Damaged (14 page)

When Maggie offered to buy the aircrew drinks, she honestly didn’t think they would show up. It was late. Maybe she should have offered dinner. Food had been the last thing on her mind after a second landing at Baptist Hospital to deliver the injured boater and his two dogs. Now, despite having examined the rancid cooler, she found herself hungry.

While she waited, she checked her phone messages. The Escambia County medical examiner would be processing the body parts at nine tomorrow morning. He gave Maggie directions.

She text-messaged Wurth to join them for drinks, to be her backup, but his quick response was

   Prob not happenin. Catch ya at brkfst?

   Maggie hated deciphering text messages. Still none from Tully and she had to remind herself that it was Sunday. Identifying the rope wasn’t a matter of life and death. It was just one of those things that nagged at her. When the aircrew arrived, they sat down around her at the table as though meeting another inquisition.

“Just one question,” Maggie told them. “I promise. Have any of you ever seen a tie-down like that on a fishing cooler?”

“Commercial fishermen use a stainless-steel contraption.” It was Tommy Ellis who answered. “One end hooks into the cooler, the other into the floor of the boat. There’s a turnbuckle in the middle to tighten it. I noticed this cooler had a pre-molded slot for it. A marine professional would use something like that, something more secure and certainly more sophisticated than a rope, even an unusual rope.”

Everyone at the table was staring at Ellis by the time he finished, like he had just revealed some long-hidden secret.

“What?” Ellis shrugged. “My uncle’s a shrimper.”

After one drink Kesnick called it quits. He needed to get home to his wife and kids. The pilots, Wilson and Ellis, had another but then gravitated to the beach bar next door.

“We’ll be right back,” they said after spotting someone they knew.

From the look of things Maggie didn’t expect them to return anytime soon. She didn’t mind. And Liz Bailey looked much more comfortable with her crew gone. She had showered and her short hair, still damp in the humidity, was sticking up in places. She wore khaki shorts and a white sleeveless shirt. Maggie couldn’t help thinking that the clothes were fitted just enough to remind Liz’s crew she really wasn’t one of them. Maggie remembered the discussion back in the helicopter. The men strategizing the rescue and leaving out the opinion of its chief architect—the rescue swimmer.

“This is a new aircrew for you,” Maggie said to Liz.

“That obvious?”

“Not really,” she said, realizing she might sound presumptuous.
She wiped at the condensation on the bottle of beer she’d been nursing for the last half hour. She wanted to guzzle it. The air was stifling and it was long past sundown. “I get paid the big bucks to figure out psychological stuff like that.”

She was pleased to see Liz Bailey smile for the first time since they’d met.

“What do you expect when you put four type-A personalities together in a helicopter. It’s okay, though,” Liz said, pausing to take a sip of her beer. “By now I’m used to having to prove myself.”

“For what it’s worth, they were really worried about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“When they were worried what did they call me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did they say, ‘How’s Bailey?’ Or ‘Is the rescue swimmer okay?’”

“Yes,” Maggie told her. “They wanted to know if the rescue swimmer was okay.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She took a long unladylike swig from her bottle while Maggie waited for some sort of explanation. Finally Liz said, “You’re the psychology expert. Even after today’s rescue they’re still calling me
the
rescue swimmer, not
our
rescue swimmer. What does that tell you?”

Maggie detected disappointment more than anger in Liz’s voice, despite her attempt at humor.

“It tells me they’re men.”

This time Liz laughed and tipped her bottle to Maggie as a salute of agreement. “You got that right.”

“Not to change the subject”—though it was the subject of male-female camaraderie that reminded Maggie—“but what was that you gave me before the flight? The capsules?”

“Did they work?”

“Yes, and believe me, I’ve tried everything.”

“It’s powdered ginger.”

“Ginger? You’re kidding?”

“Works wonders for the nausea. Doesn’t make a difference what’s causing the nausea, this squelches it. So what is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“What caused it? Your nausea?” Her eyes found Maggie’s and held them. “I mean you’re an FBI agent. You carry a gun. Someone said you’re like this expert profiler of murderers. I imagine you’ve seen some stuff that could turn plenty of cast-iron stomachs. But being up in the air. It’s about something else?”

Maggie caught herself shrugging and then felt a bit silly under the scrutiny of this young woman. After all, earlier Liz had seen that there was a problem when Maggie thought for certain she had learned to hide it.

“Hey, it’s none of my business. Just making conversation,” Liz told her and looked away like it was no big deal.

But after what they had just gone through in the helicopter, not to mention sneaking the gift of the capsules to Maggie—who kept almost everyone she met at a safe distance—she felt Liz deserved an answer.

“I’m sure it does seem odd,” Maggie finally said. “You’re right, I’ve seen plenty of things: body parts stuffed into takeout containers, little boys carved up. Just yesterday I had to pluck a killer’s brains out of my hair.” She checked Liz’s face and was surprised none of this fazed her. Then Maggie remembered the guys talking about Bailey and Hurricane Katrina. “You’ve seen plenty of stuff, too.”

Another smile. This one totally unexpected.

“You really are very good at this psychology stuff,” Liz said.

Maggie winced. She hadn’t intentionally meant to deflect the question.

“I don’t think it’s that big of a mystery,” Maggie said. “I can’t handle not being in control.”

“Are you always in control when you face off against a killer?”

“Of course. I carry a gun.” Back to brevity and humor. Keep it light, she told herself. Someone gets too close, resort to wit.

