Mortal Fear

CHAPTER 10

Jason got to the hospital early Monday morning and suffered through rounds. No one was doing well. After he got to his office, he began calling Helene at every spare moment. She never answered. At midmorning he even ran up to the sixth floor lab only to find it dark and deserted. Returning to his office, Jason was irritated. He felt that Helene had been obstructive from the start, and now by not making herself available, she was compounding the problem.

Jason picked up the telephone, called personnel, and got Helene’s home address and phone number. He called immediately. After the phone rang about ten times, he slammed the receiver down in frustration. He then called personnel and asked to speak to the director, Jean Clarkson. When she came on the line, Jason inquired about Helene Brennquivist: “Has she called in sick? I’ve been trying to reach her all morning.”

“I’m surprised,” Ms. Clarkson said. “We haven’t heard from her, and she’s always been dependable. I don’t think she’s missed a day in a year and a half.”

“But if she were ill,” Jason asked, “you would expect her to call?”

“Absolutely.”

Jason hung up the phone. His irritation changed to concern. He had a bad feeling about Helene’s absence.

His office door opened and Claudia stuck her head in. “Dr. Danforth’s on line two. Do you want to talk with her?”

Jason nodded.

“Do you need someone’s chart?”

“No, thanks,” Jason said as he lifted the phone.

Dr. Danforth’s resonant voice came over the line: “I’d say Good Health had better start screening their patients. I’ve never seen corpses in such bad shape. Gerald Farr is as bad as the rest. He didn’t have an organ that appeared less than one hundred years old!”

Jason didn’t answer.

“Hello?” Margaret said.

“I’m here,” Jason said. Once again he was embarrassed to tell Margaret that a month ago he’d done a complete physical on Farr and found nothing wrong despite the man’s unhealthy lifestyle.

“I’m surprised he didn’t have a stroke several years ago,” Margaret said. “All his vessels were atheromatous. The carotids were barely open.”

“What about Roger Wanamaker’s patient?” Jason asked.

“What was the name?” “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The man died on Friday of a stroke. Roger said you were getting the case.”

“Oh, yes. He also presented almost total degeneration. I thought health plans were supposed to provide largely preventive medicine. You people aren’t going to make much money if you sign up such sick patients.” Margaret laughed. “Kidding aside, it was another case of multisystem disease.”

“Do you people do routine toxicology?” Jason asked suddenly.

“Sure. Especially nowadays. We test for cocaine, that sort of stuff.”

“What about doing more toxicology on Gerald Farr? Would that be possible?”

“I think we still have blood and urine,” Margaret said. “What do you want us to look for?”

“Just about everything. I’m fishing, but I have no idea what’s going on here.”

“I’ll be happy to run a battery of tests,” Margaret said, “but Gerald Farr wasn’t poisoned, I can tell you that. He just ran out of time. It was as if he were thirty years older than his actual age. I know that doesn’t sound very scientific, but it’s the truth.”

“I’d appreciate the toxicology tests just the same.” “Will do,” Margaret said. “And we’ll be sending some specimens for your people to process. I’m sorry it takes us so long to do our microscopics.”

Jason hung up and went back to work, vacillating between self-doubt and the discomfiting sense that something was going on that was beyond his comprehension. Every time he got a moment, he dialed Hayes’s lab. There was still no answer. He called Jean Clarkson again, who said that she’d call if she heard from Miss Brennquivist and to please stop bothering her. Then she slammed down the phone. Nostalgically Jason remembered those days when he got more respect from the hospital staff.

After seeing the last morning patient, Jason sat at his desk nervously drumming his fingers. All at once a wave of certainty spread through him, telling him that Helene’s absence was not only significant, it was serious. In fact, he was convinced that it was so serious that he should inform the police immediately.

Jason traded his white coat for his suit jacket, and went to his car. He decided he’d better see Detective Curran in person. After their last encounter, he didn’t think Curran would take him seriously over the phone.

