Robin Cook - Vector

“Hold on,” Randolph said.

Jack turned to Flash with his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Davydov doesn’t sound like any African-American name I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not,” Flash said. “Connie’s husband is a white boy.”

Jack nodded, sensing there was more reason for possible hostility between Flash and Connie’s spouse than the purported history of domestic violence. “Did he get along with the rest of your family?”

“Ha!” Flash voiced contemptuously. “The family wouldn’t talk to either one of them. They didn’t want her to marry him, no way.”

“Okay, I have the folder,” Randolph said into the phone, capturing Jack’s attention. “And I’ve got the PA’s report in front of me.”

“What’s the scoop?” Jack asked.

“The attending doctor, Michael Cooper, gave a diagnosis of status asthmaticus leading to death,” Randolph said. “There was a long history of asthma with hospitalizations and multiple ER visits. She was also grossly obese, which I’m sure didn’t help her breathing when she got into trouble. It also says she had lots of allergies.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Tell me, did you look at the body?”

“Of course I looked at the body!” Randolph was clearly offended by the query.

“In your professional opinion, were there any signs of domestic violence?” Jack asked.

“If there’d been signs of domestic violence I would have done the goddamned autopsy,” Randolph said defensively.

“Any signs of suffocation?” Jack asked. “Like petechial hemorrhages in the sclera. Anything like that?”

“You’re insulting me with such questions,” Randolph shot back.

“How about toxicology?” Jack asked. “Were any samples taken?”

“An autopsy wasn’t done!” Randolph snapped. “We don’t do toxicology on cases we don’t post. Neither do you.”

Randolph disconnected without another word. Jack raised his eyebrows as he hung up the receiver. “Kinda sensitive guy although in his defense my lack of diplomatic skills is legendary. Anyhow, did you hear the other end of that conversation?”

Both Warren and Flash nodded.

“He said there was no sign of domestic violence,” Jack said. “Now he’s not the world’s greatest medical examiner in my opinion, but recognizing domestic violence isn’t that hard even though it can be subtle.”

“Why did you ask about toxicology?” Warren questioned.

“Poisons, things like that are picked up in toxicology,” Jack said. “That kind of stuff goes on.”

Warren looked at Flash.

“Do you want me to continue looking into this?” Jack asked.

Flash nodded. “I’m sure he killed her.”

“After what you just heard, why do you still feel that way?”

“Because she didn’t have no strong history of asthma and allergies.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked with astonishment.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Flash said. “I’m her brother, ain’t I? Hey, she had a little when she was young. But I’m talking about when she was ten. Over the last couple of years I’ve been talking to her at least once a week. She didn’t have no allergies and no asthma.”

“My word,” Jack said. “That puts a new spin on all this.”

“What else can you do?” Warren asked.

“I can call the attending doctor, for one thing,” Jack said. “The doctor that took care of her at the Coney Island Hospital.”

Since Jack had the Yellow Pages open to the hospital section, it was easy for him to get the number. He called and asked for Dr. Michael Cooper to be paged. When he got the man on the line, he went through his usual ME routine of explaining who he was and why he was calling. In contrast to Randolph, Michael was cooperative and not at all defensive.

“I do remember Connie Davydov,” Michael said. “Tough case! She came in essentially moribund. The EMTs described her as very cyanotic when they arrived at her home and barely breathing if at all. She’d collapsed in the bathroom where her husband found her. They gave her oxygen immediately and ventilated her. When she got here to the ER she was acidotic with a CO 2off the chart and low arterial oxygen saturation. The numbers improved with adequate ventilation but her clinical state didn’t. She had no peripheral reflexes, dilated and fixed pupils, and an essentially flat EEG. There wasn’t much we could do.”

“How did her chest sound?” Jack asked.

“By the time she got here, it sounded clear,” Michael said. “But that didn’t surprise us with the low oxygen saturation and the degree of acidosis she had. All her muscles, including her smooth muscles, were essentially paralyzed. Considering her size, she was like a beached whale.”

“Any suggestion of a heart attack?”

“Nope,” Michael said. “The EKG was essentially normal, although the rate was very slow, and there were some changes consistent with her low arterial oxygen.”

“What about stroke?”

“We ruled that out with a CAT scan that was normal,” Michael said. “We also did an LP, and the fluid was clear.”

“Any fever, skin lesions, or other signs of infection?” Jack asked.

“Nothing,” Michael said. “In fact, her temperature was subnormal.”

“And you did get a strong history of asthma and allergies,” Jack said. “How did you get it? Was it through hospital records?”

“No, from the husband,” Michael said. “He was pretty together despite his ordeal and was able to give us a good history.”

Jack thanked the man and hung up. He turned to Warren and Flash. “This is getting more interesting. It doesn’t sound as if the history was corroborated. I think maybe I ought to take a look at Connie.”

“Can you do that?” Warren asked.

“Why not?” Jack said.

Jack went back to the phone to try to get Randolph on the line directly, but no one picked up. Next he tried paging him. When the operator came back to ask who was calling, Jack gave his name and waited again. When the operator returned the second time, she told him that the doctor was busy. Jack left a message that he was on his way over.

“Seems that Dr. Sanders is indulging in a bit of passive-aggressive behavior,” Jack said as he stood up. He picked up his cellular phone and his small camera and pocketed both. “What do you guys want to do? You’re welcome to come along.”

“You want to go?” Warren asked Flash. “I got the time.”

Flash nodded. “I want to see this to the end.”

“How’d you get here to the ME’s office?” Jack asked.

Warren held up an ignition key. “I got my wheels parked right outside on Thirtieth Street.”

“Perfect,” Jack said. “Let’s go!”

They took the elevator down to the basement and were about to exit through the loading dock area when Jack paused.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “Who knows what my reception’s going to be over in Brooklyn. It might be best to bring my own supplies.”

“What kind of supplies you talking about?” Warren asked.

“It’ll take too long to explain,” Jack said. “You guys wait here or out by the car. I’ll be right back.”

Jack detoured into the depths of the morgue, passing the bank of refrigerated compartments where the bodies were stored prior to being autopsied. Conveniently, he ran into Vinnie coming out of the pit. Jack asked the mortuary tech to get him a bunch of sample containers for various body fluids, a mask, rubber gloves, a clutch of syringes, a couple of scalpels, and a nasogastric tube.

“What the hell are you going to do?” Vinnie asked. He eyed Jack suspiciously.

“Probably going to get myself in hot water,” Jack said.

“Are you going out of house?”

“I’m afraid so.”