Brainwaves, page 27
part #8 of Joanna Blalock Series
Bondurant left the laboratory, still thinking about Karen Crandell’s incredible invention. She had been so far ahead of the others. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to discuss her work with anybody. Why share the rewards and glory when you could have them all to yourself?
Bondurant walked through a dark reception area and into his office. Stepping over to a builtin bookshelf, he removed several bound journals, exposing a small wall safe. He carefully turned the dial and opened the safe, then extracted a thick folder labeled nasa. Inside it were Karen Crandell’s research data, as well as letters and summaries to NASA.
Bondurant placed the folder on his desk and opened it, then returned Karen Crandell’s typed instructions to its original position. The discovery had
to be worth a Nobel Prize, he thought again. The research money would flow in faster than he could spend it. And he would expand the BRI to include another floor. As he closed the folder, he noticed a box of fish food on his desk and remembered he hadn’t fed his fish.
Bondurant faced the big fish tank and began sprinkling in food. The exotic fish swarmed back and forth to the food, eagerly snapping up the particles. Bondurant watched their graceful movements intently. They reminded him of a beautiful ballet. He began humming under his breath, delighted with the way things were going. He decided to reward himself with a new, even larger fish tank. He sprinkled in a little more fish food.
Bondurant didn’t sense the intruder creeping up behind him. Nor did he hear the swish of the cane that split his head wide open.
29
“We’re there,” Dr. Alan Shipman announced. “The catheter is in place about a centimeter away from the clot.”
Todd Shuster and Lori McKay looked over at the monitor screen. The blood clot had now occluded 85 percent of Joanna’s left middle cerebral artery. It was all clot with no surrounding bleeding. But the size of the clot worried Lori. And so did the fact that the artery was almost totally blocked. There had to be some damage to Joanna’s brain. But how much? Lori wondered for the hundredth time.
“Are you ready with the streptokinase?” Shipman asked.
“Ready,” Shuster replied.
“Then let’s inject twenty thousand units.”
Shuster pushed the plunger on the syringe. “Done.”
“All we can do now is hope,” Shipman said guardedly. “We’ll watch her here for a few minutes before we take her back to the I.C.U.”
Lori continued to stare at the monitor, wishing that the blood clot in Joanna’s brain would magically disappear. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. They’d just given Joanna a loading dose of streptokiNASE
and that would be followed by a slow infusion of the clot-dissolving agent. At least twenty minutes would pass before the clot showed any appreciable change in size. And that meant at least another twenty minutes before the blood flow was restored. There had to be a fair amount of brain damage aleady present.
She sighed sadly and looked over at Shipman. “Is there any way to tell whether she’s suffered permanent brain damage?”
“Not from this monitor,” Shipman said. “We’d need an MRI to determine if she’s had an actual infarct.”
Lori swallowed hard. An infarct meant dead brain tissue that could never repair itself. “Do you think she’s had an infarct?”
Shipman shrugged. “We’ll find out after we’ve gotten rid of this clot.”
“Oh, Lord,” Lori muttered under her breath.
“But even if the MRI is normal, there could still be loss of function,” Shuster said, and pointed at the monitor’s screen. “Dr. Blalock’s clot is virtually identical to the one Mr. Gladstone had. It’s the same size and in the exact same location. And Mr. Gladstone’s MRI was normal, but he still had a terrible memory deficit.”
“Who is this Mr. Gladstone?” Shipman asked.
“The last patient Dr. Crandell used her device on,” Shuster told him. “The clot dissolved, but the poor guy ended up with no short-term memory. He could remember everything that happened prior to his stroke, but after the stroke he could store away new information for only a few minutes before it disappeared. He could remember his own name but not
yours, even if you repeated it to him a hundred times.”
“Oh, yes,” Shipman said, nodding. “I heard about that patient. He’s the one who can’t find his way to the bathroom unless he refers to an index card that tells him how to get there.”
Shuster nodded back. “But he’s getting better. His recent recall is now up to five hours.”
“Well, at least he’s becoming functional,” Shipman thought aloud.
“In a very limited way,” Shuster said. “If you walked into his room right now and asked him what he’d had for dinner, he’d tell you. But he couldn’t tell you what he’d had for lunch or breakfast, even if his life depended on it.”
A small red light began flashing on the monitor.
Shipman turned quickly to Shuster. “What does that red light indicate?”
Shuster hesitated, trying to recall Karen Crandell’s exact words. “I think Dr. Crandell said that means the device is ready to transmit the signals to an outside computer which will make the picture a lot clearer.”
“Should I push the button next to it?” Shipman asked.
“Right,” Shuster said. “And hold it for a few seconds before you release it.”
Shipman pressed the button and watched the light turn green. He glanced over at the picture on the screen. “It looks the same to me.”
“Maybe it’s for one of the monitors in Dr. Crandell’s office,” Shuster guessed.
“But her office is unoccupied,” Lori said.
Shuster shook his head. “Scuttlebutt has it that Dr. Moran is moving into that laboratory space.”