Jason remembered the way to Curran’s office without difficulty. Glancing into the sparsely furnished room, he saw the detective working over a form at his metal desk, his large fist gripping his pencil as if it were a prisoner trying to escape.

“Curran,” Jason said, hoping the man would be in a better mood than he’d been the other night.

Curran glared up. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed, tossing his pencil onto the uncompleted form. “My favorite doctor!” He made an exaggerated expression of exasperation, then waved Jason into his office.

Jason pulled a metal-backed chair over to Curran’s desk. The detective eyed him with obvious misgiving.

“There’s been a new development,” Jason said. “I thought you should know.”

“I thought you were going back to doctoring.”

Ignoring the cut, Jason went on. “Helene Brennquivist hasn’t been at work all day.”

“Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe she’s been sick and tired of you and all your questions.”

Jason tried to hold on to his temper. “Personnel says she’s extremely reliable. She’d never take a day off without calling. And when I tried her apartment, there was no answer.”

Detective Curran gave Jason a disdainful look. “Have you considered the possibility that the attractive young lady might have taken a long weekend with a boyfriend?”

“I don’t think so. Since I saw you I’ve learned she was having an affair with Hayes.”

Curran sat up and for the first time gave Jason his full attention.

“I always felt she was covering for Hayes,” Jason continued. “Now I know why. And I also believe she knows a lot more about his work than she’s saying, and why his places were searched. I think Hayes made a major breakthrough and someone is after his notes—”

“If there was a breakthrough.”

“I’m sure there was,” Jason said. “And it adds to my suspicions about Hayes’s death. It was too convenient.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Hayes said someone was trying to kill him,” Jason said. “I think he made a major scientific discovery and was murdered because of it.”

“Hold on!” Curran shouted, banging his fist on his desk. “The medical examiner determined that Dr. Alvin Hayes died of natural causes.”

“An aneurysm, to be exact. But he was still being followed.”

“He thought he was,” Curran corrected, his voice rising in anger.

“I think he was too,” Jason said with equal vehemence. “That would explain why someone ransacked his apartment and his—”

“We know why his apartment was tossed,” Curran interrupted. “Only we found the drugs and the money first!”

“Hayes may have used cocaine.” Jason was shouting now. “But he wasn’t a dealer! And I think those drugs were planted, and—” He started to mention his conversation with Carol, then stopped. He wasn’t ready to tell Curran that he had persisted in seeing the dancer, “In any case,” he said more quietly, “I think the reason the lab was torn apart was that someone was searching for his lab books.”

“What was that about a lab?” Curran’s heavy-lidded eyes opened wide and his face turned a mottled red.

Jason swallowed.

“Dammit!” Curran yelled. “You mean to tell me Hayes’s lab was tossed and it wasn’t reported? What do you people think you’re doing?”

“The clinic was concerned about negative press,” Jason said, forced to defend the decision he did not condone.

“When did this happen?”

“Friday night.”

“What was taken?”

“Several data books and some bacterial cultures. But none of the valuable equipment. And it wasn’t a robbery.” Jason watched Curran’s hound-dog face for some sign his concern for Helene was vindicated.

“Any damage, vandalism?” was all he said.

“Well, they turned the place upside down and dumped everything on the floor. So the lab was a mess. But the only deliberate destruction involved those, uh, animals.”

“Good,” Curran said. “Those monsters should have been destroyed. They made me sick. How were they killed?”

“Probably poisoned. Our pathology department is checking that out.”

Detective Curran ran his thick fingers through his once-red hair. “You know something?” he asked rhetorically. “With the amount of cooperation I’ve gotten from you eggheads, I’m goddamned glad I turned this case over to Vice. They can have it. Maybe you’d like to go down the hall and rant and rage at them. Maybe they’ll get a charge out of the fact that your mad scientist was humping his lab assistant as well as the exotic dancer—”

“Hayes and the dancer were no longer lovers.”

