Public Anatomy Read online

  Greenway gently replaced her foot on the floor and stood. “I have to see your patients on rounds, remember?”

  She put her foot back on his knee. “They’ll wait for you.” He pushed her leg off. “No, they won’t.”

  Before leaving through the office door, he motioned to the robotic console. “I’m sure he will keep you company.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Blues City Café sits near the corner of Second and Beale in downtown Memphis. Known for its rustic interior, cold beer, and barbecue to die for, Blues City is a favorite of locals and tourists alike.

  Liza French sat in a corner booth. She had not yet removed a pair of dark sunglasses. Eli slid into the booth seat across from her.

  “Doctor.”

  Eli greeted her the same way.

  “So, is robotic surgery the next big thing?” Liza asked.

  Eli took in the room. A little early yet for the lunch crowd. Only two other tables were occupied. The foot traffic on Beale was picking up. A couple peered through the front door, indecisive about their lunch destination.

  “It’s another excuse for surgeons to keep their hands out of the abdomen.” Eli smiled. “Just my opinion.”

  “Your hands are better than a million-dollar robot?”

  Eli uncurled his fists, palms up. Two fingers on his left hand did not follow the others and remained bent like a claw. “They used to be pretty damn good.”

  Liza slid her hands under Eli’s and closed them like a book. “I remember those hands very well,” she said, kicking him beneath the table.

  Eli wasn’t ready to revisit that part of their past. He pulled his hands away.

  A waitress came to their table. Eli ordered a pulled pork barbecue sandwich. Liza a glass of unsweetened iced tea.

  “What do you know about the CEO Bass and his company of robots?”

  “He believes in his company, I know that,” she said.

  “You trust him?”

  Liza pulled her shades down. “I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

  “But he supports your robotic surgery program?”

  “He did. There is no program of robotic surgery anymore.” Liza leaned a little closer, lowered her voice. “I had to meet with the chief of staff, the hospital attorney, and the president of the university.”

  “Tall company you keep.”

  “It was a party, let me tell you.”

  “They’re pulling your program, I take it?”

  “I thought that was the worst that could happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a criminal investigation.”

  Eli knew this already. He had spoken personally with the federal agents. And after what he had seen at the company’s workshop, he agreed an investigation was necessary.

  “They’re cracking down on biomedical device companies,” Eli told her. “Regulation has been much too loose.”

  Liza raised her voice. “I’m not talking about the damn company, Eli.” She changed to a softer tone. “The criminal charges are against me.”

  The waitress served Eli’s sandwich and Liza’s tea. The barbeque was piled high on the sandwich. She took a drink. Eli’s mouth watered. But it didn’t seem the appropriate time for a mouthful. He wondered whether Liza expected him to help her in a criminal investigation. The only assistance he could offer was what he knew about the company. And what might have happened in the operating room.

  “Do you still think the cause was device failure?”

  “Yes, it had to be. We were practically finished with the operation. An aberrant signal must have activated the robotic arm and caused the vascular injury.” Liza picked up her tea, then set the glass down without drinking. “Don’t you believe me?”

  Eli answered indirectly. “There was an interesting occurrence during the robotic conference.”

  “Occurrence?”

  “During the simulation, one of the trocars slipped. Tore the gallbladder. If that had occurred in a real patient, it would have been disastrous.”

  Liza nodded, replying only when Eli finished the description. “That’s exactly what happened in the operation, Eli. Exactly. What did Bass do?”

  “He blew it off, moved on to the next simulation.”

  “There must be a defect in their robotic system. A fatal defect. They won’t let me near the equipment or the company any longer. You have to help me prove they’re at fault.”

  “And how would I do that?”

  Liza was quick with an answer. “The company keeps a log of the robotic functions.”

  “A log?”

  “The computer records each robotic movement. They use the data for training and quality control.”

  Eli understood. “Fewer and more precise movements,” he said, “increase the efficiency of the operation.”

  “Exactly. I review the records on all my operations. The company wants to record the data routinely, on all operations using their robotic instruments.”

  “So,” Eli said, “let’s assume the data were recorded during the operation.”

  “Then there’s a record of every movement I made,” she said.

  “And?”

  “The complication occurred after I stopped using the robot. If there were additional movements recorded, then the device was at fault, not me.”

  “But the robot doesn’t move on its own, Liza. Human initiation is always required.”

  “Is it?”

  “Unless you’re in the movies.”

  Liza smirked. “Funny, Mr. Spielberg. But consider this.” Liza wiggled her butt and scooted closer to the table. “The robot is run by computer, right.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What happens if a virus infects the computer?”

  “The system goes haywire.”

  “Exactly. If that happens on your home or office computer, you might lose some files. No big deal. But what if a virus infects the computer that happens to run your surgical robot?”

  Eli imagined the destructive chaos that might erupt. But he wasn’t ready to buy into Liza’s theory just yet.

  “What if there is a record?” Eli said, using finger quotations for emphasis. “You think they’re going to hand that over with a little bow on top?”

