The fifth vial

CHAPTER 13

There was blood everywhere — splattered across a roadway, exploding from the ground, flowing down his own face. Ben seldom remembered dreams, but he awoke at four thirty in the morning knowing that his fitful night of sleep at the Hooper Springs bed-and-breakfast had been full of very violent ones — a string of macabre scenarios held together by a blood-drenched Winnebago. Sometimes, he was driving, other times it was Vincent, the wrestler-sized denizen of the now extinct Laurel Way garage. Twice during the night Ben woke up in a panic from something in his nightmare, then quickly forgot what it was. Both times, he used the small bathroom and returned to bed, only to immediately become immersed once more in the dream and the blood and the terror.

Finally, he willed the images to be over, turned on the bedside lamp, and propped an old Travis McGee paperback on his chest, trying to make some sense of the lurid dream. When he felt himself drifting off again, he took a long shower and left the bed-and-breakfast for a walk around the still-sleeping town.

How big? he wondered, as he wandered past the sleeping shops and paused briefly by the Soda Springs Apothecary. Assuming that the Winnebago Adventurer was the means by which unwilling donors were brought to anxiously awaiting recipients, how big was the scope of the business?

Just a few more steps brought him to the front of the modest redbrick building that housed the Whitestone Laboratory. In Chicago, it seemed that there was a Whitestone lab on almost every corner. Some of them, like the one he had gone to a few years ago, were no more than phlebotomy centers — blood-drawing offices. The vials of blood were then brought by courier to an area lab where most of the tests were run. The Whitestone lab in Chicago, where he had had his blood taken, was a storefront not five blocks from his office. He remembered Dr. Banks remarking on the speed, efficiency, and dependability of the lab, and also the military like precision with which they had transitioned from a small, little-known operation to, perhaps, the number one clinical laboratory in the world.

Soda Springs, according to the sign west of town, had a population of just more than thirty-three hundred. Apparently that was more than enough for Whitestone. At the moment, the room beyond the plate-glass street-side window was dark, but peering inside, Ben could make out a warm waiting area with several large plants. A police cruiser rolled up the street and slowed enough for the lone occupant to check him over, then smile and wave, before driving on. Ben wondered if someone might have called in about the odd-looking stranger making his way up Main Street through the gloom, in no particular hurry. Welcome to small-town America.

With several hours still to kill before his appointment, he wandered back to his bed-and-breakfast, had a better-than-average breakfast of poached eggs and homemade corned beef hash, and then checked in with his office answering machine.

"Mr. Callahan," a man's deep voice said. "I have been referred to you by Judge Caleb Johnson, who says you're the best detective in the city…"

If Johnson knows who I am, Ben thought, then he's afar better detective than l am.

The voice went on to say that his was a case of possible spousal infidelity, and that there would be millions of dollars hinging on the results of Ben's discreet investigation. Whatever Ben's usual rate, he would triple it in exchange for having this matter be made his top priority.

Triple. Ben did some quick mental math and realized that even if the stalk-and-gawk case resolved quicker than usual, and he suspected that it might not, he would be able to make up several times over for the Organ Guard check he had already nearly spent, or the money he had turned down in the Katherine de Souci case. Triple. The rich bass voice was a ladder out of the deep red hole he was in. Ben hummed a chorus of Prine's "Fish and Whistle."

Father forgive us for what we must do…

For the immediate future, there would be no wolf at his door.

What goes around comes around, he thought, smiling. Bad or good, what goes around comes around.

Dr. Marilyn Christiansen, an osteopathic general practitioner, was a kindly woman in her mid-forties, practicing out of an old Victorian house on the east edge of the town. The antithesis of the always rushed and harried Dr. Banks, she was bereft at learning of the death of Lonnie Durkin, and stunned at the notion of his being used as an unwilling bone marrow donor.

"This is very sad," she said. "He was the Durkins only child. Is there any other possible explanation for what happened to him?" she asked.

"Not according to the medical examiner in Florida. The holes of a bone marrow aspiration were present in the bone in each hip."

"How bizarre. Well, I didn't see Lonnie in the office very much. He was seldom sick. But I certainly knew him. Most everyone in the town did. Very sweet boy. I say boy even though he was in his twenties because, as you probably know — "

"I do know," Ben said, sparing her the explanation. "His parents told me you saw him for dizziness."

"Two years ago. Even though I never suspected anything serious, I ordered a routine laboratory panel. The results all came back normal, and his dizziness simply went away. Some sort of virus, I guess."

"The tests were done at Whitestone?"

"Yes. I could have used the hospital lab, but I've found that White stone is just a bit, well, more efficient."

"Do you know the director of the lab?"

"Shirley Murphy. I don't know her well. Single woman with a teenage child — a girl."

