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CH022

I
t was a bad day
for Marty Roberts, made much worse by a phone call from Emily Weller:

“Dr. Roberts, I’m calling you from the mortuary. It seems there’s a problem with my husband’s cremation.”

“What kind of problem?” Marty Roberts said, sitting in his office in the pathology lab.

“They’re saying they can’t cremate my Jack if he contains metal.”

“Metal? What do you mean, metal? Your husband didn’t have any hip replacements or war injuries, did he?”

“No, no. They are saying that his arms and legs have metal pipes in them. And the bones have been removed.”

“Really.” Marty stood up in his chair and snapped his fingers in the air, getting Raza’s attention in the autopsy room outside. “I wonder how that could have happened.”

“I was calling to ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t know what to say. It’s quite beyond me, Mrs. Weller. I must say, I’m shocked.”

By then Raza had come in the room.

“I’m going to put you on speaker, Mrs. Weller, so I can make some notes as we speak. Are you with your husband at the crematorium now?”

“Yes,” she said. “And they are saying he has lead pipes in his arms and legs, so they can’t cremate him.”

“I see,” Marty said, looking at Raza.

Raza shook his head. He scrawled on a pad,
We just took one leg. Put in wood dowel.

Marty said, “Mrs. Weller, I can’t imagine how this might have happened. There may have to be an inquiry. I am concerned that the funeral home, or perhaps the cemetery, may have done something improper.”

“Well,” she said, “they say he has to be reburied. But they also say maybe I should call the police, because it looks like his bones were stolen. But I don’t want to go through the ordeal of the police and everything.” A long, pregnant pause. “What do you think, Dr. Roberts?”

“Mrs. Weller,” he said, “let me call you right back.”

Marty Roberts hung up the phone. “You dumb fuck! I told you: Wood, always wood!”

“I know it,” Raza said. “We didn’t do that lead job. I swear we didn’t. We always use wood.”

“Lead pipe…” Marty said, shaking his head. “That’s crazy.”

“It wasn’t us, Marty. I swear it wasn’t us. Must have been those bastards at the cemetery. You know how easy it is. They hold the ceremony, the family shovels a little dirt, and everybody goes home. Coffin isn’t buried. They don’t do the actual burial sometimes for a day or so. That night, they come in, take the bones. You know how it works.”

“How do
you
know?” Marty said, glaring at him.

“Because, one time last year, woman calls, her husband is buried with the wedding ring, and she wants the ring. Wants to know if we took it off him for the autopsy. I said we didn’t have any effects, but I would call the cemetery. And they hadn’t buried him yet, and she got the ring back.”

Marty Roberts sat down. “Look,” he said, “if there is an investigation, if they start looking at bank accounts…”

“No, no. Trust me.”

“That’s a laugh.”

“Marty, I’m telling you.
We didn’t do it.
No metal pipe. No.”

“Okay. I heard you. I just don’t believe you.”

Raza tapped the desk. “You’d better use the prescription with her.”

“I will. Now get out of here while I call her back.”

Raza crossed
the autopsy room and went into the changing room. No one was there. He dialed his cell phone. “Jesu,” he said. “What the fuck you doing, man? You put lead pipes in that car crash guy. Shit, Marty’s mad. They’re trying to cremate the dude, he’s got lead pipes in him…Man, how many times do I have to tell you? Use wood!”

“Mrs. Weller,”
Marty Roberts said, “I think you better rebury your husband. That seems to be your only option.”

“You mean, unless I go to the police. About the stolen bones.”

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “You’ll have to decide the best course of action. But I’m sure a prolonged police investigation will turn up a prescription in your name for ethacrynic acid from Longwood Pharmacy, on Motor Drive.”

“That was for my personal use.”

“Oh, I know that. It’s just a question of how ethacrynic acid happened to end up in your husband’s body. That could be awkward.”

“Your hospital lab has found traces of that?”

“Yes, but I am sure the hospital would stop the lab work as soon as you dropped your lawsuit against them. Let me know what you decide to do, Mrs. Weller. Good-bye for now.”

He hung up and looked at the thermometer in the autopsy room. The temperature was 59 degrees. But Marty was sweating.

“I was wondering
when you’d show up,” Marilee Hunter said, in the genetics lab. She didn’t look happy. “I’d like to know exactly what part you played in all this.”

“In all what?” he said.

“Kevin McCormick called today. There’s another lawsuit from that Weller family. This time it’s the son of the deceased, Tom Weller. The one who works for a biotech company.”

“What’s his suit about?”

“I was only following protocol,” Marilee said.

“Uh-huh…What’s the suit about?”

“Apparently his health insurance was canceled.”

“Because?”

“His father has the
BNB
71 gene for heart disease.”

“He does? That makes no sense. The guy was a health nut.”

“He had the gene. Doesn’t mean it was expressed. We found it in the tissues. And that fact was duly noted. The insurance company picked it up and canceled the son as ‘pre-ill.’”

“How did they get the information?”

“It’s online,” she said.

“It’s
online
?”

