Eye Sleuth (10 page)

The stop at the hospital was brief and sobering. Lanny had yet to open her eyes. Dag, bless him, was upbeat. “Vital signs are strong and blood pressure’s good. The doctors monitor brain pressure regularly and each report says all is going well.”

His attitude boosted my mood and I sat with Lanny for a few minutes, explaining why I was riding a commuter train out to Connecticut, even though I knew she wouldn’t respond.

“I’m off to hear Gus Forkiotis lecture at the police academy,” I told her. “Remember? He’s the behavioral optometrist in Connecticut.” I almost added that this was the optometrist Lanny’d persuaded to be an Expert Witness at the trial of the drunk driver who’d caused the deaths of her husband, Erik, and daughter, Zembra, but I bit my tongue. Why remind Lanny of that tragedy when she was fighting for her life?

Lanny lay motionless on the hospital bed. It was hard to see if she was breathing, so slight was the rise and fall of her chest but her breaths were steady. I kissed Lanny’s pale cheek, reminded Dag to keep in touch and left for Grand Central Station. The weather was as gloomy as I felt after seeing Lanny so still and pale. It was drizzling and the sidewalks were full of puddles although we’d been promised a clear evening.

As I walked, I was heartsick at the thought of the problems Lanny might face when she regained consciousness. Even mild injuries can cause difficulties like dizziness, headaches, poor memory and anxiety. It depends on what part of the brain is hurt. The occipital lobe is the large block of tissue at the back of the brain that receives, processes and retains “seen” information. Damage there plays havoc. Until Lanny came out of the coma, we wouldn’t know the extent of her problems.

The vast concourse at the train station was almost empty, acres of Tennessee marble floor free of rush-hour hordes. I craned my neck to look up at the wonder of the celestial ceiling––New York’s cathedral for the public. Some years back, the ceiling had been refurbished and the result was glorious. The bright lights outlining the constellations gleamed and twinkled like the stars they represented. New York’s masses of buildings and flowing rivers of traffic make it impossible to see the natural splendors of the night sky. Grand Central’s starry heavens might be man-made but they’re a brilliant facsimile.

A shiver scurried down my back. What a mess if the celestial ceiling collapsed like the dome at the club. I stared up at the Great Dipper and suddenly had the eerie feeling someone was watching me. I looked around the station. Did someone deliberately step back out of sight behind the shelter of the Information Desk? I’m imagining things. Why would anyone…? I didn’t complete that thought, too many nasty possibilities. Stay positive, that’s what the self-help gurus advise.

I walked along to the platform for the train to Bridgeport. The gate was shut but those on either side were open and I walked through one to the platform where my train was. It was one of those wrinkles in bureaucracy, an open side gate. More civilized than the mad rush at Pennsylvania Station on the city’s west side, where train platforms are announced at the last moment so the crowd hustles like maniacs in the scramble for seats. Boarding the waiting train, I positioned myself in the middle of the car, away from the doors, and started on the work I’d brought with me but every time someone moved along the platform or boarded the train, I couldn’t stop myself looking out the grimy window or staring nervously at each person who walked through the compartment. The train started and I kept my head down and read.

Dr. Forkiotis was waiting at Bridgeport. His hair glinted silver but his face had the youthful determination and vigor that marked his career.

“Change of plans. How do you feel about some hands-on experience?” he said. “The lecture’s rescheduled, top brass are off at ceremonies for some bigwig, eulogies for the dead. I only heard the news late this afternoon and when Elliott telephoned and told me you were coming, I bargained with the powers-that-be so you could have a real treat and go on a patrol for driving under the influence, DUI.”

I rolled my eyes. “DUI patrol is a treat?”

“You’ll be safe, surrounded by armed police.” His smile faded as he saw my involuntary shiver. “We can talk over dinner.”

Subtle, Gus was not. Perceptive and caring, yes. We ate at a little Greek place where Gus introduced me to taramosalata, the Greek caviar spread.

“Carp roe in lemon juice and mayo,” he told me. “What do you think?”

“Delicious.”