“Oh, really?” Curran asked with a short, hollow laugh that ended in a belch. “Why don’t you go over to the Vice department and leave me alone, doctor. I have a lot of genuine homicides to ponder.”

Curran picked up his pencil and went back to his forms. Enraged, Jason returned to the ground floor and surrendered his visitor’s pass. Then he went out to his car. Driving along Storrow Drive, with the Charles River lazily spread out on the right, Jason finally began to calm down. He was still convinced something had happened to Helene, but he decided that if the police weren’t concerned, there was little he could do.

He pulled into the GHP parking lot and went back to his office. Claudia and Sally hadn’t returned from their lunch break yet. A few patients were already waiting. Jason changed back to his white coat and called to check on Madaline Krammer’s cardiac consult. Harry Sarnoff had agreed with Jason’s appraisal, and Madaline was having an angiogram.

As soon as Sally returned, Jason went to work seeing his scheduled patients. He was on his third afternoon patient when Claudia ducked into the exam room.

“You have a visitor,” she announced.

“Who?” Jason asked, tearing off a prescription.

“Our fearless leader. And she’s foaming at the mouth. I thought I should warn you.”

Jason handed the prescription to the patient, tossed his stethoscope around his neck, and walked down the corridor to his office. Shirley was standing by the window. The moment she heard Jason she turned to face him. She was without question furious.

“I certainly hope you have a good explanation, Dr. Howard,” she said. “I just got a call from the police. They’re on their way here to get a formal statement on why I didn’t report the break-in of Hayes’s lab. They said they heard about it from you — and they’re threatening obstruction of justice.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jason. “It was an accident. I was at the police station. I didn’t mean to mention it…”

“And just what the hell were you doing down at the station?”

“I wanted to see Curran,” Jason said guiltily.

“Why?”

“There was some information I thought he should have.”

“About the break-in?”

“No,” Jason said, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Helene Brennquivist hasn’t shown up today. I found out that she and Hayes were having an affair, and I guess I jumped to conclusions. The break-in just slipped out.”

“I think it would be best if you stayed with doctoring,” Shirley said, her voice softening a degree.

“That’s what Curran said,” sighed Jason.

“Well,” Shirley said, reaching out and touching Jason’s arm, “at least you didn’t do it on purpose. For a while there I was wondering whose side you were on. I tell you, this Hayes affair has a life of its own. Every time I think the problem is contained, something else breaks.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

“It’s okay. But remember — Hayes’s death is already hurting this institution. Let’s not compound our difficulties,” She gave Jason’s hand a squeeze, then walked to the door.

Jason went back to his patients, determined to leave the investigation to the police. It was nearly four when Claudia interrupted again.

“You have a call,” she whispered.

“Who is it?” Jason asked nervously. The usual modus operandi was for Claudia to take messages and for Jason to return the calls at the end of the day. Unless, of course, it was an emergency. But Claudia didn’t whisper when it was an emergency.

“Carol Donner,” she said.

Jason hesitated, then said he’d take it in his office. Claudia followed, still whispering.

“Is that the Carol Donner?”

“Who is the Carol Donner?”

“The dancer in the Combat Zone,” Claudia said.

“I wouldn’t know,” Jason said, entering his office. He closed the door on Claudia and picked up the phone. “Dr. Howard,” he said.

“Jason, this is Carol Donner. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No bother.” Her voice brought back the pleasant image of her sitting across from him at the Hampshire House. He heard a click. “Just a moment, Carol.” He put the phone down, opened the door, and looked across the room at Claudia. With an irritated expression, he motioned for her to hang up.

“Sorry,” Jason said, returning to the phone.

“I wouldn’t call you unless I.thought it might be important,” Carol said. “But I came across a package in my locker at work. I’m a dancer at the Club Cabaret, by the way….”

“Oh,” Jason said vaguely.

“Anyway,” Carol said, “I had to go in to the club today and I found it. Alvin had asked me to put it in my locker several weeks ago and I’d forgotten all about it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Bound ledgers, papers and correspondence. That type of stuff. There were no drugs, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“No,” Jason said, “that’s not what I was wondering. But I’m glad you called. The books might be important. I’d like to see them.”

