Chapter Two
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
After two-years in central America, following muddy trails through the hot, steamy jungle, the airport’s crowded corridors came as a real shock. It took the better part of half an hour for Sara Devlin to gather up her possessions and catch a cab. A shuttle would have been less expensive, but she was in no mood to be crammed into a van with six burly businessmen for the half hour trip into Seattle.
It was raining, which made sense on a cold, gray November day, and the wipers made a persistent squeaking sound as they swept back and forth across the taxi’s windshield. The driver wore a burgundy colored turban, and judging from the snapshots fastened to the sun visor, was a dedicated family man. He glanced at Devlin in the rearview mirror as the taxi cleared the airport’s round-about and headed north towards the freeway. “Are you staying in a hotel?”
It was a reasonable question given the fact that Devlin had given her destination as “…downtown Seattle.” Devlin shook her head and fumbled for the scrap of paper that had Marvin Leander’s address on it. “No. You can drop me at the 720 Olive building.”
The driver nodded as he steered the Crown Vic down the on-ramp to the freeway below. The taxi merged onto I-5 northbound a few minutes later. And it wasn’t long before they passed Safeco Field, which never failed to remind Devlin of her father and the summer evening when they had gone there to boo the Yankees. It was the bottom of the 7th, and the score had been tied, when Alex Rodriguez fouled one back into the stands where a much younger Sara Devlin had miraculously been able to catch it.
Strangely, from the scientist’s perspective at least, her father was as proud of that accomplishment as the moment when she graduated from high school at the top of her class. But that had been back during the run up to college, before a drunk driver killed her mother, and before her father’s fatal heart attack sixteen months later.
Maybe that explained her attachment to Professor Paul McCracken, and his attachment to her, since both had been orphaned in a way. She by her parents, and he by his beloved Mary, who’s death at thirty left the academic to live out the rest of his life as a bachelor. Until five days earlier that is, when, according to McCracken's attorney, the professor had draped sheets of clear plastic over his living room furniture, loaded one round into his old Colt .45 revolver, and put the weapon to his head.
Because of Mary? No, Devlin found that hard to believe, since Mac had been able to live more than twenty-five years without her. So, why then? There was no way to know. The long distance call from Leander had certainly been a surprise, as was the news that McCracken had left his estate to her, and that she was to serve as executor. All of which forced Devlin to break off her research in Costa Rica and return home. Something she had originally intended to do six months earlier, but continued to put off, partly because of the on-again off-again romance with Mark Milano, and partly because there was so much work to do. By some estimates the central American jungles were home to thousands of parasites that had yet to be identified and cataloged. A task which, if completed, could deliver real benefits to medical science in the form of new drugs and therapies.
The taxi slowed and came to a stop. The cabbie turned to look over his shoulder. He had quick brown eyes and a bushy black beard. “That will be $35.00 miss.”
The twenties that Devlin had been given in San Jose were a bit greasy, but legal nevertheless, and the scientist said “No” to the cabbie's offer of change. Rather than the warm jungle rains that she had grown used to, the water that fell out of Seattle’s lead gray sky was cold, and impossible to ignore as Devlin opened the door and exited the car. Perhaps it was the five-dollar gratuity, or maybe the Sikh felt sorry for the bedraggled scientist, but whatever the reason the cabbie insisted on carrying Devlin’s luggage into the building’s lobby before wishing her a good day and going back outside.
All of the building’s tenants were listed on a board that faced out into the lobby, so it was a simple matter to scan the list for Leander, and make a mental note of which floor he was on. By wearing the knapsack, and hoisting a bag in each hand, Devlin managed to carry everything into the elevator. A well-dressed professional held the door for her. Devlin couldn’t help but feel out of place as more business types entered the car and the elevator began to rise. The academic tried to picture the raggedy, largely unkempt, and often filthy men she’d been working with for the last couple of years showing up for work in suits. The thought brought a smile to her face.
The car stopped, the doors whispered open, and people made room so Devlin could exit. After one false start Devlin chose the correct hall, spotted the glass panel that had “Marvin Leander, Attorney,” printed across it, and was forced to place her bags on the floor before opening the door and dragging them into the office one-at-a-time.
The middle-aged woman who sat behind the reception desk watched with amusement as the young woman shrugged her way out from under the much repaired pack. “Can I help you?” she inquired politely.
Devlin smiled. “Sorry about the luggage…. But I just came from the airport. My name is Sara Devlin. Is Mr. Leander in?”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist countered professionally. She was petite, pretty, and had light brown skin. In marked contrast to the woman in front of her every aspect of the paralegal’s apparel had been chosen with care.
“No,” Devlin confessed. “I don’t.”
“Please have a seat,” the receptionist said sympathetically. “Mr. Leander has a full schedule this afternoon—but perhaps he can squeeze you in.”
