Public Anatomy (12 page)

“Who found her?” Lipsky directed his question to McCormick, the senior officer. Twenty years on the force afforded him an accurate detection of experience.

“Cleaning crew,” McCormick said. Then he corrected himself. “I say crew. Really, just one old man here early to empty the ashtrays. Called nine-one-one when he saw the body.”

“From a cell phone?”

“Yeah, think so.”

Lipsky looked at the officer who hadn’t said a word. “Them things come in handy, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

The victim’s face was hidden by a tangled mass of reddish-brown hair that fell forward, bathing in a pool of saliva and blood.

Lipsky leaned in close. “What do we know?”

“Turns out, the old man knew her. Said she’s a big wrestling fan. Volunteers in the ticket office to promote the matches.”

Lipsky removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Gently, he raised the woman’s head by pulling back on her hair. Her face was smashed with creases from the hard boards of the table. She appeared to be in her mid- to late fifties but the lines made it hard to tell. The saliva-blood pool had started to thicken and congeal, and a gelatinous bridge ran from her mouth to the table. There were no visible signs of trauma, except that her mouth gaped open. Her jaw was slack, too slack.

Lipsky let the head fall back into place and looked at the ash bucket on the table. It was in the same location as the others, center of the table, a couple of feet from the victim. Instead of showing the butt-end of cigarettes crammed into sand, a white handkerchief covered the metal bucket. Lipsky saw a thick paper card propped against the bucket, similar to the one found by the victim in the cotton warehouse. The card sat slightly askew as if the sides were uneven. The detailed drawing on it made Lipsky wonder what he was about to find. He looked at the younger officer, whose crew cut was so close Lipsky could see his scalp.

“We haven’t touched it.”

Lipsky reached for the corner of the handkerchief. His stomach drew tight up in his chest.

Beside old cigarette butts, an oval-shaped piece of meat lay on the sand. Smooth on the surface and rounded on one end, it was the size of a four-ounce steak. A jagged cut had severed the other end, and nubbins of tissue, like ligaments, splayed across the sand.

McCormick leaned over the table to get a better look. “What the—?”

“It’s her tongue,” Lipsky said. The drawing on the thick paper card depicted exactly what Lipsky saw in the bucket.

Crew cut pulled his head back quickly and let out a long grunt. “Her tongue?”

“Yeah.” Lipsky pointed at the tissue attachments. “It’s been cut way back at the base.”

“What the hell’s that about?” McCormick asked.

Lipsky said nothing. He thought about the warehouse victim. How a bone from the foot had been cut out and set apart, as if on display. Similar type case. Except this was a female, missing her tongue.

At five a.m., Thomas Greenway parked his Mazda on the side street beside Liza’s house. Looking west, toward the river, he saw a blue-gray hint of dawn surfacing at the horizon. But among the houses of Victorian Village, night still dominated. Greenway did not ring the doorbell. He didn’t knock. Nor did Layla let him in. The chief resident entered Liza’s house with a key given to him by its owner. He climbed the stairs to the third-story office, not pausing at the bedroom of Layla, whom he assumed was fast asleep.

The door to Liza’s office was cracked open, a faint light from inside. Liza sat at her desk wearing a fleece robe pulled close to her neck. Both hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee, as though it were mid-winter and not the middle of a heat wave. She showed no surprise upon seeing him.

“What did you tell them?”

He stepped inside the room and closed the door. “I told them you were a hot piece of ass.”

Liza sipped her coffee. “They already knew that. What else?”

“That you liked it when I—”

“Shut up and just tell me.”

He sat in a chair in front of her desk. She, the attending surgeon. Him, the resident reporting for duty. He leaned over the desk, arms folded across a thick slab of dark oak.

“I told them the death occurred because of an equipment malfunction. Device failure. ‘The robot,’” he put that term in quotation marks, “did not respond to your input, doctor. Isn’t that what you told me to say?”

“And their response?”

He shrugged. “They’re a bunch of damn lawyers. They just wrote in their yellow notebooks. What did you expect them to say?”

“Do you think they bought it?”

He leaned back in the seat. “Yeah, I think they did.”

This seemed to please her. Liza stood. She walked to the front of her desk and sat sideways with one foot on the floor, one foot dangling. Her robe parted up to her hip. “Did you tell them what else I liked?”

His eyes followed the curve of her thigh until it was obvious the robe was all she had on. She twisted, raised her foot off the floor until it rested in his lap. Using the tips of his thumbs, he kneaded the ball of her foot, slow circular motions that made her writhe.

Liza pressed the tips of her fingers into her lower abdomen and straightened her back, took a few shallow breaths through pursed lips.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Liza relaxed her shoulders and exhaled. “I’ve had a few sharp pains.”

“You should have it checked out.”

“I did,” she said. “I had Brenner do an ultrasound in the clinic.” She rubbed a spot at her waistline and smiled. “Everybody’s fine.”

Liza continued to smile at him.

“What?”

“You’re worried about us.”

“Look, Liza. I’m glad for you. I really am. But for me, it was a business transaction. Nothing more. You wanted this. I agreed to help.”

“To help? I think you did more than help.”

“I don’t want to be involved. That was the agreement.”

Liza rolled her eyes. “So technical. Agreements. Transactions.” She ran her foot down the side of his leg. “To use
your
terminology, our little merger was not only successful—but fantastic as well.”

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.”

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.