A single shot to the head had sent Iffy to the hereafter.
Ben always carried a small jar of Vicks VapoRub in his jacket. As Iffy thawed he made use of it.
“Looks simple enough.”
Lyle, gloves on, carefully inspected the wounds. The gun had been placed at her right temple. The bullet exited on the other side of her head. “True, but my father used to say, ‘Suspect a trap where the sand is smoothest.’”
Tattoo markers dotted the left side of Iffy’s chest where radiation had been administered, square blocks within. Any physician or cancer patient would recognize the markers.
“I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” said Ben.
“Even though she’s missing part of her skull where the bullet exited, how do you know she wasn’t slowly poisoned? She could have shot herself in despair over her sickness. You never know until the evidence is in. Every autopsy is a detective story.” Lyle’s black eyes met Ben’s. “Were these more primitive times, if I didn’t have a state lab at my disposal, slow though it is, I’d go with cause of death is gunshot. Not self-inflicted. No powder burns. Her arms are short. She couldn’t have held the gun far enough away to produce this wound. If you’re going to do yourself in, you put the muzzle smack up to your temple or your mouth. She was murdered.”
“I figure Saturday night, early Sunday morning.” Ben was a good judge of a corpse’s condition and the time it took to reach that condition relative to season. “Thirty-six. Suffering from lung cancer.”
Lyle nodded then said, “Well, I’ll start in. If I find anything unusual, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks for coming in. I know this isn’t your regular day.”
“I teach only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Friday’s no problem. I’ll get right to work.”
Three hours later, Ben’s cell phone beeped. “Sheriff Sidell? Lyle here.”
“Yes.” An expectant note rang in Ben’s voice.
“Iffy Demetrios did not have lung cancer. When I found no tumors, to be certain I sectioned out quite a bit of both lungs. This isn’t to say there might not be a cancer cell that the lab will pick up, but you said she had lung cancer. I found no evidence of disease in her lungs.”
A long, long pause followed. “Lyle, that’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard in this new year.”
Within fifteen minutes, Ben stood in front of Jason Woods. As it was his office day, Jason had graciously agreed to see the sheriff immediately.
“You treated Iphigenia Demetrios for lung cancer. Correct?”
“I did. She was responding beautifully. We caught it early.”
“May I see her records?”
Jason balked for a moment, then said, “Under normal circumstances one must ask the patient or next of kin.”
“These aren’t normal circumstance.” Ben’s voice conveyed authority.
“Of course.” Jason buzzed his secretary, who brought in a color-coded file. “Let’s start with the x-rays.” Without being asked, Jason walked to a wide metal file cabinet and pulled open a drawer much like those used in graphic arts businesses. Flipping through large manila envelopes, he pulled out Iffy’s and then put it up on the light box. “Note the small but discernible mass right here, lower portion.”
“Yes. I see it.”
“This was the first x-ray. Naturally, I ran a battery of tests, although I’ve seen enough of these to feel I can recognize a malignant tumor. Still, one must be prepared for the anomaly.” He pulled out another x-ray. “Here is the lung after her last series of treatments.”
“Which were?”
“The first protocol involved radiation and chemo. The side effects troubled her. Once started, you must finish the exact number of treatments. She did. In view of her adverse reaction, I gave her more time to regain strength. Three months later she submitted again to radiation and chemo. I do the treatments here, which makes it much easier for the patient. This is the result.” He pointed to the area where the tumor had originally been diagnosed. It had vanished.
“Remarkable.”
“Like I initially said, early detection was critical. However, each day we make progress. As you may know, this is the third most common form of cancer. I’m proud of my success rate, and apart from aggressive treatment I think putting a patient on the chemo IV here in more pleasant surroundings raises a patient’s spirits. I’m involved with them. My nurses offer support. It makes a huge difference.”
“What are the odds of the lung cancer returning?”
“Well”—Jason stroked his chin—“the rule of thumb is if it doesn’t recur in five years, you’re home free. My feeling is the cancer may not return to the original site. It can migrate. Sometimes a tumor will send out seeds, if you will. The patient celebrates the five-year mark, yet three years after that the cancer manifests itself in a new site. We know when a patient comes in that if the cancer has metastasized into the lymph nodes that’s usually the end of the journey. What we don’t know is why some tumors create other cancers in other parts of the body and some don’t. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t know if we can conquer cancer, say in the way we have conquered TB. But we may advance to where cancer is a chronic condition that can be managed. A patient can enjoy a good life.”
“Did you think Iffy was cured?”
“Yes, of the tumor.” A troubled pause followed. “She had other complications.”
“Oh?” Ben found medicine fascinating.
“Her platelets were higher than they should have been. That raised my suspicions that some cancer cells had established themselves elsewhere, but her tests were clean.” He pointed to her bulging chart. “After her first round of chemo and radiation, she experienced trouble walking. Occasionally, radiation creates neurological side effects. Sometimes the side effect doesn’t go away when the patient recovers. It’s rare, but it does happen.” He paused. “Granted, in time her legs might have become stronger, but that’s one of the reasons I kept running tests on her. She wasn’t bouncing back as fast as I’d hoped. If she was on her feet too long she’d become fatigued.”
“What about drugs? They can cause odd responses in some people.”
“Illegal, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Clean.” He rustled through her folder, plucked out a sheet, and showed Ben Iffy’s latest blood tests, pointing to the bar graphs on the page from the lab. “Clean as a whistle.”
“What about alcohol?”
“She drank socially, but here”—Jason pointed to that test result—“within the boundary. Iffy was a challenge.”
“Could some of her behavior have been psychologically motivated? Some kind of neurosis?”
Jason shook his head, a light smile on his lips. “That’s not my field, Sheriff. Was she insane? No. Was she moody, erratic, cantankerous? All the time.”
“Some of that could be a result of her medications, you think?”
“When she was undergoing chemo and radiation, yes. After she recovered, no.”
“One last question. You’ve been very good to give me your time. Did you like Iffy?”
A broad smile covered Jason’s face. “I did. Even when she was at her most uncooperative, I really did.”
“Ah.” A shadow crossed Ben’s strong face. “I’m sorry to tell you, Jason, your patient is dead.”
Confusion, doubt, suspicion registered in Jason’s face. “What happened to her?” He sat down abruptly. “After all she’d been through.”
“She was shot.”
“Good God.”
“I’m sorry. I hope you understand that I’ll ask more questions over time. I may even have to requisition your records, but I am sorry. You saw her through a great deal.”
“You know”—Jason’s voice was misty—“nasty as she could get, there was a kind side to Iffy. She would talk to other patients during chemo. She’d bring fruit and candy. She complained ad infinitum to the rest of us, but with other cancer sufferers, she was marvelous. Why would anyone kill her? I can’t understand it.”