After disappearing into what Devlin assumed to be Leander’s office, the woman returned to say that the attorney would see her as soon as possible, and offered a cup of coffee which she accepted. It had been a long time since Devlin had been able to satisfy her secret appetite for People magazine, and she was about halfway through the latest edition, when the inner office opened and an elderly woman emerged. A well dressed man was right behind her. He had brown eyes, a broad nose, and hair so short that his dark scalp showed through. His shirt was glaringly white, his tie was secured by a Windsor knot, and his shoes were so shiny they seemed to glow. When he spoke his voice had a deep melodious quality. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Kanski…. I’ll have the contract to you by the end of the week.”
As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Kanski the attorney turned toward Devlin. The smile appeared to be genuine and the handshake was firm. “I’m Marvin Leander…. And you must be Dr. Devlin.”
“Everyone calls me Sara,” Devlin said, as she came to her feet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Leander said agreeably. “I’m glad you came by…. Let’s adjourn to my office and get the process started.”
Devlin followed the lawyer into his office where she chose one of two guest chairs. With the single exception of the attorney’s back table, which was piled high with paper, the rest of the room was just as impeccable as the man himself. The cherry wood table reflected his image, the thousand-dollar chair sighed happily as he sat in it, and floor to ceiling book shelves were positioned as if to protect his left flank. Only the view, which looked out onto the I-5 corridor, hinted at the fact that while already successful, Leander had a ways to go before he arrived at the very top of the legal food chain.
“How was your flight?” Leander wanted to know as he arranged a yellow legal pad and a sleek looking pen in front of him.
Devlin toyed with the idea of telling the attorney about the strip search, and asking if the procedure was legit, but decided to let the matter go. “I had a center seat next to a crying baby. Need I say more?”
“Nope,” Leander replied sympathetically. “You don’t. I’m sorry about this—I really am. The professor was a very nice man.”
“Yes,” Devlin agreed soberly. “He was. I took one of his classes when I was working on my masters and we hit it off. He was the perfect mentor…. Part parent, part coach, and part Attila the Hun.”
Leander laughed. Originally, when McCracken had come in to discuss his estate, the attorney had assumed that there was some sort of sexual relationship between the aging academic and the young Sara Devlin. Now the lawyer wasn’t so sure. Devlin was pretty in a rough and ready sort of way, but certainly didn’t come across as a gold digger, and the lawyer warmed accordingly. “Yes, I was fortunate enough to have a mentor like that. Except he was my father—and more Attila the Hun than coach.”
Devlin smiled. “Well, it worked!”
“Yeah,” Leander agreed. “I guess it did. We might as well get started. I have some good news and some bad news…. Which would you like to hear first?”
“I’ll take the good news,” the parasitologist said hopefully. “Maybe it will outweigh the bad.”
“Okay,” the attorney said noncommittally. “Here’s the good news…. The house that Mrs. McCracken inherited from her parents, and passed along to Professor McCracken at the time of her death, continues to appreciate. We’ll have to get an official appraisal of course, but given its size and location, I suspect that the home is worth something in excess of $750,000.”
Devlin’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” Leander assured her. “And, even though the professor’s life insurance was nullified when he committed suicide, he made some pretty good investments. Plus there’s a couple of vehicles. So, once everything is tallied, I won’t be surprised if you inherit something in excess of a million-dollars.”
Outside of the modest amount of money inherited from her parents, all of which had gone to pay off student loans, Devlin had never had very many material possessions. Nor had she spent much time thinking about money, other than the never-ending need to find grants, which are the life’s blood of scientific research. So the revelation not only left her stunned but brought an unexpected flood of tears as the scientist thought about Mac and the manner of his death. Leander had a box of Kleenex ready for such occasions and passed it across. Devlin took two tissues and dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry…. You said there’s some bad news.”
“Yes,” Leander said reluctantly. “I did. You see Professor McCracken didn’t leave a suicide note—not in the normal sense of that term. What he did leave were some rather detailed instructions.”
Devlin frowned. “And?”
The attorney placed both forearms on his desk. “And, even though the professor knew what the cause of his death would be, he left orders that a private autopsy be conducted subsequent to the one required by law. That’s unusual, but what’s even more remarkable, is his insistence that you be present during the procedure.”
Devlin sat up straight and frowned. “Me? Why?”
Leander shrugged. “I don’t know…. There’s no need to go of course—and it would probably be better if you didn’t.”
Devlin’s eyes fell, but when she looked up again, they were filled with determination. “If Mac wanted an autopsy, then there was a reason. Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.”
For the first time Leander became conscious of the fact that her eyes were green, very green, and ice cold. He nodded gravely. “We haven’t known each other for very long…but for some reason I’m not surprised.”