“Okay.” Carol said. “I’ll be at the club tonight. I’ll have to think of some way to get them to you. My boss is giving me a lot of trouble about protection. Something weird is going on, which they won’t tell me about, but I’m stuck with this goon following me around. I’d just as soon not involve you in that.”

“Maybe I could come and pick it up?”

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ll tell you what. If you give me your number, I’ll call when I get home tonight.”

Jason gave her the number. “One other thing,” Carol said. “Last night I realized there was something else I didn’t tell you. About a month ago, Alvin said he was going to break up with Helene. He said he wanted her to concentrate on their work.”

“Do you think he told her?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Helene hasn’t shown up for work today.”

“No kidding!” Carol said. “That’s strange. From what I’d heard, she was compulsive. about work. Maybe she’s the reason my boss is acting so crazy.”

“How would your boss know about Helene Brennquivist?”

“He has a great informational network. He knows what’s going on in the whole city.”

Hanging up, Jason pondered the confusing inconsistencies between Carol’s job and her intellectual sophistication. “Informational network” was a computer-age term — unexpected from an exotic dancer.

Going back to his patients, Jason studiously avoided Claudia’s questioning gaze. He knew she was overwhelmingly curious, but he wasn’t about to give her any satisfaction.

Toward the very end of the afternoon, Dr. Jerome Washington, a burly black physician who specialized in gastrointestinal disorders, interrupted Jason, asking for a quick consult.

“Sure,” Jason said, taking him back to his office.

“Roger Wanamaker suggested I speak to you about this case.” He took a bulky chart from under his arm and put it on the desk. “A few more like this and I’m going into the aluminum siding business.”

Jason opened the chart. The patient was male, sixty years old.

“I did a physical on Mr. Lamborn twenty-three days ago,” Jerome said. “The guy was a little overweight, but aren’t we all? Otherwise I thought he was okay and told him so. Then, a week ago, he comes in looking like death warmed over. He’d dropped twenty pounds. I put him in the hospital, thinking he had a malignancy I’d missed. I gave him every test in the book. Nothing. Then three days ago he died. I put a lot of pressure on the family for an autopsy. And what did it show?”

“No malignancy.”

“Right,” Jerome said. “No malignancy — but every organ he had was totally degenerated. I told Roger and he said to see you, that you’d commiserate.”

“Well, I’ve had some similar problems,” Jason said. “So has Roger. To be truthful, I’m worried we’re on the brink of some unknown medical disaster.”

“What are we going to do?” Jerome asked. “I can’t take too much of this kind of emotional abuse.”

“I agree. With all the deaths I’ve had lately, I’ve been thinking of changing professions too. And I don’t understand why we’re not picking up symptoms on our physicals. I told Roger I’d call a meeting next week, but now I think we can’t afford to wait.” An image of Hayes’s blood pumping over the dinner table flashed through Jason’s mind. “Let’s get together tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have Claudia set it up, and I’ll tell the secretaries to put together a list of all the physicals we’ve done over the last year and see what’s happened to the patients.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jerome said. “Cases like this don’t do much for a man’s confidence.”

After Jerome left, Jason went out to the central desk to make plans for the staff conference. He knew that a few people would have to put in some overtime, and he thanked providence for providing computers. There were a few groans when he explained what was needed, including rebooking all the afternoon patients, but Claudia took it on herself to be the ringleader. Jason was confident things would get done as well as the short time would permit.

At five-thirty, after seeing his last patient, Jason tried Helene’s home number. Still no answer. Impulsively, he decided to stop by her apartment on his way home. He looked at the address he’d gotten from personnel and noted she lived in Cambridge on Concord Avenue. Then he recognized the address. It was the Craigie Arms apartment building.

What a coincidence, he thought. Before meeting Danielle he’d dated a girl at the Craigie Arms.

