Postmortem(98)

“Meaning, the amino acids build up in his system. He’s going to get lethargic, irritable, ataxic. Symptoms similar to severe hyperglycemia. It may be necessary for him to be hospitalized.”

“English,” Wesley said. “What the hell’s ataxic mean?”

“Unsteady. He’s going to walk around like he’s drunk. He’s not going to have the wherewithal to scale fences and climb through windows. If it gets acute, if his stress level continues to climb, and if he goes untreated, it could get out of control.”

“Out of control?” he persisted. “We stress him— that’s our purpose, right? His disease gets out of control?”

“Possibly.”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “What next?”

“Severe hyperglycemia, and his anxiety increases. If it isn’t controlled, he’s going to get confused, over-wrought. His judgment may be impaired. He’ll suffer mood changes.”

I stopped right there.

But Wesley wasn’t going to let me. He was leaning forward in his chair, staring at me.

“You didn’t just think of this maple syrup urine disease business, did you?” he pushed.

“It’s been in my differential.”

“And you didn’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t at all sure,” I replied. “I saw no reason to suggest it until now.”

“Right. Okay. You say you want to rattle his cage, stress him right out of his mind. Let’s do it. What’s the last stage? I mean, what if his disease gets really bad?”

“He may become unconscious, have convulsions. If this is prolonged, it may lead to a severe organic deficit.”

He stared incredulously at me as his eyes filled with comprehension. “Jesus. You’re trying to kill the son of a bitch.”

Abby’s pen stopped. Startled, she looked up at me.

I replied, “This is all theoretical. If he’s got the disease, it’s mild. He’s lived with it all his life. It’s highly unlikely MSUD’s going to kill him.”

Wesley continued to stare. He didn’t believe me.





Chapter 14




I COULDN’T SLEEP ALL NIGHT. MY MIND WOULDN’T shut down and I tossed miserably between unsettling realities and savage dreams. I shot somebody and Bill was the medical examiner called to the scene. When he arrived with his black bag, he was accompanied by a beautiful woman I did not know . . .

My eyes flew open in the dark, my heart squeezed as if by a cold hand. I got out of bed long before my alarm went off and drove to work in a fog of depression.

I don’t know when in my life I’d ever felt so lonely and withdrawn. I scarcely spoke to anyone at the office, and my staff began to cast nervous, strange glances my way.

Several times I came close to calling Bill, my resolve trembling like a tree about to fall. It finally fell shortly before noon. His secretary brightly told me “Mr. Boltz” was on vacation and wouldn’t be back until the first of July.

I left no message. The vacation wasn’t planned, I knew. I also knew why he didn’t say a word about it to me. In the past he would have told me. The past was past. There would be no resolution or lame apologies or outright lies. He’d cut me off forever because he couldn’t face his own sins.

After lunch I went upstairs to serology and was surprised to find Betty and Wingo with their backs to the door, their heads together as they looked at something white inside a small plastic bag.

I said, “Hello,” and came inside.

Wingo nervously tucked the bag in a pocket of Betty’s lab coat, as if slipping her money.

“You finished downstairs?” I pretended I was too preoccupied to have noticed this peculiar transaction.

“Uh, yeah. Sure am, Dr. Scarpetta,” he quickly replied, on his way out. “McFee, the guy shot last night—released him a little while ago. And the burn victims coming in from Albemarle won’t be in till four or so.”

“Fine. We’ll hold them until the morning.”

“You got it,” I heard him say from the hallway.

Spread out on the wide table in the center of the room was the reason for my visit. The blue jumpsuit. It looked flat and mundane, neatly smoothed out and zipped up to the collar. It could have belonged to anybody. There were numerous pockets, and I think I must have checked each one half a dozen times hoping to find anything that might hint at who he was, but they were empty. There were large holes cut in the legs and sleeves where Betty had removed swatches of bloodstained fabric.

“Any luck grouping the blood?” I asked, trying not to stare at the plastic bag peeking out of the top of her pocket.

“I’ve got some of it worked out.” She motioned me to follow her to her office.