Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder (7 page)

“Yeah, they faxed them over a few days ago. The first red flag popped up right away. A doctor from NeuroDynamics is the one who installed the chip into our victim’s head. What’s the manufacturer doing placing the microchips in heads? Should be an independent doctor.

“Also, according to the documents, the microchip is supposed to be implanted to cure depression. Now, I’m no neurosurgeon, but seems to me it isn’t gonna do squat where I found it in Calhoun’s brain.”

“And, of course, you couldn’t ask the lead inspector any follow-up questions because she disappeared right after the review was complete.”

“Yup, that pretty much covers it.” Sid walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and retrieved a sheaf of papers. “Here, read for yourself.”

John accepted the reports from Sid and began to read. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. The progress that NeuroDynamics had made in the field of microchips was astounding. He couldn’t help but feel admiration for the scientists and medical researchers who had accomplished so much in so little time. “This is incredible.”

Sid spoke. “Yeah. Like something out of a science fiction novel, isn’t it?”

John shook his head. “I had no idea.”

“Now, I can’t say as I understood all the technical jargon, but I still think something’s off kilter here.”

Sid walked over to a stainless steel table. A jar sat in the middle, with a brain floating in fluid. The strong, chemical smells emitting from the container assailed John’s nose. “This here’s from the body of Mitch Calhoun. When we pulled it out of the skull, it was covered with blood. This boy didn’t die a nice, quiet death. It was ugly, and it was excruciating.”

He pointed to the cerebral arterial circle. “The rupture took place here, in the Circle of Willis, where the basilar artery joins with one of them pontine arteries.”

Jo interrupted. “Do you want to repeat that in English for the medical-term challenged, like me?”

Sid turned to Jo and said. “The circle supplies blood to the brain. Any damage there causes big-time trouble.”

She nodded for him to continue.

“Wouldn’t have thought too much about it, but then I found that damn microchip.” Sid shrugged his shoulders. “’Bout missed it the first couple of times I looked. I was wrapping things up and was about to write up the report, when something reflected the light. And there it was.”

“It’s amazing that you found it.”

“Uh-huh. Pure dumb luck. But it certainly changes things, doesn’t it?”

“Can I have those again?” Sid pointed to the papers in John’s hands. John handed them back and Sid flipped through them until he found the page he was looking for.

He pointed to a paragraph. “Here, this is what I’m talking about. See? See what I mean? Complete and utter bullshit.” Spit flew from Sid’s mouth as he spoke.

John re-read the section that Sid had indicated. He was bewildered. “You’re right, Sid. There’s no way that microchip placed on the Circle of Willis could have controlled depression. But according to the FDA files, that’s not where the microchip was implanted.”

John took another look at the victim’s brain. “The chip couldn’t have migrated after surgery, either. The scar tissue around the ruptured area indicates that this was the site of the implant. It would appear either NeuroDynamics falsified their data or the FDA looked the other way.” He looked up at Sid. “Why would they put the microchip here? I guess it could have been surgeon error, but that’s a hell of a mistake. What were they trying to accomplish?”

Sid said, “Your guess is as good as mine, Doc.”

“So, that’s when you called the FBI.”

“I knew Josie would take this seriously.”

John said, “Agent Schwann tells me that the FBI labs have been taking a close look at the chip and they feel that it could be used for some type of mind control. What do you think of that theory?”

Sid scratched his bald pate. “Can’t really see it. Again, the location of the chip doesn’t support that kind of behavior change.”

John leveled his eyes on Jo. “I agree. So, what do we do next?”

“Tomorrow we’re going to pay a little visit to NeuroDynamics. It’s headquartered in Lake County, Minnesota. Up north from here about forty five miles, just outside of Two Harbors. We don’t have enough proof to nail them yet. All we have so far are some half-formed theories and a lot of questions. I intend to get answers.”

Frisco’s brows knit together. “NeuroDynamics is a big employer. A lot of folks would say it’s even raised the standard of living around here. You’re gunna catch a whole lotta flak on this one if you’re not careful.”