"Do you feel comfortable calling her to see if she could meet with me today?"

"Of course, but I suspect you won't have any problem getting in to see her."

"How do you know?"

Christiansen hesitated, smiling enigmatically.

"I see that you don't wear a wedding ring," she said finally.

"Divorced."

"Well, as I said, Shirley is single, and she's educated, and Soda Springs is, well, pretty much of a small, family 'oriented town."

Ben had never been very intuitive or aware when it came to women, but even he could tell that Shirley Murphy was coming on to him. She was an attractive enough woman, about his age, with streaked hair, large breasts, and full hips. However, whether it was the introductory phone call that Marilyn Christiansen made to her, or the way she actually came to work every day, Shirley was wearing some sort of highly aromatic perfume in addition to a great deal of makeup, neither of which he ever found pleasing in any way. Still, as long as she might be of help to him, there was no way he was going to rain on her fantasies.

The real question was how much information to share with her. If she knew anything about what had happened to Lonnie Durkin, or mentioned Ben's visit to someone who did, he would have made a mistake as grave as trying to open the RV door. It was time for some creative flirting, and some creative lying, neither of which he was particularly skilled at. Gratefully, Dr. Christiansen had agreed not to mention his real profession.

"I don't think we needed to concoct too elaborate a story around who you are, Mr. Callahan," she had said when she finished her call to the lab. "It didn't seem like Shirley heard too much beyond the words 'single and 'good-looking. I told her that you came in because of some blurred vision after your auto accident, and mentioned you were interested in the Whitestone lab. How'd I do?"

Murphy's office was tidy and businesslike, with framed French Impressionist prints on the wall, along with some diplomas and two awards for being a Whitestone Laboratories Regional Employee of the Month. The volumes filling the small bookcase didn't look as if they had seen much use.

As the doctor had predicted, Shirley was much more interested in the teller than in the tale.

"I own a small company that does HLA — you know, human leukocyte antigen — typing for transplants," Ben had said, watching her closely for any reaction. "Whitestone is on the verge of buying us out, but keeping me on as director. They want to move our headquarters from Chicago, and one of the places they're considering is Pocatello. Another, from what they told me, is Soda Springs. Something about a smaller town having more employee loyalty and longevity."

"That's certainly a fact. Most of our people have been here since we opened, three years ago. Funny, I haven't heard anything at all about this." "It's only now being made public. I'm sure that after they narrow their choices down to this area, you'll be brought in."

"I suspect you're right," she had said, and that was that.

"So, Ben," she said now, clearly taking pains to hold her shoulders back, her eyes locked tightly on his, and her head at just the right angle, "tell me about Chicago."

"Oh, it's a great city," he replied, wanting to bring the subject back to HLA typing, but not wanting to appear to ignore her. "Vibrant and very alive. Museums, symphony, great music, and of course, Lake Michigan."

"Sounds exciting."

"And romantic. I think you would love it."

"Oh, I definitely think I would, especially with the right guide."

"Perhaps that can be arranged."

"Well…perhaps you'd like a tour of beautiful downtown Soda Springs first. My daughter has cheerleading practice after school and won't be home until six. I think I can get off early. Wait, what am I saying? I'm the boss. I know I can get off early."

"After I finish here I have some calls to make, so I can only say that I'd like a…um…tour very much, but we'll have to see."

The implied promise brought her shoulders back another half inch.

"So, Ben, tell me what I can do to help you learn about our operation. We're doing half again as many tests as the hospital lab and as I said, we've only been open for about three years."

"Only three years. Impressive, very impressive. What do you do with your HLA typing now?"

"To tell you the truth, we don't get much call for it. Transplant candidates from here usually have been worked up in one of the university medical centers. What little we do get, we send out to Pocatello."

"Do you keep a record of those you tissue-type?"

"Not specifically. We do have the capability in our quality control program to pull up a list of those who had a specific test drawn, including tissue-typing, but I'd have to think a bit about sharing our patients names. Oh, heck, I suppose if it's really important to you, Ben, I could make an exception. I mean, you are about to become one of the Whitestone family, so to speak."

She favored him with intense eye contact and an expression that spoke of many long, lonely Idaho nights. He knew that given his imminent position with Whitestone, her willingness to share patient data with him wasn't all that unprofessional, just desperate. She was asking him to take advantage of her. There was strong reason for his wanting to get a printout of those whose blood had been drawn for tissue-typing. Finding Lonnie Durkin on that list would mean that Marilyn Christiansen, for all of her kindly, concerned ways, would have some serious explaining to do. Still…

"Listen, Shirley," he heard his voice saying, "that's really kind of you to offer, but I'll be okay just taking a look around the lab. And about getting together later, I'd love to take you out for dinner and some conversation, but I need to tell you that I've just gotten into a relationship with someone back home that's starting to get pretty serious, so conversation is all I can do."

