Public Anatomy (28 page)

SurgCast.

What an innovation.

Log on at home or work or the library, and watch controlled, sterile violence.

The reality of surgery is all there. The knife, the incision, the blood. It couldn’t be more real unless smoke from the cauterized tissue was blown in through the computer’s speakers, unless the abdominal organs were projected on a 3-D tactile instrument so the viewer could feel the slippery layer of blood. Maybe next year.

But cutting on the human body does not produce as predictable a result as most reality shows do. Through a technological glitch, the customary fifteen-second delay did not occur and SurgCast broadcast the death of a patient to thousands of viewers. The video made it to a popular Internet site before being yanked due to its graphic nature.

Eli was convinced the answer to the murders lay hidden within the events of that fatal operation, even though the names of the operative personnel did not match the names of the victims.

Liza supposedly had left town and wasn’t available for questions. What an odd time to attend a surgical conference. Her absence in the midst of the murders and ongoing investigation was a little too convenient.

If tapes had been made of the operation, Eli thought, that would be better than anyone’s recollection of events in the operating room.

Eli looked up the number of SurgCast, listed as a Boston area code. He imagined the woman who answered to be sitting at a reception desk with a bank of blinking phone lines. When Eli identified himself as a
physician from Gates Memorial Hospital, he was immediately put on hold. Another female voice answered, identified herself as the company’s legal representative. Eli suspected that SurgCast was well prepared for this call. To even the playing field, he decided his advantage lay in posing as a representative of the hospital’s legal office.

“Hi. This is Tom Barnes. I represent Gates Memorial Hospital.”

After this fabricated introduction, Eli requested the transcription of the audio recording made during the operation. “To facilitate our internal investigation,” he added. He assumed the video recording would not be available.

“We’ve already discussed this,” the attorney told him. “The videotapes are sequestered and can—” She stopped. She obviously had not anticipated a request for the written transcript.

Eli didn’t give her time to deflect the request. “We need to compare the transcript with the transcribed operative report.” He was on a roll, still not used to how easily the lies were coming. “We discussed that, remember? The video recording is sequestered, but disclosure of the transcripts was approved by your company’s president.”

“Yes, I … I know,” she stammered, as though she had been left out of the loop. This made her eager to help. “Do you need both transcripts?”

“Both?”

“You know, the latest transcript and the one from the incident six months ago.”

The first operative death.

“Yes, both transcripts, of course.”

“Okay, I’ll fax them to the hospital’s legal office.”

“Great,” Eli said. “But let me give you a different fax number.”

“A different fax?”

“I’m working out of my second office today.” From a piece of scrap paper in his wallet, he gave her Meg’s fax number in the morgue.

Moonlight reflected off the river, transforming the muddy water into a broad silver lake. As Eli traveled along the shore road to his apartment, he saw a single light from a boat far upstream. The river served as Eli’s muse. Throughout medical school and even now, his best critical thinking could be accomplished by simply staring at the rippled brown waves as they pushed incessantly toward the Gulf.

It was close to midnight, no one on the road, and even the mighty Mississippi had not helped him figure out what Liza French was up to. Maybe she was just sickened by the events of the past few days and needed to get away or hide out at home. Maybe she was running. Either way, Eli felt the investigation into the death of her patient was strangled by her absence. Maybe she could release the chokehold—if he could find her.

The road to his apartment ran straight, with only a few dips and curves that Eli took instinctively while he continued to stare at the river. His new living arrangement was nothing like the luxury of his bungalow in Harbor Town where he lived a few weeks ago. His apartment building sat near the edge of a small bluff. Willow trees engulfed the bank that slid down into the muddy water. For all practical purposes, it was modest-rent housing with a view of the river, aptly named Riverview Apartments. Just before turning into the complex, he was startled by the sudden appearance of a man in the middle of the road.

Eli braked to a stop. Facing the river, in a tan-colored raincoat, the man did not move. Eli recognized him and immediately rolled down his window.

“Professor Salyer?”

As though expecting Eli to arrive at that moment, the old man said, “Hypnotic, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Twain said the Mississippi River will always have its own way; no engineering skill can persuade it to do otherwise.” Salyer turned to face Eli. “Damn son of a bitch was right.”

Eli got out and stood between Salyer and the river. There was no car parked nearby, nothing, as though Salyer had materialized from air.

“How did you get here?”

A smile crossed Salyer’s face. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming home tonight.”

He had a particular knack of answering questions off sequence.

“How long have you been standing here?”

“Had one of my grad students drive me.” He motioned to the apartment building. “I didn’t know which one of those cubbyholes was yours.”

Eli cupped a hand under Salyer’s elbow and turned him toward his car. “Get in. I’ll show you.”

With a firm grip, Salyer grabbed Eli’s wrists. “I’ve come to tell you how the next victim will die.”

During the short ride to Eli’s apartment, Salyer said nothing more about the murders. Instead, he told of the three people who had stopped driving along the river, each one asking if they could help him. Salyer seemed surprised they were willing to talk to a total stranger at night.

Especially an old man dressed like a flasher, Eli thought.

