Robin Cook - Blindsight

“I don’t like surprises from doctors,” Cerino warned. “I don’t understand this second waiting period. Are you sure this eye you operated on is doing OK?”

“It’s doing beautifully,” Jordan assured him. “No one could have done better, believe me.”

“If I didn’t believe you I wouldn’t be laying here,” Cerino said. “But if I’m doing this good and if I got to wait for a few days what am I doing in this depressing room. I want to go home.”

“It’s better that you stay. You need medication in your eye. And should any infection set in-”

“Anybody can put a couple of drops in my eyes,” Paul said. “With all that’s happened, my wife Gloria has gotten pretty good at it. I want out of here!”

“If you are determined to go, I can’t keep you,” Jordan said nervously. “But at least be sure to rest and stay quiet.”

Three quarters of an hour later an orderly pushed Cerino to Angelo’s car in a wheelchair. Tony had already moved the Town Car to the curb in front of the hospital’s entrance. He had the engine idling.

Cerino had paid his hospital bill in cash, a feat that had stunned the cashier who was on duty. After a snap of his boss’s fingers, Angelo had peeled hundred-dollar bills off a big roll he had in his pocket until he’d surpassed the total.

“Hands off,” Cerino said when Angelo tried to help him out of the wheelchair when it reached the side of the car and the orderly had activated the wheel brakes. “I can do it myself. What do you think I am, handicapped?” Cerino pushed himself into a standing position and swayed for a moment getting his considerable bulk directly over his legs.

He was dressed in his street clothes. Over his operated eye he had a metal shield with multiple tiny holes.

Slowly he eased himself into the front passenger seat. He allowed Angelo to close the door for him. Angelo got in the backseat. Tony started driving, but as he reached the street he misjudged the curb. The car bounced.

“Jesus Christ!” Cerino yelled.

Tony cowered over the steering wheel.

They drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway. Cerino became expansive.

“You know something, boys,” Cerino beamed, “I feel great! After all that worry and planning, it finally happened. And as I told the doc, it wasn’t half bad. Of course I felt that first needle stick.”

Angelo cringed in the backseat. He’d been squeamish about going into the operating room from the start. When he’d seen Jordan direct that huge needle into Cerino’s face, just below the eye, Angelo had almost passed out. Angelo hated needles.

“But after the needle,” Cerino continued, “I didn’t feel a thing. I even fell asleep. Can you believe that? Can you, Tony?”

“No, I can’t,” Tony said nervously.

“When I woke up it was done,” Cerino said. “Jordan might be an ass, but he’s one hell of a surgeon. And you know something? I think he’s smart. I know he’s practical. We might very well go into business, he and I. What do you say about that, Angelo?”

“An interesting idea,” Angelo said without enthusiasm.

7:45 a.m., Saturday

Manhattan

Since it was Saturday, Laurie did not set her alarm. But she woke up before eight anyway, again troubled by her nightmare about Shelly. Vaguely she wondered if it would help if she were to see someone professional.

Despite not being on call, Laurie had decided to go into the office. Her intentions notwithstanding, she’d not been productive with her work the previous evening after Lou had dropped her off. Wine and work did not mix well with Laurie.

Emerging from her building, Laurie was pleasantly surprised to find a crisp fall day. The sun had already taken on its weak winter look, but the sky was clear and the temperature moderate. Being a Saturday, the traffic and its resultant exhaust was minimal on First Avenue, and Laurie enjoyed the walk up to Thirtieth Street.

As soon as she arrived, Laurie went straight to the ID office to check on that day’s cases. She was relieved to see there were no new candidates for her overdose series. The schedule was filled with the usual Friday-night homicides and accident cases reflecting a normal night of murder and mayhem in the Big Apple.

Next Laurie headed for the toxicology lab. She was relieved she wouldn’t have to dodge John DeVries. He certainly wouldn’t be in on a Saturday. She was pleased to find hardworking Peter at his usual spot in front of the newest gas chromatograph.

“Nothing yet along the lines of a contaminant,” Peter told her, “but with that huge new sample I got yesterday, we might be in luck.”

“What kind of sample?” Laurie asked. “Blood?”

“No,” Peter said, “pure cocaine taken from the gut.”

“Whose gut?” Laurie asked.

Peter checked the specimen tag before him. “Wendell Morrison. One of Fontworth’s cases from yesterday.”

“But how did he get a sample from the gut?”

“I can’t help you there,” Peter said. “I have no idea how he got it, but by giving me as much as he did, it makes my job considerably easier.”

“I’m glad,” Laurie said, puzzled by this unexpected bit of news. “Let me know what you find.”

Laurie left the toxicology lab and went to her office. After finding his number in the office directory, she called George Fontworth at home. He answered on the second ring; Laurie was relieved not to have awakened him.

“Don’t tell me you’re in the office,” he said when he heard who it was.

“What can I say?” Laurie said.

“You’re not even on call,” George said. “Don’t work so hard. You’ll make the rest of us look bad.”

“Sure,” Laurie laughed. “I’m not impressing anyone around here. You know what Calvin told you: you weren’t even supposed to talk with me yesterday.”

“That was kinda stupid,” George agreed. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m curious about the first case you did yesterday,” Laurie said. “Wendell Morrison.”

“What do you want to know?” George asked.

“Toxicology told me that you had given them a cocaine sample from the deceased’s gut. How did you come by that?”

“Dr. Morrison took the drug orally,” George said.

“I thought you told me both your cases mainlined it,” Laurie said.

“Only the second case,” George said. “When you asked me the route of administration, I thought you were only referring to that one.”

“All of my cases took the drug IV, but one of Dick Katzenburg’s took it orally only after trying to take it IV.”

“Same with Dr. Morrison,” George said. “His antecubital fossae looked like pincushions. The guy was overweight and his veins were deep, but you’d think a doctor would have been a bit better at venipuncture.”

“There was still a lot of cocaine in the gut?” Laurie asked.

“A ton,” George said. “I can’t imagine how much the guy ate. Part of the gut was infarcted where the cocaine had closed down the blood supply. It was just like one of those cocaine “mule’ cases where the condoms break in transit.”

“Was there anything else of note?”

“Yes,” George said. “He had a CVA from a small aneurysm. It probably burst during a seizure.”

Before Laurie hung up she told George about the little bit of tissue she’d taken from beneath Julia Myerholtz’s fingernail and sent up to the lab.

“I hope you don’t mind my butting in on your case,” Laurie said.

“Hell no,” George said. “I’m just embarrassed I missed it. With the way she had excoriated herself, I should have looked under her nails.”

After wishing George a good weekend, Laurie finally settled down to her paperwork. But as she experienced lately, she couldn’t take her mind off the troubling aspects of her overdose series. Despite her conversation with Lou, some of the details of the Myerholtz case continued to bother her.