Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

“Why?”

“What about the lacerations of the body?” I said.

“We figure he got those in the apartment. Apparently he had a fight with this girl, Angela Harding. There was a bloody kitchen knife in the apartment. She must have gone after him. Anyway, he fell out of the window or was pushed out. And he got this fracture, which killed him.”

He paused and looked at me.

“Go on,” I said.

“That’s all there is to tell,” he said.

I nodded, left the room, and returned with a needle and syringe. I bent over the body and jabbed the needle into the neck, hoping for the jugular vein. There was no point in fooling with arm veins, not now.

“What’re you doing?”

“Drawing blood,” I said, pulling back the syringe and drawing out several milliliters of bluish blood.

“What for?”

“I want to know whether he was poisoned,” I said. It was the first thought, the first answer, that came into my head.

“Poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think he was poisoned?”

“Just a hunch,” I said.

I dropped the syringe into my pocket and started to leave. Peterson watched me, then said, “Just wait a minute.”

I paused.

“I have one or two questions for you.”

“Oh?”

“The way we figure it,” Peterson said, “this fellow and Angela Harding had a fight. Then Jones fell, and the girl attempted suicide.”

“You already told me that.”

“There’s only one problem,” Peterson said. “Jones is a big fellow. He must have gone one-ninety, two hundred. You think a little girl like Angela Harding could have shoved him out?”

“Maybe he fell.”

“Maybe she had help.”

“Maybe she did.”

He looked at my face, at the bandage covering my cut. “Have some trouble tonight?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I fell on the wet streets.”

“Then you have an abrasion?”

“No. I fell against one of the city’s excellent parking meters. I have a laceration.”

“A jagged laceration.”

“No, quite fine.”

“Like Roman Jones’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ever met Jones before?”

“Yes.”

“Oh? When?”

“Tonight. About three hours ago.”

“That’s interesting,” Peterson said.

“Do your best with it,” I said. “I wish you luck.”

“I could take you in for questioning.”

“Sure you could,” I said. “But on what charge?”

He shrugged. “Accessory. Anything.”

“And I’d have a lawsuit on you so fast your head would swim. I’d have two million dollars out of your hide before you knew what hit you.”

“Just for questioning?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Compromising a doctor’s reputation. A doctor’s reputation is his life, you know. Anything, even the slightest shadow of suspicion, is potentially damaging—financially damaging. I could very easily prove damages in court.”

“Art Lee doesn’t take that attitude.”

I smiled. “Want to bet?”

I continued on. Peterson said, “How much do you weigh, Doctor?”

“One hundred and eighty-five pounds,” I said. “The same as I weighed eight years ago.”

“Eight years ago?”

“Yes,” I said, “when I was a cop.”

MY HEAD FELT AS IF IT WERE IN A VISE. The pain was throbbing, aching, agonizing. On my way down the corridor, I felt sudden and severe nausea. I stopped in the men’s room and vomited up the sandwich and coffee I had eaten. I felt weak, with cold sweat afterward, but that passed and I was better. I went back and returned to Hammond.

“How do you feel?”

“You’re getting monotonous,” I said.

“You look like hell,” he said. “Like you’re about to be sick.”

“I’m not,” I said.

I took the syringe with Jones’ blood from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I picked up a fresh syringe and went.

“Can you find me a mouse?” I said.

“A mouse?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “There are some rats in Cochran’s lab; it may be open now.”

“I need mice.”

“I can try,” he said.

We headed for the basement. On the way, a nurse stopped Hammond to say that Angela Harding’s parents had been called. Hammond said to let him know when they arrived or when the girl recovered consciousness.

We went down to the basement and moved through a maze of corridors, crouching beneath pipes. Eventually we came to the animal-storage area. Like most large hospitals connected with a university, the Mem had a research wing, and many animals were used in experiments. We heard barking dogs and the soft flutter of birds’ wings as we passed room after room. Finally we came to one which said MINOR SUBJECTS. Hammond pushed it open.

It was lined, floor to ceiling, with row after row of rats and mice. The smell was strong and distinctive. Every young doctor knew that smell, and it was just as well, because it had clinical significance. The breath of patients in hepatic failure from liver disease had a peculiar odor known as fetor hepaticus; it was very similar to the smell of a room full of mice.

We found one mouse and Hammond plucked it from the cage in the accepted manner, by the tail. The mouse squirmed and tried to bite Hammond’s hand, but had no success. Hammond set it down on the table and held the animal by a fold of loose flesh just behind the head.

“Now what?”

I picked up the syringe and injected some of the blood from Roman Jones’ body. Then Hammond dropped the mouse in a glass jar.

For a long time, the mouse did nothing but run around the jar in circles.

“Well?” Hammond said.

“It’s your failing,” I said. “You aren’t a pathologist. Have you ever heard of the mouse test?”

“No.”

“It’s an old test. It used to be the only bioassay available.”

“Bioassay? For what?”

“Morphine,” I said.

The mouse continued to run in circles. Then it seemed to slow, its muscles becoming tense, and the tail stuck straight up in the air.

“Positive,” I said.

“For morphine?”

“Right.”

There were better tests now, such as nalorphine, but for a dead person, the mouse test remained as good as any.

“He’s an addict?” Hammond said. Yes.

“And the girl?”

“We’re about to find out,” I said.

She was conscious when we returned, tired and sad-eyed after taking three units [51] A liter and a half. of blood. But she was no more tired than I was. I felt a deep, overpowering fatigue, a kind of general weakness, a great desire to sleep.

There was a nurse in the room who said, “Her pressure’s up to one hundred over sixty-five.”

“Good,” I said. I fought back the fatigue and went up to her, patted her hand. “How are you feeling, Angela?”

Her voice was flat. “Like hell.”

“You’re going to be all right.”

“I failed,” she said in a dull monotone.

“How do you mean?”

A tear ran down her cheek. “I failed, that’s all. I tried it and I failed.”

“You’re all right now.”

“Yes,” she said. “I failed.”

“We’d like to talk to you,” I said.

She turned her head away. “Leave me alone.”

“Angela, this is very important.”

“Damn all doctors,” she said. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone? I wanted to be left alone. That’s why I did it, to be left alone.”

“The police found you.”

She gave a choking laugh. “Doctors and cops.”

“Angela, we need your help.”

“No.” She raised her bandaged wrists and looked at them. “No. Never.”

“I’m sorry, then.” I turned to Hammond and said, “Get me some nalorphine.”