Salyer had asked each of them to direct him to the home of Dr. Eli Branch, surgeon at the medical center, son of a medical school professor. He emphasized that not one of them had any idea whom he was talking about.

“That’s because I’ve rented here for only a couple of weeks.” Eli turned into his driveway. “I don’t even know my next door neighbor.”

They entered the sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment.

“I understand,” Salyer said. “I’ve lived in Oxford for almost ten years and barely know my neighbors. They’ve brought over casseroles and
cakes, invited me to church I don’t know how many times.” Salyer shook his head. “I don’t need any of that.” He sank deep into Eli’s couch.

Eli knocked around in the kitchen. He wanted to offer his former professor a drink but found only one can of beer in the fridge and a warm bottle of Chardonnay one of his patients had given him. He offered both to Salyer.

“Not to worry,” Salyer said. He reached into his pocket and produced a bottle of George Dickel. “Grab a couple of glasses.”

Eli returned with the smallest water glasses he owned. Salyer poured and offered a toast. “To life on the Mississippi.”

They clinked glasses and sipped. Eli liked a cold beer or glass of wine, and he liked margaritas with a rim of salt. But he was less accustomed to straight whiskey. He swirled it around in his mouth and felt his tongue catch fire. Clenching his jaw, he blew out the excess vapor, swallowed, and said, “Tell me about the next killing.”

Salyer took another generous swig of whiskey as if it were lemonade. “The next death will occur by removal of the brain. A male brain.”

Eli followed Salyer’s lead. Took another sip. His tongue was a little numb now and the liquor went down smoothly. “I thought you were going to tell me I was right about Vesalius and the pattern of dissections.”

Salyer lifted his glass in another toast. “You were right about Vesalius, my friend. But you had the wrong manuscript.”

“Wrong manuscript?”

Salyer leaned forward. He held his glass with both hands, swirled the liquid, inhaled. “At first, it appeared the killer was following the
Fabrica
, using it as a guide. The bone from the first victim, the tongue of the second. But then the pattern changed.”

“Or there never was a pattern,” Eli offered.

“Oh, but there is a pattern, Eli. I didn’t see it either, when you visited me in Oxford. The order of bone, muscle, stomach—definitely not the
Fabrica.”
Another swig. “But yesterday, I read in the newspaper about the woman at the planetarium. Bone, muscle, stomach, and then the fourth organ, the
Heart
. That’s when I knew.”

Eli shook his head, frustrated. “I’m not following you. Knew what?”

Salyer placed his empty glass on Eli’s coffee table, stood, and started pacing. Eli saw his persona change to that of teacher.

“Almost the same time the
Fabrica
was published, Vesalius published his
Epitome
, an abbreviated, more reader-friendly version of the
Fabrica
, if you will. It was good for students, those who wished a quicker reference to human anatomy without the minutiae.”

“What does this have to do with the killer’s pattern?”

Salyer poured another glass and gestured the bottle toward Eli.

Eli let him refill his glass just to keep the man talking.

“As an abbreviated version of the
Fabrica
, the
Epitome
contained only six books, not seven.” Salyer pointed to each organ on himself as he called out the order of the books, much as he did in class for his students.

Bone, Muscle, Abdomen.

He next pointed to his chest, then to his head.

Heart. Brain.

“You see, the killer’s sequence fits the order of the
Epitome
exactly.” Salyer sat down to his glass, took a drink, and said, “Basically Eli, you were correct. The reason I’m here now is to redirect you.”

Eli held his glass to his lips but did not drink. If Salyer was correct and the first four deaths had followed the
Epitome
, two more would occur. “You said the next book is the brain, but that makes only five. What’s the sixth?”

Salyer smiled, a teacher reveling in the thoughtful question of a student. “Vesalius proposed that Galen had never dissected a human uterus. So, our anatomist saved the best book for last. His specialty of sorts. His desire to know the feminine mystique deeper than any man had ever known.”

Salyer dipped his finger in the brown liquid, brought it to his lips.

“The sixth book takes him deep into the sex of a woman.”

The whiskey rolled and so did Salyer. Eli sat back and listened to the professor’s history of Andreas Vesalius. Sort of like being in class except Eli was at home with a stiff drink in his hand.

The anatomist’s ancestral family came from the town of Wesel near the Rhine River. His forebear, Johnnes de Wesalia, inspired by the town’s name, chose three weasels to represent the family’s coat of arms.

“Curious animals, those weasels.”

Salyer placed his glass on the table, a sure sign of more pantomime to come. He stretched forth his arms as though about to leap.

“The title page of the
Fabrica
shows the Vesalian coat of arms with the little mammals sprawled out as though dignified.”

Eli recalled seeing the coat of arms on the mural depiction in the artist’s loft. “Those are weasels?”

Salyer chuckled. “Vesalius’s biographer described them as coursing greyhounds. By the looks of them, I think that’s more accurate.”

There was a rare period of silence from Salyer. Eli watched the man as he swirled his drink, measured his thoughts. Eli hoped that whatever was troubling Salyer pertained directly to the recent murders. It did.

“Three years ago, I was called to testify in a trial. An employee at the Mid-South Medical College was accused of desecrating cadavers.”