Descending to his car, Jason headed over to Cambridge. The traffic was terrible, but thanks to his familiarity with the area he had no trouble locating the address. He parked his car and went into the familiar lobby. Scanning the names, he found Brennquivist and pressed the buzzer. There was always the outside chance Helene wasn’t picking up her phone, but would respond to the door. There was no answer. Jason looked at the tenant list, but Lucy Hagen’s name was gone. After all, it had been fifteen years.

Instead, he reached for the super’s buzzer and pressed it. A small speaker above the door buzzers crackled to life, and the gruff voice of Mr. Gratz grated out into the tiled foyer.

“There’s no soliciting.”

Jason quickly identified himself, admitting that Mr. Gratz might not remember him since it had been a few years. He said he was concerned about a colleague who was a tenant. Mr. Gratz didn’t say anything, but the door buzzed open. Jason had to run a few steps to get it. Inside, Jason confronted the unmistakable odor, which he’d remembered for fifteen years. It was the smell of grilled onions. A metal door opened down the tiled hall and Mr. Gratz appeared dressed, as always, in a tank-top undershirt and soiled jeans. He sported a two-day growth of beard. He studied Jason’s face, demanded his name again, then asked, “Didn’t you used to date the Hagen girl in 2-J?”

Jason was impressed. The man certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but he apparently had a memory like a steel trap. Jason had gotten to know him because Lucy had chronic problems with her drains and Larry Gratz was in and out of her apartment.

“What can I do for you?” Larry asked.

Jason explained that Helene Brennquivist hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t answering her phone. Jason said he was worried.

“I can’t let you in her apartment.”

“Oh, I understand,” Jason said. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.”

Gratz regarded him for a moment, grunted, then started toward the elevator. He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket that looked adequate enough to open half the doors in Cambridge. They rode the elevator without speaking.

Helene’s apartment was at the end of a long hall. Even before they got to the door; they could hear loud rock and roll.

“Sounds like she’s having a party,” Gratz said. He rang the bell for a full minute, but there was no response. Gratz put his ear to the door and rang again. “Can’t even hear the door chimes,” he said. “Wonder no one’s complained about the music.”

Lifting a hairy fist, he pounded on the door. Finally he selected a key and turned the lock. As the door opened, the volume of the music increased dramatically. “Shit,” Gratz said. Then he yelled, “Hello!” There was no answer.

The apartment had a small foyer with an arched opening to the left, but even from where he stood Jason recognized the unmistakable smell of death. He started to speak, but Gratz stopped him.

“You better wait here,” Gratz said over the pounding music as he advanced toward the living room.

“Oh, Christ!” he shouted a second later. His eyes opened wide as his face contorted with horror. Jason looked between the arch and Larry’s body. The room was a nightmare.

The super ran for the kitchen, his hand clasped over his mouth. Even with his medical training, Jason felt his own stomach turn over. Helene and another woman were side by side on the couch, naked, with their hands tied behind their back. Their bodies had been unspeakably mutilated. A large, stained kitchen knife was jammed into the coffee table.

Jason turned and looked into the kitchen. Larry was bent over the kitchen sink, heaving. Jason’s first response was to help him, but he thought better of it. Instead, he went to the door to the hall and opened it, thankful for the fresh air. In a few minutes Larry stumbled past him.

“Why don’t you go call the police,” Jason said, allowing the door to close behind him. The relative quiet was refreshing. His nausea abated.

Thankful for something to do, Larry ran down the stairs. Jason leaned against the wall and tried not to think. He was trembling.

Two policemen arrived in short order. They were young and turned several shades of green when they looked into the living room. But they set about sealing off the scene and carefully questioning Jason and Gratz. With care not to disturb anything else, they finally pulled the plug on the stereo. More police arrived, including plainclothes detectives. Jason suggested Detective Curran might be interested in the case and someone called him. A police photographer arrived and began snapping shot after shot of the devastated apartment. Then the Cambridge medical examiner arrived.

