed for Cerino’s unexpected doctor’s visit. Both were also still suffering the late effects of the experiences at the last two hits, particularly Angelo.

“Here we are in Disneyland again,” Paul said.

The room stopped and the wall lifted. Jordan was poised at the edge of his office with Cerino’s record in hand. As he stepped forward he immediately smelled the cigarettes.

“Excuse me,” he said. “There is no smoking in here.”

Angelo nervously looked around for someplace to deposit his smoldering cigarette. Cerino grabbed his arm and motioned for him not to move.

“If we want to smoke, we’re going to smoke,” Paul said. “Like I told you when you called me on the phone, Doc, I’m a bit disappointed in you and I don’t mind telling you again.”

“But the instruments,” Jordan said, pointing toward the slit lamp. “Smoke is detrimental to them.”

“Screw the instruments, Doc,” Paul said. “Let’s talk about you blabbing all over town about my condition.”

“What are you talking about?” Jordan asked. He’d known Cerino was angry about something from their phone call. He’d figured it had something to do with the wait for a suitable cornea transplant. But Cerino’s true complaint came as a complete surprise to him.

“I’m talking about a detective by the name of Lou Soldano,” Paul said. “And a broad by the name of Dr. Laurie Montgomery. You talked to the broad, the broad talked to the detective, and the detective came to me. And I’ll tell you something, Doc. It pisses me off. I was trying to keep the details of my little accident a secret. For business purposes, you understand.”

“We doctors sometimes discuss cases,” Jordan said. He suddenly felt very warm.

“Give me a break, Doc,” Paul said derisively. “I hear this supposed colleague is a medical examiner. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead yet. And if you two had been consulting for some strange reason, she wouldn’t have blabbed to a homicide detective. You’ll have to give me a better explanation than that.”

Jordan was at a loss. He couldn’t think of any plausible excuse.

“The bottom line, Doctor, is that you haven’t respected my confidentiality. Isn’t that the fancy word you doctors use? The way I understand it, I could go to a lawyer and slap a malpractice suit on you, couldn’t I?”

“I’m not sure…” Jordan couldn’t even complete a phrase. He was instantly aware of his legal vulnerability.

“Now I don’t want to hear any of your double-talk,” Paul told him. “I probably won’t go to a lawyer. You know why? I have lots of friends who are cheaper than lawyers and a hell of a lot more effective. You know, Doc, my friends are kind of like you: specialists for kneecaps, leg bones, and knuckles. I can just imagine what it would do to your practice if you happened to have your hand crushed by a car door.”