“This is a legal inquiry,” she said. “Under state law it’s all discoverable. We’re required to post all lab findings to an FTP address. In theory it’s password-protected, but anyone can get to it.”

“You put genetic data
online
?”

“Not everyone’s data. Just the lawsuits. Anyway, the son is saying he did not authorize the release of genetic information about himself, which is true. But if we release the father’s information, as we’re required by state law to do, we also release the son’s, which we’re required by law
not
to do. Because his children share half the same genes as the father. One way or another, we break the law.” She sighed. “Tom Weller wants his insurance back, but he won’t get it.”

Marty Roberts leaned against the desk. “So where does it stand?”

“Mr. Weller sued me along with the hospital. Legal is insisting this lab no longer touches any material from the Wellers.” Marilee Hunter sniffed. “We’re off the case.”

Off the case! No more investigation, no digging up the body! Marty Roberts felt nothing but relief, although he did his best to appear distressed. “It’s so unfair,” he said, “the way lawyers just run our society.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over, Marty,” she said. “It’s done.”

Marty went back
to the pathology lab later that day. “Raza,” he said, “one of us has to leave this lab.”

“I know,” Raza said. “And I’m going to miss you, Marty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a new job,” he said, smiling. “Hamilton Hospital in San Fran
cisco. Their diener just had a heart attack. I start day after tomorrow. So with packing and everything, this is my last day on the job.”

Marty Roberts stared. “Well,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“I know you get two weeks,” Raza said, “but I told the hospital this was a special case and you would understand. By the way, I have a guy who would be a good replacement. He’s a friend of mine, Jesu. Very good guy. Works in a funeral home right now, so it would not be a big transition.”

“I’ll meet with him,” Marty said. “But I think maybe I will pick my own guy.”

“Hey, sure, no problem,” Raza said. He shook hands with Marty. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Roberts.”

“You remembered.” Marty smiled.

Raza turned and left the lab.

CH023

J
osh Winkler
was staring out his office window that overlooked the reception area at BioGen. Things were up in the air. Josh’s assistant, Tom Weller, had taken the week off because his father had died in a car crash in Long Beach. And now there was a problem with his health insurance, as well. Which meant Josh had to work with another assistant, who didn’t know the routines. Outside, repair crews were fixing the surveillance cameras in the parking lot. At the reception desk below, Brad Gordon was again chatting up the beautiful Lisa. Josh sighed. What kind of juice did Brad have, that he could do whatever he wanted, including chasing the boss’s trim? Because Brad was clearly never going to be fired.

Lisa had beautiful breasts.

“Josh? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Is something on your mind?”

“No, Mom.”

From above, he could look down at Lisa’s scoop-neck blouse, which revealed the smooth contours of her firm breasts. Undoubtedly too firm, but that didn’t bother Josh. Everybody and everything was surgically enhanced these days. Including guys. Even guys in their twenties were getting face-lifts and penile implants.

“Then what about it?” his mother said.

“What? Sorry, Mom. What were you saying?”

“About the Levines. My cousins.”

“I don’t know. Where do they live again?”

“Scarsdale, dear.”

He remembered now. The Levine family had parents that spent too much. “Mom, this is not legal.”

“You went and did it to Lois’s boy. You did it yourself.”

“That’s true.” But he had only done it because he thought nobody would ever catch him.

“And now that boy has quit drugs and is working.
At a bank,
Josh. A
bank.
”

“As what?”

“I don’t know, a teller or something.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

“It’s more than great,” his mother said. “This spray of yours could be a real moneymaker, Josh. It’s the drug everybody wants. You could finally make something of yourself.”

“Nice, Mom.”

“You know what I mean. The spray could be great.” She paused. “But you need to know how it affects older people, don’t you.”

He sighed. It was true. “Yes…”

“That’s why the Levines might work out for you.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll try to get a canister.”

“For both parents?”

“Yes, Mom. For both.”

He flipped the phone shut. He was contemplating what, exactly, he should do about this—and deciding to do something else entirely—when he heard the sound of sirens. A moment later two black-and-white police cars pulled up in front of the building. Four cops piled out of the cars, entered the building, and walked right up to Brad, who still leaned on the counter talking to Lisa.

“Are you Bradley A. Gordon?”

A moment later, one spun him around, pulled his arms back, and handcuffed him.

Holy shit
, Josh thought.

Brad was bellowing.
“What the hell is this? What the
hell
is this!”

“Mr. Gordon, you are under arrest for aggravated assault and rape of a minor.”

“
What?
”

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“
What?
” He was shouting. “What minor? Goddamn it, I don’t know any fucking minor.”

The cop stared at him.

“Okay, wait—wrong word! I don’t know any minor!”

“I think you do, sir.”

“You guys are making one big-ass mistake!” Brad said, as they started to lead him away.

“Just come with us, sir.”

“I’m going to sue your freaking asses off!”

“This way, sir,” they said.

And he went through the doors to the sunlight outside.

When Brad
had gone, Josh looked over at the other people standing at the railing. Half the office was looking down, talking, whispering. And at the far end of the balcony, he saw Rick Diehl, the head of the company.

Just standing there, with his hands in his pockets. Watching the whole thing play out.