  Liza shook her head. “Not to me, they won’t.” She winked at him and then said, “I’m sorry I let your sandwich get cold.”

  Eli assumed their discussion was over. He looked down at his plate.

  “There’s something else I want you to know.”

  Eli didn’t like the personal tone of her words.

  With her fingers, Liza brushed her hair behind her ears, as if preparing herself. “After our internship, I took a year off. Remember?”

  “Sure, I remember.”

  “Did you ever wonder why?”

  Eli looked across the room at no one in particular. “The intern year was hell on all of us.”

  “It was more than that.”

  “Liza, I don’t—”

  She grabbed his hand. “Yes, I need to tell you.” She eased back into the booth seat. “I was pregnant.”

  Eli stared at her. “You had a child after our internship?”

  “No. I lost the baby, first trimester.”

  Eli didn’t know what to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Liza kept her focus on Eli and waited.

  “No,” Eli said. “There’s no way.”

  “The baby was yours, Eli.”

  “We were together one time, Liza.”

  She flashed her bedroom eyes. “Once was enough.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “I was going to, but I didn’t want to ruin your life, too.”

  “So you decided to do that now?”

  “That was the only time I’ve been able to get pregnant, Eli. I know people think I’m a cold, hard bitch, but all I really want is another chance to have a baby.”

  Eli stood. He looked down at the uneaten pile of barbeque. All of a sudden,
he was no longer hungry.

  “I’m sorry, Eli, but I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.”

  He placed a twenty dollar bill on the table. “I’ve got to go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Outside the restaurant, in the blaring midday sun, Eli squinted to see the number on his cell phone. The number looked vaguely familiar. The kind you hope is just an old friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. The kind you answer hesitantly, then realize answering is a mistake.

  “Dr. Branch? This is Detective Lipsky, Memphis Police Department.”

  Eli said nothing. The last time he had seen or heard from Nate Lipsky, Eli was in intensive care with a fresh wound on his neck and a left hand he could barely feel. He had all but forgotten about the detective. Until now.

  “How are you, my friend?”

  “I’m making it.”

  “Good,” Lipsky said. “That’s good. Look, I need some medical advice.”

  Eli relaxed a little. Medical advice usually meant one of a few possibilities: seeking antibiotics that won’t help a lingering viral respiratory illness, an “ask your doctor” question about some new drug advertised on TV, or something legitimate, like a sick relative needing a referral. Eli could handle anything but police procedural crap. He prepared to take care of this quickly and send the detective on his way.

  “What?” Eli asked. “You catch the drip from a lady friend?”

  “No,” Lipsky snickered. “I haven’t been that lucky.”

  More silence.

  “I need you to look at some pictures for me.”

  “Pictures?”

  “A couple of homicides got me stumped.”

  There was that word again, Eli thought. Homicide. Why do I keep getting pulled into murder investigations?

  “I’m a surgeon, remember? We prefer to keep people alive. Homicide is your business.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

  Eli tried to wait him out but it didn’t work. “And you need a surgeon to look at these pictures because?”

  “I think you could help,” Lipsky said. “Someone’s been operating without a license.”

  Lipsky was already seated at a booth in CK’s coffee shop when Eli arrived. To hide his disability, Eli kept his hand hidden at his side as he walked in. He stopped near the cashier and located the detective. Lipsky extended his hand, and Eli returned a strong grip with his right.

  “Have a seat,” Lipsky said.

  Eli slid into the booth just as their waitress appeared.

  “What can I get you fellas?”

  She was large and out of breath, sweat gathered in creases on her forehead.

  “Cup of coffee,” Lipsky said. “Black.”

  She turned to Eli.

  “Coldest Coke you got, please.”

  The waitress left and Eli noticed that Lipsky was staring at his neck. No matter what shirt he wore, the tip of his scar from the neck injury was visible just above his collar. He had to leave a bit of razor stubble on both sides of the raised incision.

  “Healed pretty well,” Lipsky said.

  “Makes shaving a lot of fun.”

  “I bet. Back in the OR yet?”

  Eli raised his left arm, kept all his fingers curled for the effect. “With this hand?”

  Lipsky nodded. “Guess not. No one wants a surgeon who can’t wipe his own ass.”

  Eli smiled. “Got a way with words, don’t you, Lipsky?”

  “I get the Word of the Day sent to my computer. Know what today’s is?”

  “Please tell me.”

  “Pu-tre-fac-tion.” Lipsky said it slowly, syllable by syllable. “Apropos, don’t you think?”

  Eli thought of the peculiar timing of this word that summarized the state of the city. Garbage festering, maggots multiplying, heat-bloated bodies yet to be found.

  “Apropos?”

  “Last week’s word.”

  Eli nodded. “Should have known.”

  Without picking it up, Lipsky slid the first of two large photographs across the table.

  Eli glanced at the close-up image of a bare ankle, a gashed out hole on top of the foot.

  The waitress brought Lipsky’s coffee and a glass full of ice. She held Eli’s can of Coke under her arm, a little too close to her armpit. She popped the top, filled his glass, and returned to the kitchen.