Shipman’s dislike for the man came out instantly. “It doesn’t take long for the vulture to start picking over the bones, does it?”
Shuster nodded. “Well, at least he can’t claim credit for Dr. Crandell’s work.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Shipman looked over at the row of monitors. Joanna’s vital signs were stable. There was no evidence of an allergic reaction to streptokinase and no bleeding around the clot. “All right, let’s move her upstairs.”
A soft beeping sound came from the monitor showing the blood clot.
“What does that mean?” Shipman asked.
“That all systems are go,” Shuster answered. “If you push the button again, all the connections will hook up and run on automatic.”
Shipman pressed down on the button. The beeping stopped. “Let’s move it!”
“What time did he actually die?” Jake asked.
Gupta removed the thermometer from Evan Bondurant anus and read it. “Approximately twelve hours ago.”
“Which means he got whacked around ten o’clock last night.”
“Correct.”
“About the same time Karen Crandell was killed.”
Gupta shrugged. “So?”
“So it seems our killer is a creature of habit.”
Jake scanned the crime scene once more. Evan Bondurant was lying facedown, the back of his head bashed in. Some of his blood and brain had splattered onto the glass fish tank. The objects on Bondurant’s
desk were neatly arranged except for a box of fish food that had spilled over. Jake glanced over at the opened wall safe, then turned back to Gupta. “You got any ideas on what kind of weapon the killer used?”
“I would guess a blunt instrument of some sort.”
“So would I,” Jake said. “And chances are it’s made out of wood.”
Gupta squinted an eye. “How do you know that?”
“Because the weapon that killed Karen Crandell was made of hardwood.” Jake told Gupta about the wooden splinters found in Karen’s head, but didn’t mention the varnish that covered them or the fact that they most likely came from an oak cane. “According to Joanna, the splinters were very small.”
“Then we shall look carefully for them,” Gupta said, his face becoming sad. “I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Blalock. Is her condition as serious as they say?”
Jake nodded slowly. “It’s bad.”
“I’m certain everybody is praying for her,” Gupta said solemnly.
Everybody but the person who pushed her, Jake wanted to say. A picture of Joanna with a bloodied, bandaged head flashed into his mind. With effort he pushed the image aside. “Let’s get back to the splinters. If you find any, I want them so we can compare them to the ones we found in Karen Crandell’s skull.”
Gupta took out a large magnifying glass and cleaned it with a Kleenex. “I’ll examine the wound now, but the chances of finding splinters will be much greater at autopsy. What color is the wood I’m searching for?”
“Brown.”
Jake watched the medical examiner kneel down, then glanced around the office and wondered if the killer had been hiding, waiting for Bondurant to enter. The room was large with a teak coffee table and leather couch at the rear, but it had no closets or adjoining rooms other than the reception area. There was no place to hide. The killer must have followed Bondurant into the office. Just like he followed Karen Crandell into hers.
“A very wicked blow here,” Gupta commented.
With a solid oak cane, Jake was willing to bet. He could envision Christopher Moran sneaking up behind Bondurant and cracking his head open like a ripe melon.
Jake spun around as Farelli hurried in. “You got something?”
“I got good and I got bad,” Farelli said.
“Let’s start with the bad.”
“Nobody saw a damn thing. The last person to see Bondurant alive was his secretary, who left just before six.”
“And the good?”
Farelli muffled a cough. “I think the perp went to Karen Crandell’s office first.”
“How do you figure that?”
“When Ann Novack came in this morning, the lamp on Karen Crandell’s desk was on,” Farelli told him. “And the lamp shade was red-hot, which meant it had probably been on overnight.”
Jake considered the possibilities. “Maybe the cleaning crew turned it on and forgot to switch it off.”
Farelli shook his head. “According to the technician, the cleaning crew uses only the ceiling lights and they always turn them off when they’re finished. And
the technician is sure the lamp was off when she left last night.”
“So somebody was in Karen Crandell’s office snooping around.”
“Looks that way,” Farelli said, scratching his temple. “But why go back in there? That office has been gone over with a fine-tooth comb and there’s nothing in there.”
Jake thought for a moment, then said, “Except for those machines.”
“Which were examined by experts who found zilch,” Farelli countered.
“Maybe they missed something.” Jake clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the room, trying to reconstruct the sequence of events that led up to the murder. “Let’s say the perp goes into Karen Crandell’s office and finds part of what he’s looking for. And he knows that Bondurant has the other part. So he goes down to Bondurant’s office and sneaks into the reception area. He peeks in as Bondurant is opening the wall safe.”
“Maybe the perp opened the safe,” Farelli opined.
Jake waved away the suggestion. “Research doctors don’t know how to crack safes.”
“Right,” Farelli had to agree.
“Anyhow,” Jake went on, “the perp watches Bondurant open the safe and waits for him to go over to feed the fish.”
“How do you know he was feeding the fish?”
“He had fish food particles on his fingertips,” Jake explained. “And there was an open box of fish food on his desk.”