If Diehl was upset, he certainly didn’t show it.

CH024

B
rad Gordon
frowned unhappily at the toilet in his jail cell. A strip of damp toilet paper clung to the side of the metal bowl. There was a puddle of brownish liquid in front of the seat. It had flecks of stuff floating in it. Brad wanted to pee, but he wasn’t going to step in that liquid, whatever the hell it was. He didn’t even like to think about it.

A key turned in the lock behind him. He stood. The door swung open.

“Gordon? Let’s go.”

“What is it?”

“Attorney’s here.”

The cop pushed Brad down a hallway and into a small room. There was an older man in a pinstripe suit and a younger kid in a Dodgers jacket, sitting at a table with a laptop. The kid had thick horn-rim glasses, which made him look like an owl, or Harry Potter or something. They both stood up, shook his hand. He didn’t catch their names. But he knew they were from his uncle’s law firm.

“What’s going on here?” he said.

The older lawyer opened a folder. “Her name is Kelly Chin,” he said. “You met her at a soccer game, you came on to her—”

“
I
came on to
her
?”

“And then you took her to the Westview Plaza Hotel, room four-thirteen…”

“You don’t have this story right…”

“And once in the room you had oral, genital, and anal sex with her. And she’s sixteen.”

“Christ,” he said. “It never happened.”

The older attorney just stared at him. “You’re in very deep shit, my friend.”

“I’m telling you
it never happened.
”

“I see. The two of you were photographed on hotel security cameras in the lobby and again in the elevator. Hallway cameras on the fourth floor recorded you with Miss Chin as you entered room four-thirteen. You were there one hour and seven minutes. Then she left by herself.”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“She was crying in the elevator.”

“What?”

“She drove to the Westview Community Hospital and reported she had been assaulted and raped. She was examined at that time, and photographs were taken. She had vaginal tears and contusions, and anal tears. Semen was obtained from her rectum. It is being analyzed now, but she says it’s yours. Is it?”

“Oh shit,” Brad said softly.

“It’s best to come clean,” the attorney said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“That little bitch.”

“Let’s begin with the soccer game where you met her. Witnesses say that you have been seen at girls’ soccer games before. What are you doing at those games, Mr. Gordon?”

“Oh Jesus,” he said.

Brad told
the story, but the older man interrupted a lot. It took nearly half an hour to explain exactly what had happened. And to get to the hotel room.

“You say this girl was turned on to you,” the attorney said.

“Yeah, she sure was.”

“There was no kissing or signs of affection in the elevator, going up.”

“No, she had that reserved exterior. You know, the Asian thing.”

“I see. The Asian thing. Unfortunately, on the cameras it doesn’t appear that she was an entirely willing participant.”

“I think she got cold feet,” he said.

“When was that?”

“Well, we were in the bedroom making out, and she was kind of hot, but also a little weird, you know, backing off. Like she’d want to do it, and then not want to. But mostly she was going for it. I mean, she put the rubber on me. I was ready, and she lies back with her legs open and suddenly she goes, ‘No, I don’t want to do it.’ I’m beside her with my pecker sticking up, and I started to get peeved. So she says she’s really sorry and she goes down on me, and I come in the rubber. She was as good as a pro, but you know young chicks today. Anyway, she takes it off me, carries it into the bathroom, and I hear her flushing the toilet. She comes back with a hot washcloth, wipes me down, says she’s sorry, but she thinks she needs to go home now.

“I’m like, hey, whatever. Because by now I figure something’s wrong with this chick. She’s kinky or something, maybe she’s a tease, I seen that before—or mentally disturbed, in which case I want her the hell out of my room. So I say, ‘Sure, go, sorry it wasn’t comfortable for you.’ And she tells me maybe I should wait a while before I leave. I say, ‘Sure, okay.’ She leaves. I wait. Then I left, too. And I swear,” he said, “that’s all there was to it.”

“She never told you her age?”

“No.”

“You never asked?”

“No. She said she was out of high school.”

“She’s not. She’s a sophomore.”

“Oh fuck.”

A silence. The attorney thumbed through the pages of the folder in front of him. “So your story is, this girl seduced you at the soccer game, you took her to a hotel room, she collected your sperm in a condom, left you, gave herself self-inflicted genital injuries, put your sperm up her rectum, drove to the hospital, and reported a rape. Is that it?”

“It had to be that way,” Brad said.

“That’s a difficult story, Mr. Gordon.”

“But it had to be that way.”

“Do you have any proof at all that your story is true?”

Brad fell silent. Thinking.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t have anything.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” the attorney said.

After Brad was taken
back to his cell, the attorney turned to the young man in the Dodgers jacket and horn-rim glasses. “You have anything to contribute here?”

“Yes.” He flipped his screen around so the senior man could see a series of jagged black lines. “Audio stress meters remained in the normal range. Hesitation patterns that indicate prefrontal interference with cognition were absent at all times. The guy isn’t lying. Or at least, he’s convinced it happened his way.”

“Interesting,” the attorney said. “But it doesn’t matter. There’s not a chance in hell we’ll ever get this guy off.”