Deliberately delaying the time when I had to explain about the woman shot outside SUNY and Lanny’s fall and coma, I asked about the recent visit by Massachusetts state troopers to his colleague, Bob Bertolli.

“I heard they were trying to identify a murder victim.”

“That’s right. The troopers brought in the specifications of a glasses frame for analysis, forensic optometry at work. Bob and the optician were able to match that particular frame combination to a patient.”

“Is that easier than finding out the prescription from fragments of spectacle glass?”

“That’s not hard, Yoko. Any fragment of a lens can be measured for the prescription,” Gus said. “A frame has a lot of clues. The manufacturer’s name, color code, temple size. Usually all that’s somewhere on the inner surfaces.”

“Wasn’t there a famous murder case years back where a murderer was caught because of the glasses?” I asked.

“Leopold and Loeb,” Gus said. “Two boys indicted in 1924 for kidnapping and murdering another boy. The horn-rimmed glasses found near the body didn’t belong to the victim. It was a common prescription so it was thought the chance of finding the owner was slim. Eight days after the murder, it was discovered that the hinges on the glasses were unique and only three pairs had been sold in the Chicago area. One of those pairs of glasses belonged to Nathan Leopold. Up to that point, Leopold and Loeb hadn’t been suspected. The two got life sentences.”

I shivered.

Gus looked at his watch. “Before we leave, tell me what’s been happening in your life. Elliott said something about two tragedies?”

The words poured out. Gus listened carefully. I started with Mary Sakamoto’s killing and then said, “Lanny’s in a coma, Gus.” I explained what had happened at the club but I didn’t mention the eerie feeling I had of being watched at Grand Central. “I’m wondering if Mary Sakamoto’s shooting and Lanny’s accident are linked.”

What Gus said next astonished me.

“Dear God, Yoko. I just spoke to Lanny, it must have been right before the attack! She’s working on a major conference about the increase in drunk driving cases and asked me to volunteer to give a talk. Has she been in a coma since the attack?”

“Yes,” I stammered.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. How could I have forgotten the connection between these two and how fiercely each felt about drunk driving and why.

The question surprised me although I knew Gus was famous for his analysis of the clues that physical characteristics give about the way your vision functions. His article, “Is that Saddam Hussein Or Are We Seeing a Double?” had been closely read in government circles. The prodding helped me focus.

“Not really, the light was low and he was quite a distance away.”

“If they were completely dilated that would mean extreme emotion. In this case, it might have been anger and that led to violence. Such extreme dilation may last all day, even several days. Inhalants or drugs like cocaine cause enlarged pupils.”

“All I can say for sure is that he was almost vibrating with anger.”

“He’d shut down his peripheral vision under the stress of the situation so his central focus would be intense,” Gus said. “You only had a partial view of him, right? His shoulders, were they rolled in?”

“I could see his face and shoulders because his hands were clutching the railing that runs round the gallery, it’s about three feet high. His shoulders were hunched. He was medium build and had a lot of dark hair.”

“The tension of the moment could account for hunched shoulders but he may be nearsighted, that brings the shoulders forward, rounds them,” Gus said.

I nodded. I’d read the analysis Gus had made of Ronald Reagan’s vision. Before he was president, Reagan had been one of the first people in the U.S fitted with scleral contact lenses. Back then, contacts could only be worn for two hours at a time, then they had to be taken out to replenish the fluids in the lens so oxygen could reach the cornea. Easy to imagine a Hollywood director yelling, “Cut,” while Reagan took out his contacts to top up fluids.

“Yoko, never trust coincidences. Two serious accidents so close, that’s alarming. Stay alert.”

“I’m going to keep to my daily routine.” I sounded stubborn and I felt it.

“Definitely. You can’t let terrorists dictate how you live,” Gus said. “But don’t hesitate to ask for help. Call the police, they’re your best defense.”

I wasn’t going to tell Gus hell could freeze before I called Detective Riley or his strange partner, Zeissing. We were silent on the drive to the police academy and I debated with myself, rationalizing that if it was serious, the police would surface––they had after the attack on Lanny.