Sid snorted and pointed at the brain in front of them. “Well, it sure hasn’t done much for this poor bastard’s standard of living, now has it?”

Chapter Seven

Mabel’s House

Thanksgiving Day

Thanksgiving dinner in Chip’s family had always been a formal catered affair. Both his grandmother and his mother trotted out their finest—Waterford crystal, Limoges and Meissen china, silver pieces purportedly crafted by Paul Revere himself. The food was always excellent, but the atmosphere was stifling. Chip had absented himself since divorce number two.

As he drove up to Mabel’s little white bungalow with dark-green shutters, he suspected the contrast with today’s meal would be staggering. Plus, he was oddly excited and decided his mission today was to find out more about his new friends, especially Dr. Jane.

With his hostess gift of a box of Whitman’s Samplers from the local Walgreens in hand, he walked to the front door and read the handwritten sign: Please Come to the Backdoor. As he rounded the corner of the house, he saw ice had started to form at the edges of the creek that ran along the back of Mabel’s property. Iver was standing in the detached garage tending to what looked like a huge stockpot on a stand. He was sporting a black chefs apron decorated with red and yellow flames; it read: Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’.

Iver, waving him over, yelled, “Got a fifteen-pounder here. Sure hope you’re ready to eat bird. See this here deep fat fryer? All you do is add five gallons of peanut oil, then dunk the bird in the vat, head down. Well, it doesn’t exactly have a head, but that end down and the tail end up. In fifty-two minutes the whole thing is done, nice and brown and crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside.”

“I would think it would be kind of greasy with all that oil.”

“Nah, that’s the beauty of this method. Not greasy at all. And I use one of Jane’s big needles to inject my secret marinade. Believe me, you never tasted a turkey this dang good before.”

“I’m game for a culinary delight, Iver. I’m going to follow my nose to Mabel’s kitchen. Bet there’s more good eating in there.”

On the backdoor was another sign which read: Come in the Door Is Unlocked. Like the front door sign, this one was faded and curled. Apparently Mabel did not lock her house.

Mabel’s kitchen was redolent with aromas … rosemary and sage, butter and brown sugar, and the yeasty smell of baking dinner rolls. Mabel turned from the avocado green stove. She was wearing a white apron with a pair of big red lips that read Kiss the Cook. So he did.

“Oh, dear, now wasn’t that a nice surprise. Make yourself at home. There’s beer in the fridge,” she said, pointing to the harvest gold refrigerator. “Dr. Jane called. Said she had an emergency. Then she wants to stop by the clinic to get Honey. She thinks her labor’s started, so we might just have holiday puppies. Isn’t that just wonderful?”

Chip was not at all sure of how “wonderful” this impending birth was going to be. He wondered why he hadn’t been more insistent that he was not Honey’s owner. He did not care to cope with a litter of puppies. Why had he floated along on the assumptions of other people?

“Mabel, after the puppies are born, then what?”

“We’ll keep them for a few days at the clinic, make sure they’re nursing okay, give them their first puppy shots and then you can take Honey and the pups home.”

“How many do you think there’ll be?”

“With a golden, could be six or more, maybe ten if you’re lucky.”

“Holy Crap …”
Lucky?

Jane came through the door, followed by Iver carrying Honey. She made Honey comfortable in a box lined with a blanket while Iver fetched his beautifully browned turkey from the garage.

Dinner was served in Mabel’s tiny dining room. Her table was covered with a paper tablecloth festooned with turkeys and pumpkins. The matching paper napkins were placed on her “good dishes,” which she explained had been a bank premium, earned piece by piece twenty years earlier. The four of them held hands as Mabel said grace. Then eating commenced.

Chip felt a sense of belonging that he had never felt at his own family’s Thanksgiving table, where he always felt as if he, like the turkey, was going to end up being roasted. The acceptance and genuine warmth these new friends were extending humbled him.

“Saw Chief Fredrickson this morning. Seems they found Owen Hansen beaten to a pulp last night. Had to airlift him to the hospital in Des Moines. Walter thinks Owen was threatening to call the government authorities about some goings on over to the plant,” said Iver.