  Eli gave the photo back to Lipsky without saying a word.

  Lipsky pushed another one in front of him. This image showed the lower half of a face, dried blood in the corner of the mouth. The detective gave him a few moments, then asked, “What do you make of this?”

  Eli looked up. “Both photos the same person?”

  “Two different victims.” He held up the first glossy print. “Two days ago.” He pointed to the one in Eli’s hand. “Yesterday.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Both bodies are in the morgue. Examiner’s a tad backed up, what with all the heat deaths.”

  Lipsky pulled two more photos from his front pocket. Eli took them willingly this time, his curiosity piqued. One showed a close-up of the bone from the first victim’s foot. The other revealed the reason for blood on the mouth—the victim’s tongue.

  Eli tried to hide any reaction to the photos. He knew Lipsky was watching his face closely for any hint that he might help him. Eli found himself squinting to see details within the picture so he tried to relax. He took another glance at both photos and placed them face down in front of Lipsky.

  “It’s odd, I agree,” Eli said. “But then again, this is Memphis.”

  Lipsky waited for Eli to say more. The doctor remained silent. “What if I told you the first victim was an anal-theist?”

  Confused, Eli said, “Come again?”

  “You know, one of those assistant anal-theso-tologists.”

  Eli smiled. “You mean anesthetist?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “So?”

  “And the other victim, she was a nurse. Two deaths, two days, both of them medical types.”

  “Where were they found?”

  “Downtown. The first in an abandoned warehouse. The woman, at an old wrestling arena.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Lipsky. World’s a dangerous place.”

  Lipsky reached into his front pocket again. “One other thing before you go, doc.” He handed Eli the pieces of sketched canvas found at the two crime scenes.

  Eli looked at the first one, then switched to the second, each piece the size of a plastic CD case. He didn’t have to look back at the photos to appreciate an exact rendering of the foot bone and tongue.

  “Nice work,” Eli told him. “You have quite an artist down at the police station.”

  Lipsky shook his head. “Not our work. Whoever killed these people left these cards at the crime scene.”

  Eli studied the pieces again. At the bottom of each, the letters H.C. were inscribed.

  “HC?” he asked.

  “Beats me,” Lipsky said. “Mean anything to you?”

  Eli gave the cards back to the detective. “Not a thing.”

  “Anything else about the photos?” Lipsky asked, turning both of them face up. The crease on Eli’s forehead reappeared.

  “No, not really.”

  “Okay,” Lipsky said, standing to leave. “Good to see you again, doc.”

  “Let me see those pieces of canvas again,” Eli requested.

  Lipsky complied and remained standing while Eli examined them. Moments later, Eli returned only the sketch of the tongue to the detective.

  “Let me keep this one,” Eli said, holding onto the illustration of the foot bone.

  Lipsky laughed. “No way, doc. That’s evidence from a murder scene. Are you kidding?”

  Eli handed the sketch back. “Okay, I just thought you wanted my help.”

  Lipsky looked at the card without taking it. “If you lose that, they’ll have my ass.”

  “Trust me,” Eli said. “I’m a doctor.
”

  “Yeah, right. Sometimes I wonder.”

  Before Lipsky walked away, Eli asked, “Did the bodies go to the medical center?”

  This made Lipsky smile, as though the exact question he hoped to hear.

  “Yeah, both of them should be there,” Lipsky said. Then, using his hands, the detective mimed the outline of a curvaceous figure. “Hanging out in the morgue with your lady friend.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Like most temporary hotels for the dead, the morgue was located in the basement. Lately, freezer space at the University of the Mid-South Medical Center had been choked full of ripening summer kill, and an additional cool room had been constructed to keep the mounting bodies just below the temperature of decay. The forensic pathologist had triaged the bodies, stacking those who had died from heat-related causes in the cool room while reserving prime freezer space for suspected homicides. Two bodies in particular, both with odd wounds, had risen to the top of an overbooked autopsy schedule.

  Eli had not entered the autopsy suite in over a month. He needed a reason to return, and now that Lipsky had shown him the photos, he had more than enough reason.

  But Eli’s real need to be there was pathologist Meg Daily. After the heat of the previous investigation had cooled down, so had their relationship. Following Eli’s release from the hospital after an emergent operation to repair his injuries, the yachting trip they had planned fell through when Meg’s diabetic daughter became ill again. It was all fantasy anyway. Even though the trip was a gift from one of Eli’s wealthy patients, neither Eli nor his pathologist companion would have taken off work and sailed the ocean for two weeks. After the cancelled trip, a week turned into two. Then six weeks passed, and they had not spoken a word to each other.

  Eli pushed open the doors to the Pathology Suite. As though she’d been waiting for him, the receptionist, Miss Conch, sat at her desk, arms folded over her first of several stomach rolls.

  “You’ve got some nerve coming through those doors.”

  Eli expected this. Conch had been the gatekeeper for the autopsy suite for nearly two decades, a position equivalent to the grand hostess at a cadaver ball.