Final Disposition (23 page)

      “Next time?”

      “I’m sure we’re all crossing our fingers that there won’t be a next time, but I remain pessimistic.” Sutta replied.  “So, answer the first question, what happened to your head?”

      “I don’t know, at least not of my own knowledge,” Cellars said, starting to relax because he could tell from his vocal tones that Sutta wasn’t intentionally being ornery or sarcastic in a threatening sense.  “Basically, all I know is what I was told.”

      
Okay, so you’re a reasonably decent guy with a rough exterior who seems to care about my welfare
, Cellars thought. 
I can live with that
.

      “Which was?”

      “That I was involved in some kind of explosion six-to-seven days ago during a military exercise — possibly out at the Bancoo Indian Reservation, whatever and wherever that is — and that I woke up from a very bad dream in a fMRI machine at a VA Clinic.  I remember the bad dream, but that’s about all.  Things kind of went downhill from there.”

      “And that’s
all
you remember about how you got injured?” Sutta pressed.  “Nothing more?”

      “No, that’s all I remember about
anything at all
before I woke up,” Cellars corrected.  “I seem to have no personal memories of you — or, I’m sad to say, of Bucky.  That was a nice hug you gave me when I came in a few minutes ago,” he added, smiling and nodding at the blue-coated technician.

      Bucky gave him a teary-looking smile in return.

      “A brain lesion would be perfectly understandable in what seems to have been your circumstances,” Sutta muttered, “but I’m not sure that —”

      “Wait, there’s something else, I almost forgot.”  Cellars dug around his Bauer’s jacket pocket.  “This.”  He handed Sutta a folded piece of paper.

      Sutta unfolded the paper, examined it carefully for almost thirty seconds, and then looked back up at Cellars.

      “This purports to be an fMRI scan … taken of you, approximately fifteen hours ago.  Does that sound right?”

      “I think so, but I wasn’t … awake at the time.”

      “And the doctors just gave it to you?”

      “Not exactly,” Cellars said.  “I stole it from the clinic before I escaped.”

      “You
escaped
… from the VA Clinic?  You mean you just ran off and they didn’t notice?”

      Cellars sighed, and then proceeded to give Sutta a brief — and highly edited — description of his activities over the past fifteen hours.

      “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Sutta said in a hushed voice when Cellars finally finished, “in order to escape from the VA center, you tasered and then drugged a pair of MPs with what amounts to a horse tranquilizer cocktail, and stole their jeep.  Then you avoided being taken into custody, knocked down one of the pursuing MPs a second time with the same Taser® and cocktail, and kept on going until you ran into Sergeant Bauer — a good man whom I happen to play golf with on occasion.  Then you stole his uniform
and
patrol car after beating up and shooting two redneck holy-roller assholes who tried to shoot you and run him over.  And so now you’re on the run from the U.S. Army
and
the Oregon State Patrol?”

      “Don’t forget the Reverend Slogaan and his remaining band of nut-balls who want to burn Colin at the stake like he’s a witch or something,” Bucky reminded.

      “No, we can’t forget about that frothing-at-the-mouth shit-head,” Sutta agreed.  “So, tell me, Cellars,” Sutta asked, “what did you expect to find by coming here … some kind of sanctuary?”

      “No, ideally, just some answers,” Cellars said.  “For one, I was hoping you could tell me who Jeremiah Carter is … and secondly, what that black area in my fMRI scan means.”

      “Well,” Sutta said after a moment, “I can tell you who Jeremiah Carter isn’t … that being Jeremiah Carter.  His print lifts came back to a different name, but that seems to be an alias as well.  I’m waiting for the crime lab to dig a little deeper, but that probably won’t happen for a while; too many straight-forward homicides ahead of your buddy, or so I’m told.  However, I did have Bucky take an extra set of prints, and print out frontal and profile photos of his head for your files.”

      “Appreciate that,” Cellars said.  “Have you done the post?”

      “No, not yet … just a quick visual scan, wash-down and a set of digital x-rays.  I can tell you that he’s got some small bits of shrapnel in his upper back and neck — possibly from an old war wound — but no sign of any bullets or other projectiles.”

      “That’s odd,” Cellars said, “he told me he was a disabled vet, but that he was never in a war.”

