Philip Kerr - Gridiron

Coleman tried to ignore the sound of the saw.

'I never eat eggs,' he said quietly. 'I can't stand the smell of them.'

'What a sensitive soul you are.'

'Holy shit,' breathed Bragg. What she saw when she removed the dome had left her feeling astonished for the first time in years.

'What is it?'

'I never did,' she said, grinning excitedly. 'I never did see such a thing.'

'Don't make us beg for it, Janet.'

'Wait just a moment.' She picked up a curved curette and worked it around the inside of Yojo's head before allowing the contents of his skull to fall into her hands.

'What have you got?'

Nathan Coleman stood up and joined Curtis at the side of the autopsy table.

'I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself.'

She laid an object about the size of a tennis ball on to a surgical plate and stood back, shaking her head. The thing was dark, brown and crispy looking, almost as if it had been dipped in hot fat.

'What the fuck is that?' breathed Curtis. 'Some kind of tumour?'

'That's no tumour. What you are looking at, gentlemen, is all that's left of this man's brain.'

'You're shitting me!'

'Take a look inside his skull, Frank. There's nothing else hiding in there.'

'Jesus, Janet,' exclaimed Coleman, 'that thing looks like a goddamned hamburger.'

'A little overdone for my taste,' said Curtis.

Bragg picked up the brain and placed it on the scales. It weighed less than five ounces.

'So what happened to it?' said Curtis.

'I've only ever read about this,' Bragg admitted, 'but I'd say it's more than likely he suffered a massive epileptic fit. There is an extremely rare condition known as status epilepticus . Most epileptic fits last a few minutes, but occasionally they're prolonged more than, say, thirty minutes, or several occur so rapidly that there is no recovery between successive attacks. The brain overworks itself to the extent that it fries itself in the skull.'

'An epileptic fit did this? But what about the ejaculate?'

'A strong electrical excitation of the brain will cause it to experience a quite bewildering series of sensations and emotions, Frank. Erection and orgasm could follow as a corollary of the hypothalamus and nearby septal areas of the brain becoming excited.' Bragg nodded. 'That's what must have happend. Only I never saw one myself, until now.'

Curtis took out his ballpoint pen and poked the cooked brain as if it had been a dead beatle.

' Status epilepticus ,' he said thoughtfully. 'How about that? But what might have caused a fit on this sort of scale? Aren't you curious? You said yourself it's kind of unusual.'

She shrugged.

'It could have been anything. Intercranial tumour, neoplasm, abscess, thrombosis of the superficial veins. He was a computer worker, right?

Well, maybe it was brought on by staring at the monitor screen. That would have done it. Investigate his background. Could be he had some kind of medical condition that he kept quiet about. With the brain in the condition it's in now, I've done all I can. You might as well section shoe leather for all that piece of shit is going to tell us.'

'Natural causes,' said Mitch. 'They just heard from the coroner's office. An epileptic fit. A fairly massive one as it happened. Hideki had a predisposition to epilepsy. He was photosensitive and his seizure was triggered by his computer screen. It seems he actually knew that he should never have gone near a television monitor.' Mitch shrugged. 'But then, what else could you do if computers were your life?'

He had met Ray Richardson on the stairs at the office. Richardson was carrying a large briefcase and a laptop computer and was on his way to LAX. His Gulfstream was waiting to fly him to Tulane, where he was to present the directors of the local university's law school with his design for their new smart faculty building.

'I can understand that,' said Richardson. 'I guess if some doctor told me I should stay away from new buildings I'd ignore him too.'

Mitch nodded thoughtfully, uncertain if he would have thought quite the same way about it.

'Walk down to the car with me, will you, Mitch?'

'Sure.'

Mitch assumed that Richardson's troubled expression related to the tragedy of Yojo's death. But he was only partly correct.

'I want you to speak to our lawyers, Mitch. Tell them what happened to Yojo. You'd better call our insurers too. Just in case some sonofabitch on a contingency decides to try and make a case. Until that building is signed off it's our ass they'll come looking for, not the Yu Corporation.'

'Ray, it was natural causes. There's no way we could be held liable for that.'

'No harm in explaining all the circumstances to an attorney,"

Richardson insisted. 'Yojo was working late, wasn't he? Maybe someone will say that someone else should have stopped him. You see what I'm doing? I'm just trying to think like some fucking asshole of a lawyer here, Mitch. The kind of shit they might try and hit us with. The sort of argument that might make us liable. God, I really hate those bastards.'

'I wouldn't tell that to Tulane Law School,' Mitch advised him.

'Shit, it'd be worth it, though.' He laughed. 'So, make the calls will you, please, Mitch?'

Mitch shrugged. He knew better than to try and argue with

Richardson. But Richardson noted his expression and nodded.

'Look, I know you think I'm being paranoid about this, but I know what I'm talking about. Right now I've got two lawsuits against me. My ex-maid is suing me because of the nervous shock she claims she suffered when I fired her ass for bad time-keeping. A fucking dinner guest at my house is suing me because he claims a fishbone got stuck in his frigging throat. And before you know it Allen Grabel will be trying to cut himself a slice.'

'Grabel? You've heard from him?'

'No, no, I'm talking theoretically. But who's to say he won't try and hit me with constructive dismissal? The guy hates my guts. You should have heard what he said when he left. He told me he wanted to see me dead. I had half a mind to report him to the police. The guy wants to hurt me, Mitch. I'm surprised that I haven't heard from an attorney already.'

They came out the back of the building where the Bentley was waiting. Richardson handed his briefcase and computer to Declan and took off his coat before climbing into the back seat. He did not close the door. That was Declan's job.

'Yojo's funeral is on Friday,' said Mitch. 'At Forest Lawn.'

'I never go to funerals. You know that. Especially in this city. Life's too short as it is. And I don't want anyone else going from the office either. Friday's a work day. Anyone who wants to go can take it as part of their vacation. Send a flower arrangement if you think it's necessary. You can put my name on the card if you like.'

'Thanks Ray, I'm sure he'd appreciate it.'

Richardson was already dialling a number on his portable telephone. As Declan closed the Bentley's door Mitch smiled thinly. He almost wished it was Ray Richardson who was dead. Now there was a funeral people attending would be happy to count as a holiday. The only wonder was that someone had not put out a contract on him. Send an envelope around the office collecting for that particular good cause and you might get several thousand dollars. Hell, someone might even offer to do it for free.

Mitch watched the car disappear. Then he turned and walked to the edge of the terrace. There were days when the smog lay thick across the city like dry ice so that even the distant downtown skyline was covered. But today the air was relatively clear and Mitch could see eight miles across West LA. He could easily distinguish one skyscraper from another: the Arco Towers, the First Interstate, the Microsoft Building, the Crocker Center, the SEGA building, the Library Tower. But there were none of them like the Gridiron. It seemed to have thrust its way out of the ground like some bright and shiny new-born white thing, for some purpose as yet undisclosed to the city's human inhabitants. He felt that the building was something almost mobile and, to that extent, it seemed to express something of the essence of LA: its freedom of movement. Mitch smiled as he tried to recall the copy Joan had written for the lavish silver-coloured book that the firm had produced to promote its own on-going buildings and projects. What was it she said? Usually most of what she wrote was ludicrously grandiloquent. And she was always irritatingly free with the use of the word genius in connection with her husband. But on this occasion one particular hackneyed phrase had struck a chord with Mitch.