I gave him a skeptical look.
“No, really,” he insisted. “It still makes me madder than hell to think how shamefully my Aunt Jean’s body was treated and how hurtful that was to my Uncle Edgar. I figure most funeral homes and crematories are honest and respectful. But I also figure it’s healthy for those to see why it pays to stay honest and respectful.”
“Like the instructive example of a public flogging, back in the good old days?”
“Something like that,” he said. “But instead of the lash, it’s the law, and instead of blood flowing, it’s money. And instead of the cobblestoned public square, it happens in the marbled and paneled courtroom.”
“Or the glass-walled office tower,” I said, “with the art deco lamps and the tennis-racket chairs.”
“There, too,” he said.
CHAPTER 15
I was just pulling in to the parking lot for a noon session with Dr. Hoover when my cell phone rang with a call from the bone lab. “Miranda, is that you?”
“It’s me.” Her voice sounded glum.
“What’s wrong?”
“Carmen Garcia just called. Eddie got some bad news this morning from the orthopedist.”
“What kind of bad news?”
“It’s about the i-Hand. He can’t get fitted with one next week after all.”
“Why not? When can he get it?”
“Maybe never. The i-Hand’s just been taken off the market.”
I was stunned by that news, but even more stunned by what she went on to tell me.
“The company that makes it was bought yesterday by OrthoMedica for ninety million dollars, and OrthoMedica announced today they’re suspending sales until further notice. Here, listen, this is from their press release: ‘We will continue to provide parts and service to patients already fitted with an i-Hand prosthesis, but we believe that our next-generation bionic hand, currently in development, offers sufficient advances to warrant Ortho Medica’s full, undivided attention.’ What do you suppose that means?”
I had a sinking feeling, and the words “revenue stream” were part of the weight pulling me under. “I suppose,” I said, “it means that OrthoMedica bought out the competition in order to kill it.” I thought back to my conversation with Glen Faust. What was it he’d said when I asked his advice about the i-Hand? I’d tell your friend to get an i-Hand, and get it pretty damn quick.
I’d planned to spend my therapy session with Dr. Hoover making peace with the idea that somewhere out there Isabella was running from the FBI, nursing burned hands, and heaving her way through a trimester of morning sickness. Now, instead of peacemaking, I spent my fifty minutes warring against the injustice of the universe — a universe that seemed to be dealing from a deck stacked mercilessly against the Garcias. My own troubles seemed, for the moment at least, comparatively minor, and as I drove back to campus, I offered up prayers — I wasn’t sure to whom or to what — on behalf of Eddie and his family.
Parking beside the stadium and drawing a deep breath to reorient myself, I headed into the Anthropology office. Peggy glanced up at me, then back down at her computer, then up at me again, sharply this time. “You look terrible,” she said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry, nothing personal. You just look…tired? Worried? Sick?”
“So many wonderful choices,” I said. “Don’t you want to add ‘clinically depressed’ or ‘terminally ill’ or something equally cheerful?”
“No, none of those. But crabby, maybe.” She scrutinized me further. “Yes, crabby. Definitely crabby.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, surprised to find that I actually did feel relieved by this milder diagnosis. “Since I appear likely to pull through, I suppose I should ask if I’ve got any messages?”
“Two,” she said. “The dean called; he wonders if you can meet with him Thursday to go over the budget numbers.”
“Not again,” I groaned. “Okay, now I feel tired, worried, and clinically depressed. What else? The IRS called to say my tax returns are about be audited?”
“Do they call? I thought they indicted first and asked questions later. Actually, the other call was from Dr. Garcia.”
“Dr. Garcia?” I was suddenly on high alert, given what Miranda had relayed. “What did he say? How’d he sound? When did he call?”
“About ten minutes ago. He sounded pretty chipper, actually — not crabby, like some people I could name. He asked if you were in, and when I said you were at lunch, he said, ‘I hope his lunch tastes better than mine. The medical care at the hospital is superb, but the food is not superb.’ Then he asked me to have you call him when you get a chance.”
Feeling my heart rate slow to something approximating normal, I stepped through the doorway that led from Peggy’s office to my administrative office, the one where I scheduled meetings with peeved professors and stressed-out students. As a general rule, I preferred to make calls from the office at the other end of the stadium, but I didn’t want to delay my call to Eddie by the five minutes it would take to walk there. Dialing the number at UT Hospital I’d long since learned by heart, I drummed my fingers through one ring, two, three. “Seven West,” answered a familiar voice.
“LeeAnn?”
“Yes, this is LeeAnn. Who’s this? Oh, Dr. Brockton, is that you? Hi there.”
“Hi, LeeAnn. You’ve got a good ear.”
“Well, you have called a few million times this past month. What can I do for you?”
“Dr. Garcia called me a few minutes ago. Can you transfer me to his room?”
“Sure, hang on.”
After two rings I heard the hollow background sound of the hands-free speakerphone Eddie used.
“Hello, Eddie. Miranda tells me you got some bad news today.”
“The i-Hand. Yes, it’s disappointing, without a doubt. But that’s not why I’m calling you. I wonder if you can do a large favor for me.”
“Of course. How can I help?”
“By performing an autopsy for me.”
“An autopsy? Eddie, I’m not a pathologist.”
“I realize this, of course. But you taught anatomy when you were in graduate school, yes?”
“Yes. For two years.” I had mentioned my teaching assistantship once, in passing, during a conversation shortly after Garcia and I had met. I was surprised he remembered it. “But that was a long damn time ago, Eddie. A pathology resident would be much better qualified, I’m sure.” The phone fell silent except for the tinny background noise.
“Of course. I understand, Bill. I did not mean to impose.” He suddenly sounded defeated, and I wished I could take back my words. In my rush to downplay my own abilities, I’d failed to consider how difficult it must have been for him to ask for help with an autopsy he was no longer capable of doing himself. He could have let one of the contract M.E.’s handle the case. After all, for the past two months his caseload — dozens of unattended deaths and even several murders — had been farmed out to contract pathologists or sent to the state M.E.’s office in Nashville. He’d finally been ready to take a step toward returning to work, and I’d failed to recognize the significance of what he’d asked of me.
“Eddie?”
I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. If not for the background noise, I’d have thought he’d hung up. Finally: “Yes, Bill?”
“You’re not imposing, Eddie. That’s not it. I just don’t want to let you down. If you think you can guide me through it — if you trust me not to make a mess of things — I’d be honored to help.” The phone fell silent again, and I hoped what I’d said wasn’t too little, too late.
“How many years since you were in graduate school, Bill?”