At the Connecticut State Police Academy, Gus was greeted by everyone we passed. He had told me ahead of time to thank the platoon commander in charge of the night tour and I did, though I didn’t feel at all grateful to be going out on DUI patrol, way too high a level of danger for my frayed nerve endings. The commander nodded pleasantly at my thanks then beckoned one of the officers over, a policewoman only an inch shorter than Gus’s six feet. She’d probably had her fill of jokes about the heavy sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

“Officer O’Malley, this is Dr. Kamimura.”

“Please, I’m Yoko,” I said. By now, I was almost used to the swift scanning police give you. Human x-ray. This time, the x-ray was followed by a friendly smile.

“I’m Macdara, Mac for short,” she told me.

I stifled the impulse to ask someone armed with a gun if she was ever called Big Mac and we shook hands.

Eventually, Mac and Steve Farnell, her partner, another six-footer, as pale as Mac was freckled, took us out to the parking lot. Patrol cars were lined in orderly rows. The doors of the nearest row were marked, “DUI, Driving Under the Influence, Connecticut State Police.” Gus and I were shepherded into the rear seat of one of the DUI cars.

“First time out?” Mac asked from the front and I nodded.

Three squad cars had been assigned to the shift and our car eased out of the lot, two others falling in behind us. The Connecticut countryside was tranquil under a low cloud cover. The rain had stopped or maybe it hadn’t reached this far from New York. A relaxed Gus sat next to me. I was tight with apprehension. We drove for about fifteen minutes and it was peaceful in the dark of the back roads and my tension eased somewhat. Rounding a double S bend, we pulled over onto the wide shoulder where the road straightened out, a carefully chosen location. It was a tricky turn in good weather, downright nasty if you were high on booze or drugs.

“The police can’t stop cars without due cause but at a spot like this, where it’s easy to have an accident, it saves time to have a DUI team waiting,” Gus explained.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then we heard the sound of a speeding vehicle and in the front, Mac tilted her head, listening. Gus nudged me in the ribs and my tension level soared to high. Tires protesting in a rubber scream, a vintage Mustang snarled into sight. It didn’t make the bend but slid off the road and jolted to a stop short of a massive tree trunk.

“Lucky not to hit the tree,” Steve said. “Now their luck may run out. What a surprise if the driver fails the test.”

He opened his door and got out. Mac looked back at me and winked. Gus and I watched as the Mustang’s driver, a tall young man, started to get out unsteadily, one long leg then the other emerging from the car. He stood, swaying gently but somehow keeping upright. We couldn’t hear what was being said but after a short conversation it was obvious he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to a sobriety test. Before we left the station, the desk sergeant had warned us not to budge from the squad car unless invited to do so but we had a clear view of the testing. The driver’s head moved unsteadily as he tried to follow the penlight that Steve slowly moved from side to side in front of the driver’s eyes.

“His eye movements will be erratic,” Gus said and I nodded agreement.

Gus was one of the first to train police officers to run the test to detect the jerky eye movement––HGN or horizontal gaze nystagmus. Alcohol or any other substance that affects the nervous system results in HGN. Now the courts accept this test as probable cause of DUI but until the scientific validity of the test was established, drivers under the influence frequently got off because police had no legally acceptable, standardized field sobriety testing.

I opened my mouth to speak but stopped at the sound of an angry shout.

“No way that’s legal.” It was the driver of the Mustang yelling.

A man erupted from the passenger side of the car, shouting and tugging something out of his pocket. Safe in the patrol car I still trembled nervously. Steve reached the passenger swiftly, turning him against the car and patting him down in fluid moves. The driver lurched for Mac, who sidestepped smoothly and had his arms behind his back and cuffs closed over his wrists in seconds while the man shouted incoherently. I watched in fascination as Steve relieved the passenger of a knife and guided him to the patrol car parked behind us. Still arguing, the two were helped into the car, which left for the station.

“Mission accomplished. Now we wait for another good citizen,” Steve said as he and Mac got back into the car. I let out a long sigh and they both laughed.