Jason was waiting in the hall when Curran came lumbering toward Helene’s apartment.

Seeing Jason, he paused only to shout, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jason held his tongue, and Curran turned to the policeman standing by the door. “Where’s the detective in charge?” he snapped, flashing his badge. The policeman jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room. Curran went in, leaving Jason in the hall.

The press appeared with their usual tangle of cameras and spiral notebooks. They tried to enter Helene’s apartment, but the uniformed policeman at the door restrained them. That reduced them to interviewing anybody in the area, including Jason. Jason told them he knew nothing, and they eventually left him alone.

After a while Curran reappeared. Even he looked a little green. He came over to Jason. He took a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and made a production out of finding a match. Finally, he looked at Jason.

“Don’t tell me ‘I told you so,’” he said.

“It wasn’t just a rape murder, was it?” Jason asked quietly.

“That’s not for me to say. Sure, it was a rape. What makes you think it was more?”

“The mutilation was done after death.”

“Oh? Why do you say that, doctor?”

“Lack of blood. If the women had been alive, there would have been a lot of bleeding.”

“I’m impressed,” Curran said. “And while I hate to admit it, we don’t think it was your ordinary loony. There’s evidence I can’t discuss but it looks like a professional job. A small-caliber weapon was involved.”

“Then you agree Helene’s death is tied to Hayes.”

“Possibly,” Curran said. “They told me you discovered the bodies.”

“With the help of the superintendent.”

“What brought you over here, doctor?”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “As I told you, I had an uncomfortable feeling when Helene didn’t show up for work.”

Curran scratched his head, letting his attention wander around the hallway. He took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose. There was a crowd of police, reporters, and curious tenants. Two gurneys were lined up against the wall, waiting to take the bodies away.

“Maybe I won’t turn the case over to Vice,” Curran said at last. Then he wandered off.

Jason approached the policeman standing guard at the door to Helene’s apartment. “I was wondering if I could go now.”

“Hey, Rosati!” yelled the cop. The detective in charge, a thin, hollow-faced man with a shock of dark, unruly hair, appeared almost immediately.

“He wants to leave,” said the cop, nodding at Jason.

“We got your name and address?” Rosati asked.

“Name, address, phone, social security, driver’s license — everything.”

“I suppose it’s okay,” Rosati said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Jason nodded, then walked down the hallway on shaky legs. When he emerged outside on Concord Avenue, he was surprised it had already gotten dark. The cold evening air was heavy with exhaust fumes. As one final slap in the face, Jason found a parking ticket under his windshield wiper. Irritated, he pulled it out, realizing he’d parked in a zone that required a Cambridge resident sticker.

It took much longer for him to return to GHP than it had taken to drive to Helene’s apartment. The traffic on Storrow Drive was backed up exiting at Fenway, so it was about seven-thirty P.M. when he finally parked and entered the building. Going up to his office, he found a large computer printout on his desk listing all the GHP patients who had received executive physicals in the last year, along with a notation of the patient’s current physical status. The secretaries did a great job, Jason thought, putting the printout in his briefcase.

He went up to the floor for inpatient rounds. One of the nurses gave him the results of Madaline Krammer’s arteriogram. All the coronary vessels showed significant, diffuse, nonfocal encroachment. When the results were compared with a similar study done six months previously, it showed significant deterioration. Harry Sarnoff, the consulting cardiologist, did not feel she was a candidate for surgery, and with her current low levels of both cholesterol and fatty acids, had little to suggest with regard to her management. To be one hundred percent certain, Jason ordered a cardiac surgery consult, then went in to see her.

As usual, Madaline was in the best of moods, minimizing her symptoms. Jason told her that he’d asked a surgeon to take a look at her, and promised to stop by the next day. He had the awful sense that the woman was not going to be around much longer. When he checked her ankles for edema, Jason noted some excoriations.

“Have you been scratching yourself?” he asked.

“A little,” Madaline admitted, grasping the sheet and pulling it up as if she were embarrassed.

