Робин Кук - Brain

Scanning the crowd for Werner, Philips was shocked to see him immediately to his left. He was holding a mug of beer and smiling to a blond secretary. Philips pulled his hat a little lower on his head.

“What do you do?” asked the secretary, shouting to be heard over the din of voices.

“I’m a doctor,” said Werner. “A pathologist.”

“Really,” said the secretary, obviously impressed.

“It’s got its good and bad points,” said Werner. “I usually have to work late, but maybe you’d like to have a drink sometime.”

“I’d love it,” shouted the woman.

Martin pushed up to the bar wondering if the girl had any idea what she was getting herself into. He ordered a beer, and worked his way over to the back wall, where he found a spot from which he could observe Werner. Sipping his drink, Martin began to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. After all his years of education, he was in a singles bar in the middle of the night, following a bizarre individual who looked frighteningly normal. In fact, when Philips glanced around he was impressed with how easily Werner merged with the businessmen and lawyers.

After taking the secretary’s phone number, the diener polished off his beer, gathered his belongings, and caught another cab on Third Avenue. Martin had a short argument with his taxi driver about following, but it was solved by a five-dollar bill.

The ride passed in silence. Philips watched the city lights until they were blurred by an abrupt downpour. The cab’s windshield wipers hurried to keep ahead of the rain. They crossed town on Fifty-seventh; went diagonally north on Broadway from Columbus Circle, then turned onto Amsterdam Avenue. Philips recognized Columbia University when they passed it on the left. The rain let up as suddenly as it had started. On One-hundred-forty-first they turned right, and Philips sat forward and asked what section of town they were in. “Hamilton Heights,” said the driver, turning left on Hamilton Terrace, and then slowing down.

Ahead, Werner’s taxi stopped. Philips paid his fare and got out. Although the cityscape on Amsterdam Avenue had deteriorated as they’d gone north, Philips now found himself in a surprisingly attractive neighborhood. The street was lined with quaint town houses whose varying facades reflected about every architectural school since the Renaissance. Most of the buildings clearly had been renovated, others were in the process. At the end of the street, facing down Hamilton Terrace, Werner entered a white limestone-fronted building whose windows were surrounded with Venetian Gothic decoration.

By the time Philips got to the building, the lights had gone on in the third-floor windows. Up close, the town house was not in such good condition as it appeared from afar, but its shoddiness did not detract from its overall effect; it gave Philips a feeling of tarnished elegance, and he was impressed by Werner’s ability to provide for himself.

Entering the foyer, Philips acknowledged that he was not going to be able to surprise Werner by knocking directly on his door. As in Denise’s apartment, there was a locked foyer with individual buzzers to the various apartments. Helmut Werner’s name was third from the bottom.

Putting his finger on the buzzer, Philips hesitated, not sure if he wanted to go through with the whole thing. He wasn’t even sure what he should say, but the thought of Kristin Lindquist gave him courage. He pressed the button and waited.

“Who is it?” Werner’s voice, laden with static, issued from a tiny speaker.

“Dr. Philips. I’ve got some money for you, Werner. Big money.”

There was a moment or two of silence and Martin could feel his pulse.

“Who else is with you, Philips?”

“No one.”

A raucous buzz filled the once sumptuous foyer and Philips pushed through the door. He headed up the stairs for the third floor. Behind the sole door he could hear multiple locks being released. The door opened slightly so that a sliver of light cut across Philips’ face. He could see one of Werner’s deeply set eyes looking at him. The brow was raised in apparent surprise. A chain was then removed and the door swung open.

Martin stepped briskly into the room, forcing Werner to back up to avoid a collision. In the center of the room Martin stopped.

“I don’t mind paying, my friend,” he said with as much assertiveness as he could muster. “But I want to find out what happened to Lisa Marino’s brain.”

“How much you willing to pay?” Werner’s hands were opening and closing rhythmically.

“Five hundred dollars,” said Philips. He wanted the amount to sound enticing without being ridiculous.

Werner’s thin mouth pulled back in a smile so that deep lines appeared in his hollow cheeks. His teeth were small and square.

“Are you sure you’re alone?” asked Werner.

Philips nodded.

“Where’s the money?”

“Right here.” Philips patted his left breast.

“All right,” said Werner. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” said Philips.

Werner shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a long story.”

“I got the time.”

“I was just going to eat. You want to eat?”

Philips shook his head. His stomach was a tense knot.

“Suit yourself.” Werner turned and with his characteristic gait, went into the kitchen. Philips followed, allowing himself a quick glance at the apartment. The walls were some sort of red velvet, the furniture Victorian. The room had a sleazy, heavy elegance, which was enhanced by the low-level illumination coming from a single Tiffany lamp. On the table was Werner’s briefcase. A Polaroid camera, which had apparently been in the case, lay next to it, along with a stack of photos.

The kitchen was a small room with a sink, a tiny stove, and a refrigerator, the likes of which Martin hadn’t seen since his childhood. It was a porcelain-surfaced box with a cylindrical coil on top. Werner opened the refrigerator and removed a sandwich and a bottled beer. From a drawer beneath the sink, he got an opener and removed the cap from the beer, putting the opener back where he got it.

Holding up the beer, Werner said, “Would you care for a drink?”

Philips shook his head. The diener came out of the kitchen and Philips backed up. At the dining-room table Werner pushed his briefcase and Polaroid to one side, motioning Martin to sit. The diener took a long draught of beer, then burped loudly as he set the bottle down. The longer he delayed, the less confident Philips felt. He had lost his initial advantage of surprise. To keep his hands from trembling, he put them on his knees. His eyes were glued to Werner, watching every move.

“Nobody can live on a diener’s salary,” said Werner.

Philips nodded, waiting. Werner took a bite of his sandwich.

“You know I come from the old country,” said Werner with his mouth full, “from Rumania. It’s not a nice story because the Nazis killed my family and took me back to Germany when I was five years old. That was the age I started handling corpses in Dachau...” Werner went on to tell his story in grisly detail, how his parents had been killed, how he’d been treated in the concentration camps, and how he was forced to live with the dead. The gruesome story went on and on and Werner did not spare Martin a single repulsive chapter. Philips tried on several occasions to interrupt the ghastly tale, but Werner persisted and Philips felt his fixity of purpose melt like wax before a hot coal.

“Then I came to America,” said Werner, finishing his beer with a loud sucking sound. He scraped back his chair and went into the kitchen for another. Philips, numb from the story, watched him from the table. “I got a job with the medical school in the morgue,” yelled Werner as he opened the drawer beneath the sink. Below the bottle opener were several large autopsy knives Werner had spirited out of the morgue when autopsies were still done on the old marble slab. He grasped one of them, and point first, slid the knife up inside the left sleeve of his jacket. “But I needed more money than the salary.” He opened the beer bottle and replaced the opener. Closing the drawer, he turned and came back toward the table.