All right, that's it! If you're going to succeed in this private detective business, no more Rockford reruns or Travis McGee books for you.

Shirley Murphy's expression reflected something other than disappointment. Oddly enough, Ben thought it might be relief.

"Thank you, Ben," she said. "Thank you for being honest with me. Come, let me show you the lab."

As he followed the director around the busy operation, a surprisingly vivid scenario began running through his mind. He was in an ornate courtroom of some sort, pacing back and forth as he cross-examined a fidgeting woman his mind's eye could not see clearly. He felt certain, though, that the woman was Shirley.

Let's assume, he was saying, that Lonnie Durkin would never have been used as the donor in a bone marrow transplant unless his blood had been tissue-typed. And yet…and yet, we must start with the reality that such a transplant did, in fact, take place. Could blood have been drawn on Mr. Durkin without his understanding that it was being done? After all, the man has been acknowledged by his parents and his physician to have been somewhat slow. Perhaps someone drew his blood, then threatened to harm him or his parents if he told anyone it had been done. Does that make sense to you? It sure doesn't to me. Why would they have chosen him in the first place? No, ma'am, it really couldn't have happened that way. The only place it could have happened was right here in -

Ben's imagined rhetoric was cut off abruptly. He was standing behind Shirley as she was extolling the virtues of a new machine, whose name and function he had missed completely. Over her shoulder, he could see a young technician, slightly built, with a strawberry blond ponytail. She was removing a large number of tubes of blood from a freezer and gingerly placing them into racks in several Styrofoam shipping coolers filled with dry ice.

"That's a wonderful machine, Shirley," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask even the most elementary question about it. "Tell me, what percent of the tests that are ordered do you actually do here, and how much do you end up sending out?"

"Good question. Actually, the equipment has gotten so sophisticated, accurate, and efficient that just a couple of techs can run virtually all the chemistries and hematology we get. We still send the more obscure and difficult to run tests out to the larger, more regional Whitestone labs, and also to specialty labs like yours. But on the whole, what we get in, we run here."

"Excellent. Those tubes that are being handled over there. Are they being sent out for a specific test?"

Murphy laughed.

"When I told you we send some things out, I wasn't talking about that sort of volume."

She took him gently by the arm and guided him over to the tech.

"Sissy, this is Mr. Ben Callahan from Chicago. He owns a lab that does tissue-typing for transplants."

"Hazardous duty," Sissy said, motioning to the bruises still enveloping his eyes.

"Hey," Ben replied with candor he hadn't planned, "you should see the other guy."

"Sissy," Shirley went on, "Mr. Callahan is interested in these vials you're packing up."

"These? They're backups."

"Backups?"

"In case a sample gets contaminated or the results get questioned. Or in case we need to do a retest for any legal reason."

"As far as we know," Murphy added proudly, "Whitestone is the only lab that takes such precautions. Perhaps that's why we're number one by such a wide margin. I'm sure it adds some to the expense of the tests, but from what I've been told, Whitestone covers that and doesn't pass it on to the consumer or their insurance company."

Ben's mind was whirling.

"So every patient you draw has extra tubes of blood frozen and put in storage?"

"Just a green top," Murphy said. "We've been told that thanks to new technology, that's all they need. We draw an average of four vials of blood on each of our clients — red tops, gray tops, purple tops, black tops. The colors of the rubber stoppers refer to the chemicals that are inside the vials. We refer to the green top as the fifth vial, even if we only draw two on a given patient."

"But you have to ship those green tops out?"

"Oh, yes," Sissy said. "We'd run out of room in no time if we didn't. They're flown to a storage facility in Texas."

"And kept there for a year," Shirley added.

"Amazing," Ben muttered, wondering if it was even legal to draw such a tube without the patient's knowledge, and deciding in the same moment that it probably was — so long as the blood was only used for quality control.

Casually, he glanced down at the FedEx shipping label. Whitestone Laboratory, John Hamman Highway, Fadiman, Texas 79249. It was so simple, yet it fit the facts of the case so powerfully. At a lab, possibly in a place called Fadiman, Texas, Lonnie Durkin's tissue type had been run and undoubtedly recorded. Ben wondered if a tube containing his own blood had also made the trip to Fadiman. If so, it seemed quite possible that his and Lonnie Durkin's tissue types were two items in the same database — a very massive database at that.

It took a while, and the promise of dinner on his next visit, for Ben to extricate himself from Shirley Murphy, but when he finally had, he hurried to a phone and called Alice Gustafson with a summary of the news from Soda Springs, and a single question.

"What kind of vial is drawn to do a tissue typing on someone?"

Her reply, though made in a second, seemed to him to take an hour. "That would be a green top," she said.