“Are your ankles itchy?”

“I think it’s the heat in here. It’s very dry, you know.”

Jason didn’t know. In fact, the air-conditioning system of the hospital kept the humidity at a constant, normal level.

With a horrible sense of déjà vu, Jason went back to the nurses’ station and ordered a dermatology consult as well as a chemistry screen that included some forty automated tests. There had to be something he was missing.

The rest of rounds was equally depressing. It seemed all his patients were in decline. When he left the hospital he decided to take a run out to Shirley’s. He felt like talking and she’d certainly made it clear she enjoyed seeing him. He also felt he should break the news of Helene’s murder before she heard it from the press. He knew it was going to devastate her.

It took about twenty minutes before he pulled into her cobblestone driveway. He was pleased to see lights on.

“Jason! What a pleasant surprise,” Shirley said, answering the bell. She was dressed in a red leotard with black tights and a white headband. “I was just on my way to aerobics.”

“I should have called.”

“Nonsense,” Shirley said, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside. “I’m always looking for an excuse not to exercise.” She led him into the kitchen, where a mountain of reports and memoranda covered the table. Jason was reminded of what an enormous amount of work went into running an organization like GHP. As always, he was impressed by Shirley’s skills.

After she brought him a drink, Jason asked if she’d heard the news.

“I don’t know,” Shirley said, pulling off her headband and shaking out her thick hair. “News about what?”

“Helene Brennquivist,” Jason said. He let his voice trail off.

“Is this news I’m going to like?” Shirley asked, picking up her drink.

“I hardly think so,” Jason said. “She and her roommate were murdered.”

Shirley dropped her drink on the couch and then mechanically occupied herself cleaning up the mess. “What happened?” she asked after a long silence.

“It was a rape murder. At least ostensibly.” He felt ill as he recalled the scene.

“How awful,” Shirley said, clutching her hand to her chest.

“It was gruesome,” agreed Jason.

“It’s every woman’s worst nightmare. When did it happen?”

“They seem to think it happened last night.”

Shirley stared off into the middle distance. “I’d better phone Bob Walthrow. This is only going to add to our PR woes.”

Shirley heaved herself to her feet and walked shakily to the phone. Jason could hear the emotion in her voice as she explained what had happened.

“I don’t envy you your job,” he said when she hung up. He could see her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“I feel the same about yours,” she said. “Every time I see you after a patient dies, I’m glad I didn’t go into medicine myself.”

Although neither Shirley nor Jason was particularly hungry, they made a quick spaghetti dinner. Shirley tried to talk Jason into staying the night, but though he had found comfort being with her, helping him to endure the horror of Helene’s death, he knew he couldn’t stay. He had to be home for Carol’s call. Pleading a load of unfinished work, he drove back to his apartment.

After a late jog and a shower, Jason sat down with the printouts of all patients who’d had GHP physicals in the last year. Feet on his desk, he went over the list carefully, noting that the number of physicals had been divided evenly among all the internists. Since the list had been printed in alphabetical order rather than chronologically, it took some time for Jason to realize that the poor predictive results were much more common in the last six months than in the beginning of the year. In fact, without graphing the material, it appeared that there had been a marked increase in unexpected deaths over the last few months.

Taking a pencil, Jason began writing down the unit numbers of the recent deaths. He was shocked by the number. Then he called the main operator at GHP and asked to be connected to Records. When he had one of the night secretaries on the line, he gave the list of unit numbers and asked if the outpatient charts could be pulled and put on his desk. The secretary told him there would be no problem at all.

Putting the computer printout back into his briefcase, Jason took down his Williams’ Textbook of Endocrinology and turned to the chapters on growth hormone. Like so many other subjects, the more he read, the less he knew. Growth hormone and its relation to growth and sexual maturation were enormously complicated. So complicated, in fact, that he fell asleep, the heavy textbook pressing against his abdomen.

