“Why ‘for now’—will his options be better later?”
“Sure,” he said. “Prosthetic technology’s always advancing. Today’s prostheses — including the i-Hand — are controlled by consciously twitching various muscles in the arm. It works, but it’s an extra step. Think about it: When you want to pick up a glass of water, you don’t have to tell your muscles, ‘Arm, extend. Now stop. Fingers and thumb, contract.’ Your brain thinks, ‘I want a drink,’ and all the other steps follow automatically. Right now the Pentagon’s putting a lot of R&D money into developing hands and arms that’ll be wired into the brain like that. So a year or two from now…”
“Might be too long for Dr. Garcia to wait,” I finished. “There’s nothing else on the market now you’d recommend above the i-Hand?”
“For his left hand, that’s about as good as it’ll get. For his right, a toe-to-thumb transplant is probably the way to go. Have you heard of it?” I nodded. “It’s an autograft, not an allograft — the toe comes from his own body, not a deceased donor’s — so there’s no risk of tissue rejection. And it doesn’t burn any bridges to do the procedure, apart from making one of his feet look a little odd.”
“But for his left hand, you’d recommend the i-Hand?” I pulled up in front of Engineering — housed in a modern building that put Anthropology’s makeshift quarters to shame — where two of the Biomedical Engineering faculty awaited Faust at the curb.
He hesitated. “I’m not the doctor or the patient here, so I’m in no position to say. Any advice I offered would be worth exactly what you paid for it. Maybe less.”
“But if you were the patient,” I persisted, “what would you do, knowing what you know?”
“Knowing what I know?” He gave a slight, enigmatic smile as he opened the door and got out. “Knowing what I know, I’d get an i-Hand, and I’d get it pretty damn quick.”
CHAPTER 10
The ground-floor door of the stadium stairwell banged shut, and thirty seconds later the second-floor door, just outside my office, noisily followed suit. The maintenance department still hadn’t fixed the hydraulic mechanism, and my M&M’s were long since gone.
This time the nearer slam was followed by a brisk knock on my door. Unlike the slam, the knock startled me. The identity of the two people in my doorway startled me even more. Angela Price was a supervisor in the Knoxville field office of the FBI, and Ben Rankin was an agent I knew from a case involving murder and corruption by officers in the Cooke County Sheriff’s Office. Rankin’s undercover investigation of a massive cockfighting ring in Cooke County had earned him the colorful nickname “Rooster,” and it fit: He was a small man with a big strut, like a bantam fighting bird.
Rooster’s boss and I had gotten off to a frosty start in the Cooke County case. I’d contacted Price when it appeared that the sheriff might be shielding a murderer, but she initially treated me as a meddler. Our professional relationship later thawed, but it had never entirely warmed. I was all the more surprised, therefore, when she smiled as she reached out to shake my hand. “Dr. Brockton, so good to see you. I hope we’re not catching you at a bad time.”
I’d been just about to devour a sandwich, because I’d skipped breakfast and was feeling ravenous. The thought of postponing my lunch gave me a pang of disappointment that was nearly as sharp as my pangs of hunger. “It’s a great time, Agent Price,” I fibbed.
“Please,” she said, “call me Angela.”
I nearly laughed at the irony of that. Shortly after we’d met, I’d said almost the same thing to her: “You can call me Bill.” Her response at the time had been a curt, “You can call me Special Agent Price.”
I smiled and bowed slightly, acknowledging the compliment she was paying by finally allowing the first-name collegiality. Nevertheless, I remained apprehensive. “And what brings y’all deep into the bowels of Neyland Stadium today, Angela?” My fear was that they were bringing bad news about Isabella, or maybe unhappiness about the way I’d handled things in the Oak Ridge case. My stomach rumbled with a mixture of hunger and anxiety.
She held up a finger to pause the conversation, then eased my office door closed and spoke in a lower voice. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us with an investigation.” She smiled nervously.
I felt a measure of relief, and the next growl from my stomach was just plain hunger. “I’m always glad to help the Bureau,” I said, and I meant it. “Is there something you need me to look at? A body? Some bones?”
“Not exactly,” she said. Her nervous smile now gave way to a look of frank discomfort. “Actually, we need some bones and bodies from you.”
I looked from her to Rankin and back again; neither of the agents seemed inclined to explain. “I’m not sure I follow,” I said. “We’ve already planned this year’s evidence-recovery class, and if I remember right, we’re providing three bodies this time.” Every spring, new members of FBI Evidence Recovery Teams from around the country came to the Body Farm for a week of training in unearthing buried bodies and finding scattered bones. “Are you talking about that, or do you need another training in addition?”
“No, it’s not a training. It’s more complicated than that.” She looked at Rankin and nodded.
Rankin cleared his throat slightly. “Dr. Brockton, I know I don’t need to tell you this,” he began, “but the human body can be remarkably useful even after death.”
“Indeed it can,” I said. “It’s kept me gainfully employed for decades now. And it’s landed me in this lavish office.” I made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the battered filing cabinets, the ancient desk, the filthy windows, and the grimy trusswork that supported the stadium.
“Good one.” He smiled mirthlessly, then went back to his briefing. “There are roughly thirty thousand organ transplants every year in the U.S. — kidneys, hearts, lungs, liver, pancreas.”
I couldn’t resist tweaking him. “Me, I’m on the list for a brain transplant,” I deadpanned.
This time he didn’t even pretend to smile. Instead he fired back, “And who could be more deserving?” I had to laugh; he’d skewered me with my own joke. Price shot him a reproving look, though, so he got back to business. “Right. Of the thirty thousand organs transplanted, about three-fourths — roughly twenty-two thousand — come from deceased donors.”
“Kinda hard for a living donor to give somebody a heart,” I pointed out. Now Price shot the reproving look at me. “Sorry,” I said. “Please go on. I’ll quit interrupting.”
“Thanks,” he said. “As you probably know, the demand for donated organs far exceeds the supply. Over a hundred thousand people nationwide are on the waiting list for organ transplants; some of them will die before a matching donor is found for them. Almost half the kids who need transplants never get a matching donor in time.”
For once I had a legitimate reason to interrupt. “There was a movie about that a few years ago, wasn’t there? About a dad who takes everybody in a hospital hostage so he can force them to give his son a new heart?”