Robin Cook - Blindsight

Laurie’s thoughts drifted back to Mary O’Connor. She suddenly remembered what she’d been trying to think of earlier. The abrasions on the lip, the florid petechiae, and the face’s deep purple discoloration suggested “burking,” the suffocation by compressing the chest while occluding the mouth.

With that thought in mind, Laurie phoned down to the autopsy room and asked for Paul.

“I’ve had a thought,” Laurie said once he was on the line.

“Shoot,” Paul said.

“What do you think about burking as a possible cause of death in the O’Connor case?”

Her suggestion was met with silence.

“Well?” Laurie questioned.

“The victim was in Manhattan General,” Paul said. “She was in a private room in the Goldblatt wing.”

“Try to forget where she was,” Laurie said. “Just look at the facts.”

“But as forensic pathologists we’re supposed to take the scene into consideration. If we didn’t, we’d misdiagnose tons of cases.”

“I understand that,” Laurie said. “But sometimes the scene can be misleading. What about homicides set up to look like suicides?”

“That’s different,” Paul said.

“Is it?” Laurie questioned. “Anyway I just wanted you to give burking some thought. Think about the lip abrasion, the petechiae, and the amount of congestion of the face and the head.”

As soon as Laurie put down the receiver, the phone rang. It was Jordan.

“I’m glad you called,” Jordan said. “I was about to call you. I’m up in surgery and I only have a second. I’ve got a number of cases, including, you’ll be glad to hear, Mr. Paul Cerino.”

“I am glad-” Laurie said.

“And I have a favor to ask,” Jordan said, cutting Laurie short. “In order to get Cerino on the schedule, I’ve had to do some juggling. So I’m going to be stuck here until late.

Could we take a raincheck on our dinner plans? How about tomorrow night?”

“I suppose,” Laurie said. “But Jordan, I have some things I have to talk to you about now.”

“Make it fast,” Jordan said. “My next patient is already in the operating room.”

“First, about Mary O’Connor,” Laurie said. “She had heart disease.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jordan said.

“Do you know anything about her personal life?”

“Not much.”

“What would you say if I told you she’d been murdered?”

“Murdered!” Jordan sputtered. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know,” Laurie admitted. “But if you told me she had twenty million dollars and was about to cut her wicked grandson out of her will, the possibility of murder might enter into my thinking.”

“She was well-off but not wealthy,” Jordan said. “And do I have to remind you that you were supposed to make me feel better about her death, not more uneasy?”

“The doctor who did her autopsy is convinced that she died from heart disease,” Laurie said.

“That’s better,” Jordan said. “Where did this murder question originate?”

“My fertile imagination,” Laurie said. “Plus some other rather startling news. Are you sitting down?”

“Please, Laurie, no games. I was due in the OR ten minutes ago.”

“Do the names Henriette Kaufman and Dwight Sorenson mean anything to you?” Laurie questioned.

“They’re two of my patients. Why?”

“They were your patients,” Laurie said. “They were both killed last night along with their spouses. Their autopsies are going on as we speak.”

“My God!” Jordan said.

“And that’s not all,” Laurie said. “The night before last three other patients of yours were murdered. All of them were shot in a manner that suggests an organized-crime connection. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“Oh, my God,” Jordan said. “And Paul Cerino was in my office threatening me just this morning. This is a nightmare.”

“How did he threaten you?” Laurie asked.

“I don’t even want to discuss it,” Jordan said. “But he’s quite angry with me and I’m afraid I have you to thank.”

“Me?”

“I wasn’t going to bring this up until we got together,” Jordan said, “but now that we’re on the subject-”

“What?”

“Why did you tell a detective Soldano about my treating Cerino?”

“I didn’t think it was a secret,” Laurie said. “After all, you talked about it at my parents’ dinner party.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jordan said. “But how did you happen to tell a homicide detective of all people?”

“He was here observing autopsies,” Laurie said. “Cerino’s name came up in relation to some homicides: several gangland-style execution victims pulled out of the East River.”

“Oh, boy,” Jordan said.

“I’m sorry to be the Greek messenger with all this bad news.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jordan said. “And I guess I’m better off knowing. Thankfully I’ll be doing Cerino this evening. At this point the sooner I get rid of him the better.”

“Just be careful,” Laurie said. “Something strange is going on. I’m just not sure what.”

Jordan didn’t need Laurie to remind him to be careful, not after Cerino’s threat to crush his hands. And now this news that five of his patients had been murdered and another one dead, possibly also murdered. It was too much.

Preoccupied with this bizarre yet terrifying set of circumstances, Jordan got up from the chair in the surgical lounge of the Manhattan General Hospital and traipsed into the OR. He wondered if he should go to the police and tell them about Cerino’s threat. Yet if he did go to the police, what would they do? Probably nothing. What would Cerino do? Probably what he threatened. Jordan shivered with fear at the thought and wished that Cerino had never walked through his door.

As he scrubbed his hands, Jordan tried to think of why five and possibly six of his patients would be killed. And what about Marsha? But try as he might, he couldn’t think of a reason. Holding his hands in the air, he pushed into the operating room.

Surgery for Jordan was a cathartic experience. He was relieved to be able to lose himself in the exacting procedure of a corneal transplant. For the next few hours he completely forgot about threats, mob hits, Marsha Schulman, and unsolved homicides.

“Wonderful job,” the junior resident commented after Jordan had finished.

“Thank you,” Jordan said. He beamed. Then, to the nursing staff, he added: “I’ll be in the surgical lounge. Let’s turn the room around as soon as possible. The next case is one of my VIPs.”

“Yes, your Highness,” the scrub nurse teased.

Walking back to the surgical lounge, Jordan was glad that Cerino was next. He just wished it was already over. Although complications were rare for Jordan, they did occur. He shivered to think of the consequence of a postoperative infection: not for Cerino, for himself.

Gripped by his scary thoughts, Jordan was oblivious of his surroundings. And when he sank into one of the armchairs in the lounge and closed his eyes he hadn’t noticed the man sitting directly across from him.

“Good afternoon, Doctor!”

Jordan opened his eyes. It was Lou Soldano.

“Your secretary told me you were up here,” Lou said. “I told her it was important that I talk with you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Jordan sat bolt upright and his eyes nervously darted around the room. He knew Cerino had to be close, probably in the holding area at that moment. And that meant that the tall gaunt fellow would be around someplace. Cerino had insisted on it, and the administration had agreed. Jordan did not relish the idea of Cerino’s man seeing him with Lou Soldano. He didn’t want to be forced to explain it to Cerino.