The phone shocked him awake — so abruptly that he knocked the book to the floor. He snatched up the receiver, expecting his service. It took another moment before he realized the caller was Carol Donner. Jason looked at the time — eleven minutes to three.

“I hope you weren’t asleep,” Carol said.

“No, no!” Jason lied. His legs were stiff from being propped up on the desk. “I’ve been waiting for your call. Where are you?”

“I’m at home,” Carol said.

“Can I come get that package?”

“It’s not here,” Carol said. “To avoid problems, I gave it to a friend who works with me. Her name is Melody Andrews. She lives at 69 Revere Street on Beacon Hill.” Carol gave him Melody’s phone number. “She’s expecting a call and should just be getting home. Let me know what you think of the material, and if there’s any trouble, here’s my number”—which she recited.

“Thanks,” said Jason, writing everything down. He was surprised how disappointed he felt not to be seeing her.

“Take care,” Carol said, hanging up.

Jason remained at his desk, still trying to fully wake up. As he did so, he realized he hadn’t mentioned Helene’s death to Carol. Well, that might be a good excuse to call Carol back, he reflected as he dialed her friend’s number.

Melody Andrews answered her phone with a strong South Boston accent. She told Jason that she had the package, and he was welcome to come over and get it. She said she’d be up for another half hour or so.

Jason put on a sweater and down vest, left the house, walked down Pinckney Street, along West Cedar, and up Revere. Melody’s building was on the left. He rang her bell, and she appeared at the door in pin curls. Jason didn’t think anyone still used those things. Her face was tired and drawn.

Jason introduced himself. Melody merely nodded and handed over a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It weighed about ten pounds. When Jason thanked her she just shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Returning home, Jason pulled off his vest and sweater. Eagerly eyeing the package, he got scissors from the kitchen and cut the string. Then he carried the package into the den and placed it on his desk. Inside he found two ledgers filled with handwritten instructions, diagrams, and experimental data. One of the books had Property of Gene, Inc. printed on the cover; the other merely the word Notebook. In addition there was a large manila envelope filled with correspondence.

The first letters Jason read were from Gene, Inc., demanding that Hayes live up to his contractual agreements and return the Somatomedin protocol and the recombinant E. coli strain of bacteria that he’d illegally removed from their laboratory. As Jason continued reading, it was apparent that Hayes had a significant difference of opinion concerning the ownership of the procedure and the strain, and that he was in the process of patenting the same. Jason also found a number of letters from an attorney by the name of Samuel Schwartz. Half of them involved the application for the patent on the Somatomedin-producing E. coli and the rest dealt with the formation of a corporation. It seemed that Alvin Hayes owned fifty-one percent of the stock, while his children shared the other forty-nine percent along with Samuel Schwartz.

So much for the correspondence, Jason thought. He returned the letters to the manila envelope. Next he took up the ledger books. The one that had “Gene, Inc.” on the cover seemed to be the protocol referred to in the correspondence. As Jason flipped through it, he realized that it detailed the creation of the recombinant strain of bacteria to produce Somatomedin. From his reading, he knew that Somatomedins were growth factors produced by the liver cells in response to the presence of growth hormone.

Putting the first book aside, Jason picked up the second. The experiments outlined were incomplete, but they concerned the production of a monoclonal antibody to a specific protein. The protein was not named, but Jason found a diagram of its amino-acid sequence. Most of the material was beyond his comprehension, but it was clear from the crossing out of large sections and the scribbling in the margins that the work was not progressing well and that at the time of the last entry, Hayes had obviously not created the antibody he’d desired.

Stretching, Jason got up from his desk. He was disappointed. He had hoped the package from Carol would offer a clearer picture of Hayes’s breakthrough, but except for the documentation of the controversy between Hayes and Gene, Inc., Jason knew little more than he had before opening the package. He did have the protocol for producing the Somatomedin E. coli strain, but that hardly seemed a major discovery, and all the other lab book outlined was failure.

Exhausted, Jason turned out the lights and went to bed. It had been a long, terrible day.