Robin Cook - Blindsight

As soon as Mike Schneider moved on to other news, Laurie dashed into her living room and literally threw papers aside searching for her address book. Finding Bob Talbot’s number, she punched it into the telephone.

“What did you do to me?” she screamed as soon as he picked up the phone.

“Laurie, I’m sorry,” Bob said. “You must believe me. It wasn’t my fault. To get the story into the morning paper my editor had me write up a memo to him. I wrote that your name was not to be included, but he stole the story from me. It was totally unethical in every regard.”

Laurie hung up the phone in disgust. Her heart was pounding. This was a disaster, a catastrophe. She’d surely be out of a job. There was no question of Bingham’s response now; he’d be furious. And after this, where would she ever find a job in forensics?

Laurie walked over to the window and gazed out at the sad, refuse-strewn warren of neglected backyards. She was so distressed she felt numb. She couldn’t even cry. But as she stood there looking at the depressing vista, her emotions began to change. After all, her actions had come from a need to follow her conscience. And Bingham had admitted, during her call to him yesterday, that he knew her intentions were good.

Laurie’s initial fear of total calamity mellowed. All at once she didn’t think she would be terminated. Reprimanded, yes; suspended, possibly; but fired, no. Turning from the window, she went back into the bathroom to finish her makeup. The more she thought about the situation, the calmer she became. She could see herself explaining that she had been true to her sense of responsibility as a person as well as a medical examiner.

Returning to the bedroom for the last time, Laurie completed her dressing. Then, gathering her things, she left her apartment.

As she was standing at the elevator awaiting its arrival, she noticed a newspaper in front of a neighbor’s door. Stepping over to it, she slipped it from its plastic cover. There on the front page as a second headline was the story of her overdose series. There was even an old picture of her taken in medical school. Laurie wondered where the picture had come from.

Opening the paper to the proper page, Laurie read the first few paragraphs, which were a repeat of Mike Schneider’s summary. But, true to tabloid-style journalism, there was much more lurid detail, including reference to a number of victims having been stuffed into refrigerators. Laurie wondered where that distortion had come from. She certainly hadn’t mentioned anything like that to Bob Talbot. There was also more emphasis on the alleged cover-up, making it sound far more sinister than Mike Schneider had.

Hearing the elevator arrive behind her, Laurie dropped the newspaper in front of the proper door and hurried back before the elevator left. When she was halfway into the car, she heard Debra Engler’s hoarse voice.

“You shouldn’t read other people’s papers,” the woman said.

For a moment Laurie stood holding the insistent elevator door from closing. She wanted to turn around and bash her umbrella against Debra’s door to frighten the woman. But she controlled herself, and finally boarded.

As she descended, Laurie’s calmness crumbled and was replaced by apprehension of meeting with Bingham. Laurie dreaded confrontations. She had never been good at them.

Paul Cerino was hunched over his favorite meal of the day: breakfast. He was enjoying a hearty feast of eggs over easy, pork sausage, and biscuits. He was still wearing the same metal patch over his eye, but he was feeling terrific.

Gregory and Steven were momentarily quiet, eating their own choice of sugar-coated breakfast cereal which they had selected from a bewildering choice of single serving boxes. Each had his own empty box in front of him which he was studying intently. Gloria had just sat down after having retrieved the newspaper from the front stoop.

“Read me about yesterday’s Giants and Steelers game,” Paul mumbled with his mouth full.

“Oh my!” Gloria said, staring at the front page.

“What’s the matter?” Paul asked.

“There’s a story about a bunch of drug deaths of wealthy and educated young people,” Gloria said. “Says here they think they were murders.”

Paul choked violently, spraying most of the food that he’d had in his mouth out over the table.

“Daaad!” Gregory whined. A layer of partially chewed egg and sausage had settled on the surface of his Sugar Pops.

“Paul, are you all right?” Gloria questioned with alarm.

Paul held up a hand to indicate he was fine. His face had become as red as the heeling patches of skin on his cheeks. With his other hand he picked up his orange juice and took a drink.

“I can’t eat this,” Gregory said looking at his cereal. “It’s going to make me puke.”

“I can’t either,” Steven said, who tended to do just about everything Gregory did.

“Get yourselves clean bowls,” Gloria directed. “Then pick another cereal.”

“Better read me that article about the drug deaths,” Paul said with a hoarse voice.

Gloria read the whole article straight through. When she was finished, Paul headed for his den.

“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?” Gloria called after him.

“In a minute,” Paul said. He closed the door of the den behind him and pressed the button on his automatic dialer that would connect him to Angelo.

“Who the hell is this?” Angelo muttered sleepily.

“Did you read this morning’s paper?”

“How am I going to read this morning’s paper? I’ve been sleeping. I was out doing you know what until all hours.”

“I want you, Tony, and that harebrained pill-pusher Travino over here this morning,” Paul said. “And read the paper on the way. We got a problem.”

“Franco!” Marie Dominick said with surprise. “Isn’t this a little early for you?”

“I have to talk with Vinnie,” Franco said.

“Vinnie’s still sleeping,” Marie said.

“I figured he was, but if you could please wake him up-”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Franco said.

“Well, come on in then,” Marie said as she opened the door wide.

Franco stepped inside. “Go on into the kitchen,” Marie said. “There’s coffee already made.”

Marie disappeared up a short flight of steps while Franco wandered into the kitchen. Vinnie’s little boy, Vinnie Junior, was seated at the table. The six-year-old was busy slapping a short stack of pancakes with the back side of a spoon. His older sister, Roslyn, age eleven, was at the stove poised to turn over the next batch of flapjacks.

Franco poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he wandered into the living room and sat on a white leather sofa and gazed at the new peppermint-colored shag carpet. He was amazed. He didn’t think you could buy shag carpet anymore.

“This better be good!” Vinnie thundered as he came into the room. He was dressed in a silky, paisley print robe. His hair, which was normally immaculately slicked back, was virtually standing on end.

Instead of explaining, Franco handed Vinnie the paper. Vinnie grabbed it and sat down. “So what am I supposed to be looking at?” he growled.

“Read the article about drug deaths,” Franco said.

Vinnie’s forehead wrinkled as he read. He was silent for about five minutes. Franco sipped his coffee.

“So what the hell?” Vinnie said, looking up. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. “What the hell are you doing waking me up for this?”

“See those names at the end of the list? Fletcher and the other ones? I followed Angelo and Tony last night. They whacked those people. My guess is that they’ve whacked the whole bunch.”