"Ah, yes, the talk of the town. Nasty mistake the man made.
Nasty."
"I'm not so sure it was a mistake."
"Res ipsa loquitur," Subarsky said.
"what does that mean?"
"Roughly, 'the deed speaks for itself."' "David, how would you define death?"
Subarsky scratched at his beard. "The usual, I guess. Cessation of cardiac and neurologic activity-that sort of thing."
"What about all these reports I've been reading of people who had those findings for a time and then woke up?", "I can find you reports of dinosaur sightings in the Grand Canyon," Subarsky said.
"Well, I've been here for hours trying to put together a definition that fits all these reports, and you know what I keep coming up with?
Putrefaction.
That's what."
"If it doesn't rot, it ain't dead. I like it, Najarian. I like it.
Although I can see how it could make for a bit of a space problem from time to time."
"Seriously-"
"Seriously? Well, it seems to me that an M.D. degree and thirteen years of higher education qualifies you to use 'going to rot' as your standard."
"But Reed Marshall used that, and Reed Marshall was wrong."
"A fluke," Subarsky said. "One in a billion.
"I don't think so, David. Because you see, I may have made the same mistake."
Eric pulled out the E.K.G tracings and went over the two cases.
"And where is this John Doe now?" Subarsky asked.
"I don't know. Do you have some time?"
"For you? all the time in the world."
Piece by piece, Eric recounted his meeting with Laura, their visits to the Gates of Heaven and Thaddeus Bushnell, and their close call on the East Boston docks. Subarsky chewed on a pencil as he listened.
When Eric finished, his friend whistled softly.
"You have been into some shit, my man. I'll say that."
"David, I have no idea what's going on, but I think the derelict and Loretta Leone were poisoned."
"How?"
"Accident. Product tampering- Psycho. Define crazy any way You want, and I'll find you someone who fits the bill."
"And you think you stopped too soon in resuscitating the guy who may have, been your new flame's brother?"
"It's possible."
"I don't buy it."
"I don't expect you to, yet. That's what I'm doing here."
"And what have you come up with?"
"Lots of things. But what I keep coming up with is this." Eric slid his notes on tetrodotoxin across. Subarsky scanned them in a minute.
"So," he said, "once again the zombi poison rears its ugly head."
"You know about it?"
"Some. A few years ago there was a flurry of interest in it.
Even a best-selling book. But after a while articles began popping up in the scientific literature refuting most of the methods and claims."
"I know. I've read some of them."
"And you still suspect the drug?"
"Either alone or in some kind of combination.
Can a good toxicologist detect it?"
"Probably."
"What about amanita and aconite?"
"Probably.
"Well then, tomorrow I'm going to the pathology department to see if they can screen Loretta Leone's' blood. Then I think I'll try to set up an appointment with Dr. Darden."
"Ah, yes, White Memorial's resident Haitian.
Good idea."
"If anyone around here would know about the tetrodotoxin myth, he would."
"Agreed. But do you know if he's ever been near Haiti since he came to the States?"
"Actually, I do," Eric said. "There's a clinic in Port-all-Prince that he helped set up. From time to time he takes a resident down with him."
"In that case, he may well be the man who can put you straight."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm no expert in this particular area, but I can't believe any drug could do the things you're concerned about. As an Armenian, you have this overdeveloped, genetically inbred sense of responsibility.
That's what makes you such a terrific doctor. But along with it goes your equally inbred Armenian sense of guilt. And right now, that sense is saying that you might have been able to do something to prevent the death of your friend's brother."
"Well, I've known you for a long time, Eric, and I know that if something wasn't right about that case, you would have spotted it."
"Maybe so," Eric said. "But right now, my inbred Armenian intuition is telling me that I'm onto something."
"In that case, if you need my help in any way, just ask."
Subarsky scratched at his beard for a few seconds and then added,
"However, I am willing to wager a pitcher of Heineken that you are orbiting Mars on this one."
Eric gathered his notes.
"I'll take the bet," he said, "and believe me, I hope you win.
Tomorrow I'll hit Darden, the pathology department, and the County Library. I'll keep you posted."
"Do that," Subarsky said. "Just let me know if I or my trusty computer can be of any assistance. And in the meantime, I'll keep my telescope trained on Mars."
I'm at the hotel. Call if you get in before 10.
If not, call before you go to work in the a.m. Have not been to the — police yet, but plan to do so tomorrow a.m. Hope your library work went well.
Thank you for all you've done.
Love, L.
PS. Refrigerator and cupboards have been restocked. Hope I didn't disturb any great bacteriology experiment by discarding the milk carton.
The note was on Eric's pillow when he arrived home, along with a volume of exquisite photographs entitled Diving Off the Caymans. He flipped through the pages, wondering what it might be like to live in such a place. For so long his life had been on automatic pilot, locked on a single unerring course. Now, there was only uncertainty-uncertainty and a woman.
He set the book aside and spent a few minutes flipping through his notes. He had expected to find Laura waiting in the apartment, and now felt some relief to discover she was not. He had much to work through.
There remained little doubt that the man he had assumed was a derelict, the man he had pronounced dead and sent off to the Gates of Heaven Funeral Home, was Laura's brother. Now there was reason good reason-to believe he should have pressed on with his efforts that day, at least for a while longer.
And although the quality of his patient's life had been a major consideration, Eric knew that his order to stop the resuscitation had been based, at least in part, on his judgment of the value of that life as well. It was a judgment he, like Reed, would have to live with for the rest of his career. it was a bit after ten, so Laura's note left him an out-an excuse to delay sharing his conclusions until morning. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to get it over with, to tell her everything and to hope for her understanding. Both Scott and Loretta Leone.had been somehow poisoned, either by a psycho or an inadvertent exposure to some toxin.
Despite Dave Subarsky's doubts, that much seemed clear to him now.
He hoped Laura would see that although he might have made essentially the same mistake as Reed, the deck had been stacked against them both.
He paced the apartment for a time, wondering if other patients in other settines had suffered fates similar to their two cases. Finally, he called the Carlisle. The phone rang half a dozen times before-it was picked up. No o-the spoke.
'Hello?" he said. "Laura?"
Her sigh was audible.
"Oh, thank God," she said. "Eric, I just got a call from some man who threatened me. All he kept saying was 'It's not over. We want the tape." I screamed at him that I didn't know what he was talking about, but he hung up. I don't know what's going on, but if his aim was to frighten me, he did a very good job "I'll be right over."
"You don't have to do that."