Robin Cook - Vector

1:00 p.m.

Jack tossed aside the textbook on infectious disease that he’d gotten from the library and cursed loudly. He was trying to read more about anthrax. The case of Jason Papparis was still bothering him, but he found concentrating difficult. He swung around and eyed Chet’s empty chair, wondering where his officemate was. Jack was eager to relate his most recent experience confirming his suspicion that women were impossible.

During the night, Jack had awakened to agonize over letting Laurie down by not being more positive about her new boyfriend. Although Jack was well aware that jealousy played a role in his evaluation of the man, he still felt there was something about the individual that he legitimately didn’t care for. As he’d implied to Lou, it involved the overly gallant gesture of sweeping Laurie off to Paris for the weekend. To Jack such behavior smacked of a kind of bribery. In Jack’s experience such men invariably resorted to overt male chauvinism once a relationship was established and the woman was emotionally committed.

Around four o’clock in the morning, Jack decided he’d eat humble pie. Even though it irked him, he resolved to go the whole nine yards and apologize. Then he’d compliment Paul in some way that he’d figure out on the spur of the moment. The decision had taken a number of hours. What had tipped the balance was Jack’s realization of how important Laurie’s friendship was to him.

But things had hardly gone the way Jack envisioned. After doing what he’d resolved to do, Laurie barely accepted his apology before walking off. All morning she’d gone out of her way to avoid him, much less voice any kind of appreciation of his gesture. Jack felt damned either way. She’d been mad because he’d not been complimentary about Paul and now she was mad because he had been. Jack shook his head. He didn’t know what more he could do.

Twisting around in his chair again, Jack reached for his phone. If he couldn’t read about anthrax, at least he could work the phone. Over the previous hour he’d called a half dozen New York hospitals to talk with chief residents in infectious disease or, if the hospital didn’t have one, the chief resident in internal medicine.

When he’d gotten the appropriate individual on the phone, he outlined the case of inhalational anthrax that had come from the Bronx General Hospital and asked if there were any cases in their hospital that might be anthrax. The responses had been uniformly negative, but at least Jack felt he was planting the seed of suspicion with the right people. In that way, if a case did come in or if they had a case undiagnosed, they’d at least think about it. Anthrax was never high on any New York hospital house staffs differential diagnosis list.

The chief resident in infectious disease at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center picked up Jack’s page, and Jack went through his spiel. Although shocked to hear about Mr. Papparis, the resident assured Jack that there was no one in his medical center who’d be considered a candidate for a diagnosis of anthrax.

Jack hung up and looked over to the open page in the yellow telephone directory for the number of another hospital. Before he could dial, the phone rang. He picked it up eagerly. But it wasn’t a resident calling him back with potentially interesting news. It was Mrs. Sanford, the chiefs secretary, with a familiar request. The chief wanted to see Jack ASAP.

Hardly in the mood for bureaucratic nonsense, as Jack termed his frequent run-ins with the front office, he took the elevator down to the first floor. Like a schoolboy expecting to be chastised, he presented himself to Mrs. Cheryl Sanford, who smiled at him and winked. Over the years Jack and Cheryl had become well acquainted, since every time the chief demanded Jack come quickly, Jack invariably had to wait. The time provided an opportunity for friendly conversation.

Jack winked back. It was part of an established method of nonverbal communication the two had evolved. It meant that Jack could relax, since the upcoming confrontation with the chief was procedural only, meaning the chief felt obligated, not motivated, to bawl Jack out for whatever the transgression was.

“How’s that boy of yours?” Jack asked as he sat down on the rock-hard vinyl sofa across from the secretary’s desk. The door to the chiefs office was to Cheryl’s left and it was always ajar. The chief could be heard on the phone.

“Just fine,” Cheryl said proudly. “He’s still getting all A’s in school.”

“Fantastic,” Jack said. By coincidence Jack knew Cheryl’s son, Arnold. Occasionally he played basketball on the same court as Jack. He was a young, tentative player but with obvious natural skill. Cheryl, an African American single mother, lived in a building on 105th Street that Jack could see from his bedroom window.

“He says he hopes to be able to play basketball as well as you some day,” Cheryl said.

Jack let out a derisive laugh. “He’s going to be ten times better than I ever was.” Jack was not exaggerating; Arnold had only recently turned fifteen and yet was a player sought after even by Warren.

“I’d prefer to see him take after your doctoring skills,” Cheryl said.

“He’s expressed some interest,” Jack said. “He and I had a chat last week when we were both waiting to get into the game.”

“He told me,” Cheryl said. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Hey, he’s a nice kid,” Jack said. “It’s a pleasure talking with him.”

At that moment the chief, Dr. Harold Bingham, bellowed for Jack to get the hell into his office.

Jack stood up and headed for the door. As he passed Cheryl’s desk she whispered, “Be nice now! Don’t aggravate him! He’ll be a bear all day.”

The chief was ensconced behind his massive, cluttered desk. He’d just reached his sixty-fifth birthday and looked every bit of it. In the four years Jack had been working at the OCME, Bingham’s bulbous nose had seemingly expanded along with the web of capillaries hugging his nasal alae. Light from the window behind him bounced off his perspiring bald pate to create a glare that made Jack squint.

“Sit down!” Dr. Bingham commanded.

Jack did as he was told and waited. He had no idea what he’d been called down for but knew there were lots of potential topics.

“Don’t you get tired of this routine?” Bingham questioned. He narrowed his rheumy, steel-blue eyes that were unwaveringly studying Jack through wire-rimmed glasses. Although he looked as old as Methuselah, the chief was as sharp as ever and was a veritable walking encyclopedia of forensic data and experience. He was recognized the world over as one of the giants of the field.

“It’s nice to see you once in a while, chief,” Jack said. He winced; he knew by his flippancy he’d already ignored Cheryl’s admonition.

Bingham took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his thick fingers. He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite as sharp as you are, because then I’d know exactly what to do with you.”

“Thank you for the compliment, chief. I needed a little boost today.”

“The problem is, you are one big pain in the ass.”

Jack bit his tongue. A few witty quips came to his mind, but he resisted voicing them in deference to Cheryl. After all, she had to be around Bingham for the rest of the day. Bingham’s temper was almost as legendary as his wealth of forensic knowledge.

“Do you have any idea why you’re down here?” Bingham demanded.

“I refuse to answer on grounds of self-incrimination,” Jack said.

Bingham smiled in spite of himself, but the grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You are a trip, my boy. But listen! I got a call from Dr. Patricia Markham, the Commissioner of Health, a little while ago. Seems you’ve been aggravating the city epidemiologist again, Dr...”