“Or maybe in the air you’re just vulnerable enough to realize all the risks you take every single day on the ground.”

Maggie stared at her, suddenly disarmed.

“Come on, let’s walk.” Liz stood and pointed to the moonlit beach. “If Isaac hits, this might be the last time we enjoy Pensacola Beach for a very long time.”

Just as Maggie pushed off her barstool a man stumbled over to their table, grabbing the edge and jiggling the empty beer bottles.

“Hey, E-liz-a-beth.” He purposely enunciated her name, stringing it out in his inebriated attempt at song.

“Scott?”

“Oh hey.” He stopped himself when he saw Maggie, as if only then noticing there was someone else at the table. “Sorry.” He grinned, looking from Liz to Maggie and back. “I didn’t realize you were on a date.”

CHAPTER 28

“Stryker’s a 3.96 billion dollar a year company,” Captain Ganz said.

Platt listened, though his eyes stayed on the prosthetic leg as he manipulated the joints.

“Most people know the name Stryker from autopsy scenes in crime novels or on
CSI
. You know, Stryker bone saws? But the company’s been an innovator for years when it comes to medical technology. Most hospital surgical beds are even made by Stryker.”

“What about these?” Platt poked at several screws on a table beside him. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“The technology isn’t all that new. We use a company in Jacksonville called BIOMedics. They’re able to grind the screws from bone—I guess they call it precision tooling. And they don’t just do screws—chips, wedges, dowels, anchors. The human body accepts bone much more readily than plastic. Same theory as heart valves and using animal tissue versus mechanical implants. BIOMedics makes the bone paste we use, too.”

“Paste? You mentioned bone cement earlier.”

“Right. Cement, paste—they’re similar. We use the cement to anchor a prosthetic limb. The paste fills the cracks or perforations
that might be in the remaining bone. For instance, gaps left by shrapnel. If you fill the holes, bacterium doesn’t have as many places to infect.”

“Sort of like medical caulk?”

Ganz laughed. “I suppose you could make that comparison.” He sipped his third cup of coffee since the two had taken up residence in his office. “Both the cement and paste have been lifesavers. I told you about it reducing staph infections. We inject antibiotics into the cement and paste. Lets us apply doses directly to the site. Keeps the patients from having to have their bodies blasted with antibiotics, reducing the immune system.”

“What are the chances of it being contaminated?”

“The bone paste?”

“The cement, the paste, the screws. Perhaps the original bone they’re made from?” Platt asked, picking up one of the screws and examining it.

Ganz shook his head. “No, I’d say that’s next to impossible. We use our own.”

“What do you mean, you use your own?”

“We have our own supply of bone and tissue.”

Platt didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“The navy was the first to use frozen bone transplants,” Ganz explained. “Back in the forties at the Naval Medical Center in Maryland. An orthopedic surgeon by the name of Hyatt started freezing and storing bones that he’d surgically removed during amputation. Instead of discarding the bone he’d freeze it, store it, and use what he could to repair fractures in other patients. Sorry,” Ganz interrupted himself. “Don’t mean to give you a history lesson.”

“I don’t mind. Go on.”

“Hyatt was so successful he started one of the first body-donation
programs. That’s how the Navy Tissue Bank started. Even back then they were able to remove more than just bone—tissue, veins, skin, corneas—though they weren’t quite sure what to do with most of it. They offered surgeons free use of the bank, only asking that they share their results so Hyatt and his colleagues could maintain their database. It was all pretty much trial and error, but Hyatt figured out a way to disinfect and screen the tissue. Even developed a way to freeze-dry it for shipping. The operation we have today is much more focused and we limit it only to military surgeons.”

“Where does the bone and tissue get processed?”

“In Jacksonville. I recommended Dr. McCleary, the pathologist. He came out of retirement just to run the program. Does an amazing job with the aid of only one diener.”

“So you ship him your … bones? Your excess …?”

Ganz nodded and smiled at Platt’s loss of terminology. “It’s part of the program I started here.”

“Why not do all of it here?”

“Jacksonville had a well-equipped facility already available. Plus it’s practically next door to BIOMedics, the company that does all the precision tooling.”

“Who does the screening and disinfecting?”

“Dr. McCleary does it with the help of BIOMedics. I know what you’re thinking, Ben. I’ve already considered contamination. We’ve checked and double-checked. We’ve never had a problem before.”

“Have you checked any of the precision-tooled stuff from the dead soldiers?”

Ganz’s hesitation gave Platt his answer.

“No,” Ganz finally said. “I don’t believe we removed any of it.”

Platt nodded, still staring at the prosthetic leg he had set aside
on the table next to the bone screws. He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug then looked up at Captain Ganz.

“After the autopsy I took a look at a tissue sample from Ronnie Towers.”

“Ronnie Towers?”

“The soldier who just died,” Platt said without criticism. “I checked the bone paste used on the prosthetic, too. There were traces of the bacteria
Clostridium sordellii
. Are you familiar with it?”

Ganz scratched at his jaw. “Isn’t that usually found in soil?”

Platt nodded. “It can also be found in fecal matter or inside intestines.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Your patients’ symptoms are similar to sepsis or severe toxic shock, which can be a result of an infection caused by
Clostridium sordellii
. The only problem is, I have no idea where the bacteria came from. This is something that’s usually seen in one particular type of patient.”

“And what type is that?”

“Pregnant women.”

CHAPTER 29