      “He also told you his name was Jeremiah Carter,” Sutta reminded.

      “That’s true,” Cellars shrugged agreeably.  “I guess … hey, wait a minute!”

      “What?”  Sutta blinked, caught off guard by Cellar’s exclamation.

      “Would you examine the scars on my head and neck again?”

      “Why should I?  I was thorough the first time.”

      “Just do it one more time … please?”

      Sutta sighed.  “If you insist.”

      Working more slowly this time, the supervising pathologist gently rubbed the fingertips of his two ungloved hands across Cellars head and neck.

      “How long ago, do you think?” Cellars asked when the pathologist finished his examination.

      “I’d estimate six-to-seven days,” Sutta said after a moment. “The wounds are healing nicely, but it looks like your surgeon was in a bit of a hurry.  Typical of what you might see coming out of a battlefield MASH unit when there’s a lot of shrapnel involved.  You might consider having a little cosmetic work done at a later date … if it matters to you, and assuming that you manage to get out of all your other troubles alive,” the pathologist added thoughtfully.

      “Do you think he got it all out … the shrapnel, I mean?”

      “No, I’m certain he didn’t.”  Sutta shook his head.  “I can feel several small pieces in your neck and behind your ear.  My guess is, your surgeon decided to let most of those fragments work their way out.  That would be the standard protocol … especially if there were other personnel injured by the explosion you described who needed his attention.”

      “So, given what you know now, would you give me an MRI exam … or, more to the point, do you think I was really given one?”

      Sutta blinked in sudden awareness, and then picked up the fMRI scan and examined it closely for another thirty seconds or so.

      “No, I wouldn’t give you a MRI exam, if for no other reason than I wouldn’t want to be dodging all of the flying shrapnel that got ripped out of your head and neck by the magnet the moment they turned it on,” he finally said.  “And no, the fact that you still have shrapnel in your wounds strongly suggests that you were not in a shielded room with an unshielded MRI magnet fifteen hours ago.”

      “Yet I specifically remember having been inside what
sounded
like a hard-shelled room, on a non-metallic gurney, and hearing what definitely sounded like an MRI grinding loudly before they shut it off.”

      “And you know what a grinding MRI sounds like?”

      Cellars shrugged.  “I seem to.”

      “Were you wearing a wrist band at the time?” Sutta asked.

      “Yes, I cut it off when I escaped.”

      “Do you still have it?”

      Cellars fished around in Bauer’s jacket pocket.  “Yeah, I do, right here.”

      He handed Sutta the severed plastic band and then watched him examine it carefully before going back to the fMRI scan.

      “Standard practice is to scan the wristband of a patient before subjecting them to significant and potentially damaging medical treatments such as MRI exams. That way the computer keeps track of numbers of exposures, and who’s who with respect to data and printed charts.”

      “Yeah, so?”

      “The scanned number printed out on this chart matches that wristband.”

      “How can that be?”

      “You seem to ask that question a lot around here,” Sutta said with a sigh.

      “Well, do you have
any
explanation?”  Cellars pressed.

      “Why don’t you come with me,” Sutta said after a long moment.  “I want to try something.”

*     *     *

      Cellars and Bucky followed Sutta through a door labeled ‘AUTOPSY CENTER’ and immediately saw three stainless steel autopsy tables connected to three large stainless steel sinks aligned along the far wall of the brightly-lit rectangular room.  Surgical lights and other electronic devices were mounted on the ceiling over each of the tables.

      “Okay, now what?” Cellars asked uneasily, not sure that he liked being in this room.

      “Take off your jacket, gun belt and shirt, place them on that chair over there, then follow Bucky into the x-ray room and lie down on the table face-up.”

      “What?”

      “Remove your jacket, gun belt and shirt, place them on that chair, and then follow Bucky into the x-ray room, get up on the table and lay down — face up,” Sutta repeated patiently.  “Does that really sound so difficult?”

      Cellars followed Sutta’s instructions reluctantly.

      “Okay, we’re going to have to jury-rig this a bit,” Sutta muttered as he motioned for Bucky to grab three lead-pellet-filled tubular bags from the nearby counter.  “I’m not used to having to worry about my patients moving … or about their reproductive and thyroid condition after I’m done with my work.”