“So while his back was turned,” Farelli picked up the story, “the perp whacked him.”
“And cleaned out the safe.”
“I wonder what was in the safe.”
“Apparently something worth killing for.”
The detectives walked out of the office and past Evan Bondurant’s secretary. She sat stiffly at her desk, with a stunned look on her face.
In the corridor a uniformed policeman nodded as they walked by.
Jake said quietly, “Everything going on here revolves around Karen Crandell’s research. Somebody wants to get their hands on it real bad.”
“Which means the perp has got to be a doctor working in the BRI. It’s got to be somebody who knew what Karen Crandell was working on.”
Jake nodded. “It’s either Moran or the Rudds.”
Farelli took out his notepad. “Who do you want to start with?”
“The Rudds.”
The door to the Rudds’ office was open. The twins were seated at a large metal table, speaking to one another in whispers. They jumped to their feet as the detectives entered.
Jake waved them back down. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”
“Sure,” Albert said. “We’ll do anything to help.”
Jake eyed the twins’ expressions carefully, looking for shock or grief. He saw neither. “When was the last time you saw Evan Bondurant alive?”
“Around seven last night,” Benjamin replied promptly. “We were on our way out.”
“Yeah. We were in the corridor,” Albert added.
Jake asked, “Did you take the elevator down?”
Albert nodded and, anticipating the next question, said, “And we both signed out.”
“Do you two usually leave around seven?”
“Naw,” Benjamin said. “That’s an early exit for us, but we wanted to get home and watch the Lakers game on TV.”
“Who won?” Jake asked.
“The Lakers by ten,” Albert replied. “But it was a good game.”
“Shaq was fantastic,” Benjamin said admiringly. “He scored thirty points.”
“Did you see anything unusual on your way out of the BRI?”
Benjamin shook his head. “Everything was quiet.”
Jake turned to Farelli. “Do you have any questions?”
“Just one.” Farelli flipped a page in his notepad. “Did you two watch the Lakers pregame show?”
“We—ah—we didn’t get home until after the game started,” Albert stammered.
“So you didn’t see the pregame show,” Farelli pressed.
“No.”
Jake smiled to himself and nodded to the twins. “Thanks for your time.”
The detectives walked out and down the corridor, heading for Christopher Moran’s office. They didn’t speak until they were well out of earshot from the Rudds’ office.
Jake asked, “You figure the Rudds taped the Lakers game on their
VCR?”
“Could be,” Farelli said in a low voice. “The TV Guide listed the game to start at seven-thirty. So that’s the time the Rudds would have set their VCR for. If that’s the case, they wouldn’t have seen the pregame show.”
Jake grumbled under his breath. “Well, they’ve got an excuse around that, don’t they? They said they turned on their TV set after the game had started.”
Farelli nodded. “That’s one of the advantages of living with your twin. You can back up each other’s alibi.”
They stopped talking as they passed an opened door with two technicians peering out.
Farelli waited until they were past the elevators, then continued, “But if the twins did sign out at seven, they would have had to reenter the building-assuming they were the ones who iced Evan Bondurant.”
“That wouldn’t have been a problem,” Jake said. “Only the front entrance is guarded around the clock. The glass-enclosed bridge is left unguarded until nine p.m. So they could have come back in that way. And Gupta says Bondurant got whacked between nine and ten, which means the twins could have gotten back in the BRI and iced Bondurant while their VCR was recording the Lakers game.”
Farelli’s brow went up. “You think they did it?”
“It’s either them or Moran. Take your pick.”
They entered Christopher Moran’s office and approached the secretary.
“Is Dr. Moran in?” Jake asked.
“No, sir,” the secretary answered. “He’s in surgery.”
“What’s his schedule like today?”
The secretary reached for a typed sheet in her desk and read it quickly. “He has a craniotomy which started at eight o’clock, and he has a rhizotomy scheduled at one-thirty.”
“Could you call the OR and see if he’ll have any free time between the surgeries?” Jake requested.
“Of course,” the secretary said, and reached for her phone.
Jake looked into Moran’s office with its large Victorian desk and colorless decor. He poked his head in and glanced at the rack of canes attached to the rear wall. His eyes suddenly widened. One cane was missing. Quickly he checked the floor to see if it had fallen off. It hadn’t.
“He won’t have any free time,” the secretary called over to him. “Apparently they’re having some complications with the first case.”
“We’ll check back later,” Jake said and led the way out.
Halfway to the elevator, Jake said in a whisper, “Guess what’s missing from Christopher Moran’s office.”
“What?”
“One of his canes,” Jake told him. “A slot on the cane rack is empty.”
Farelli gave Jake a long look. “You figure he’s made his first big mistake?”
“Maybe,” Jake said. “But there’s something here that bothers me.”
“Like what?”
“Like why did Moran go to the trouble of replacing the damaged cane the first time around, but not the next? That doesn’t make sense. It’s a dumb move.”
“Maybe he got rattled.”
“Cold-blooded killers don’t get rattled.”