“My God. I figured something was going on from what I’ve observed at the Bun. Just what is happening over at the plant?” asked Chip.

Iver and Mabel were silent. They shifted their eyes to Jane, who sat grim-faced.

Finally Iver said, “Lots of talk about safety issues and violating government regulations and cooking the books. All I know is that the workers are getting pretty riled up.”

Mabel frowned at him.

Jane put down her fork and suddenly turned her ear toward the kitchen, stood and left the table. The four of them gathered around Honey’s box staring down at the first little puppy. Dinner was forgotten for the next hour as Jane assisted Honey in the delivery of the next two pups. As each pup was delivered, Mabel placed it near Honey’s head. Honey dutifully licked the membrane off each pup.

Chip paced around the kitchen like an expectant father.

“Should Honey be cleaning them that way?” he asked Jane. “Yuck, she’s chewing on the umbilical cord.”

“That’s perfectly normal. She’s doing a great job. Usually, birth in a dog can take hours. The average is maybe half an hour between pups.”

Two more pups popped out with barely ten minutes between them. Jane took one, turned it upside down and swung it between her legs.

“Is the pup, okay? It looks like a drowned rat.” Chip was feeling overwhelmed by the whole birthing process.

“He looked a little slow moving. This is a good way to clean fluid out of a newborn’s lungs so he can start breathing. He’s fine now.”

Two more puppies came out, both strong, active and eager to nurse.

Not much happened for the next fifteen minutes. Jane felt Honey’s abdomen. “One more, I believe,” reported Jane. “I have to warn you, Chip, the runt may be stillborn.”

The last pup was finally expelled and lay motionless on the blanket. Chip knelt beside Jane and picked up the still pup. He cleared the mouth with his pinky finger, blew a puff of air into its face and began to gently massage its body. The pup, limp at first, began to wiggle and mew.

“Oh, my God, look at that. He’s breathing and moving,” said Chip. He felt a lump forming in the back of his throat and a rush of instant love for this little creature.

Jane turned her gaze to Chip. Her eyes were shining, and she flashed him an angelic smile. “Nice going, Dad. He may just make it. I’m impressed. Ever thought of giving up writing and becoming a vet?”

“I quit medical school. I never intended to be a writer.” He shrugged. “I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. And, I sure as hell never expected to be the owner of a mother dog and eight puppies.”

“How’d you know what to do?”

“I don’t know. Must be my Boy Scout training kicking into gear after all these years. I got a Lifesaving Badge, and of course, I’ve had CPR training. I just figured the same principles must work for dogs as they do for humans.”

“I wouldn’t figure you for a Boy Scout.”

“Well, I imagine being a Boy Scout in Baltimore is not the same as being one in Iowa. We just helped little old ladies cross busy streets and sold Christmas wreaths.”

Dinner was reheated and eaten with gusto. The table conversation consisted of a rousing discussion of puppy names from the cute to the goofy to the highly creative.

“I don’t see anything wrong with regular dog names like Rover and Rex,” offered Iver. “Can’t give a golden retriever a silly name.”

“I was thinking about the names of famous singers … Dolly, Garth, Clint, Madonna, Elvis,” suggested Mabel. “Oh, and Cher for one of the girls.”

“What about the names of world leaders? Castro, Evita, Putin, Gandhi, Obama.”

“Obama would be fine, but Castro? Please, Chip, no dictators or despots.” Chip was enjoying the naming process.

Pumpkin pie and coffee were consumed in the afterglow of a good meal and fine friends bound together by the marvel of birth.

The day’s adrenaline trumped the turkey’s tryptophan. It was 2:00 a.m. and Chip’s mind flip-flopped from puppies to Dr. Goodman and from AgriDynamics to NeuroDynamics. His storyline and his life were increasingly difficult to separate, and he had no idea how he got where he was or where he was going with either one. Serendipity propelled him forward. His favorite Maurice Sendak words came to mind, “Let the wild rumpus start.”