      “Reproductive —?”  Cellars’ eyes widened.

      “Be quiet, and scoot your body down the table about six more inches,” Sutta directed.  He waiting until he was satisfied that Cellar’s head was centered directly over the first of four Digital Imaging Plates locked in place beneath the table’s x-ray-transparent surface, and then directed Bucky to immobilize Cellars’ head with the three heavy bags.

      “Okay, now we’re going to slip this lead-lined apron up under your chin, like this,” Sutta went on as he tucked the neck and shoulder straps of a heavy apron around Cellar’s neck and across his torso, “and then drape a second apron over your goodies, just to play it safe.”

      Moments later, Cellars’ head and upper torso were held firmly in place by the three lead bags and two aprons.

      Humming to himself now, Sutta reached up for the head of the ceiling-mounted x-ray head, turned on the centering device, and utilized the pair of glowing cross-hairs to center the x-ray tube directly on a spot between Cellars’ eyes.

      “Now, you stay where you are and lie still while Bucky and I run around the corner and hide behind a lead wall for a moment,” Sutta said drily.

      “Charming sense of humor,” Cellars muttered.

      “I like to think so,” the pathologist replied, his voice drifting away as he and Bucky hurried out of the x-ray room.

*     *     *

      Two minutes later, Cellars was standing in front of a computer monitor on the far side of the Autopsy Center opposite the three examination tables with Sutta, while Bucky manipulated the mouse and keyboard of an adjacent computer.  The three images of a brightly white-lit skull and the attached top portion of a spinal column — that Sutta had taken perpendicular to the forehead and then at forty-five degree angles to each side— showed clear and sharp on the monitor.

      “What the hell —?” Cellars whispered.

      “Get your butt up on one of those examination tables,” Sutta said.

      “What?”

      “Goddamned crime scene investigators, gotta tell them twice to do everything,” Sutta muttered as he led Cellars back over to the opposite side of the room and pointed at the center autopsy table.

      “You want me to lie down on that?” Cellars asked.

      “Yes, I do,” Sutta said, as he reached into a nearby cupboard and brought out a bread-pan-like stainless steel tray.

      Cellars mumbled something indiscernible, but he got up on the table and laid down on the cold stainless steel surface.

      “I don’t like being here,” he muttered.

      “Tough shit, just be quiet and appreciate the fact that you get to sit up and walk away after I’m done,” Sutta retorted as he pulled a pair of glistening implements out of the tray.  “That’s a pretty rare event around here.”

      “Oh, believe me, I am appreciative,” Cellars said, eying Sutta warily.  “Hey, what the hell are those things?”

      “A surgical scalpel and a pair of forceps,” Sutta responded as he laid them down on the table next to Cellars’ left shoulder.  “I’m going to use them to poke around in your head a little bit.”

      “Aren’t you going to sterilize them first?”

      “No need,” Sutta replied.  “These instruments have been washed, and the blade is brand new, so all I’m going to do is swab them with the same disinfectant that I use to swab your wounds, back here, behind your ear.  And then I’m going to collect a few pieces of that interesting shrapnel in your head that don’t seem to want to show up on an x-ray.”

      “Isn’t that going to hurt?”

      “I’ll be cutting though live nerves for a change; so yes, I would expect so,” Sutta said with what sounded to Cellars like complete indifference.

      “What about —” Cellars started to ask … and then said “oh.”

      “Correct,” Sutta said approvingly as he carefully began to press the edge of the extremely sharp scalpel blade against the back of Cellars’ head.  “I don’t have any anesthetics on hand, for all of the obvious reasons.  And while you’re trying very hard not to yell — so as not to startle me and make my hand jerk — you also should be trying very hard not to move.”

“I promise not to yell or move … at least not until you’re done,” Cellars muttered, gritting his teeth as he felt the blade slice through his skin.

      “Good.  And while you’re obeying instructions, for possibly the first time over what I’m sure has been an illustrious career of insubordination,” Sutta replied, “kindly keep in mind the fact that I am undoubtedly far less skilled in cosmetic surgery than was your field surgeon ... and that, out of habit, I tend to make very large stitches.”