* * *
The dim winter light had already begun to fade by the time the taxi delivered Devlin to what she still thought of as Professor McCracken’s house. A tall, dignified three-story structure, that had been built by his wife’s grandfather back when many of Seattle’s wealthiest families lived along the east side of Capitol hill. A vantage point from which they could look out across Lake Washington to the snow capped Cascade mountains beyond. In later years the area had fallen on hard times, and had been the scene of race riots back in the sixties, but those days were over. Now the area was fashionable again—as could be seen from the well kept houses which lined both sides of the street.
Unlike the Sikh, this cab driver was content to pop the trunk from the inside, and let Devlin remove her luggage herself. Then, having received his fare, he left without so much as a goodbye.
Devlin lugged both bags up to the imposing porch where she shrugged her way out of the day pack, and opened an outer pocket. There were at least fifteen keys of various vintages on the old fashioned ring that Leander had given her, and she tried six of them before finding one that fit. Devlin heard a click as the door swung open and hit a stop. Every house has its own peculiar odor and so did McCracken’s. Except that in place of stale pipe smoke, and the smell of Mexican food that Devlin remembered so vividly, the sharp odor of disinfectants lingered in the air. Two days had passed before someone from the university came looking for the professor and the corpse had begun to smell by then. So a team of professional cleaners had been brought in to deal with the situation.
Devlin felt like an intruder as she hauled the bags inside, closed the door behind her, and turned the lights on. She was standing in a formal entry. McCracken’s study was off to the left, a large living room could be seen through the opening to the right, and a flight of stairs took up the space directly in front of her. To the left of the stairs a narrow hallway was visible. It led back to the kitchen. A room Devlin knew well, since that was where most of the action had been, back in the days when grad students flocked to Dr. Mac’s place for his famous Christmas parties, beer drenched Cinco de Mayo celebrations, and the mock funerals that were held when a particularly good grant expired.
But while Devlin was familiar with the first floor, the rest of the house was a complete mystery, a fact that bothered Devlin more than she thought it would. Leander had clearly been surprised when his newest client chose to stay at what would eventually be her house, but was far too polite to say so, as he handed her the keys. The truth was that Devlin had nowhere else to go, other than one of Seattle’s hotels, and they were expensive. Now, still frozen in the middle of the foyer, Devlin wondered if she should have spent the money.
But any thought of leaving disappeared when Devlin heard a plaintive meow, and turned to discover that the professor’s black and white cat had appeared, and was rubbing himself against the door frame on the living room side of the hall. Devlin dropped to one knee as the animal came over to nuzzle a leg. She tried to remember the cat’s name but couldn’t. “Are you hungry?” Devlin inquired sympathetically, scooping the animal up into her arms. “Let’s go find some food.”
At that point it seemed natural to make her way down the hall, past the stairs that led down into the basement, and into the kitchen. It was a large space, plenty big enough for the fancy high-end look that was so popular, but little changed from the last time Devlin had been there. Mac had been determined to do the work himself, to “play with the tools” as he put it, except very little had been accomplished. Wooden lathes could be seen where several wheel barrow loads of water damaged plaster had been stripped off the walls, but that was the extent of Mac’s remodeling efforts. The old beat-up cabinets still hung on the studs, there were holes in the linoleum floor, and the avocado colored appliances were at least thirty years old. Tools, all layered with dust, were stacked in the corners.
There were two bowls on the floor next to the refrigerator. One was half full of water—the other was empty. A brief search revealed a bag of Friskies which, when removed from a grimy cabinet, was sufficient to produce an excited response from the cat. The food rattled as it tumbled into the metal bowl and some of it wound up on the floor as the feline’s head got in the way.
Satisfied that her only dependent’s needs had been taken care of, Devlin put the bag of cat food back where she had found it, and turned toward the dining room. Not because she wanted to go there, but because she had to go there, as part of the journey that would ultimately carry her into the living room. The place where, for reasons known only to him, Professor Paul McCracken had covered everything with plastic and blown his brains out.
So, with a nonchalance that she really didn’t feel, Devlin entered the formal dining room. It was dark outside, and the long string of lights that represented the I-90 floating bridge could be seen beyond the rain-streaked glass, as the scientist flicked a light switch and brought the antique chandelier back to life. A richly polished dining room table dominated the center of the room and an imposing side table stood against the south wall, flanked by two narrow windows.
But it was the living room that Devlin was determined to confront. A dozen steps carried Devlin into the room where her mentor’s body had been found. As more lights came on Devlin discovered that she felt empty rather than grief stricken.
A large fireplace provided a focal point for the room, along with the oil painting of Mary McCracken which hung above it. She had auburn hair, a rounded face, and cool blue eyes. Were you the last person he looked at? Devlin wondered. Did he stare at your face? Hoping you’d be there waiting for him? Yes, she concluded, I believe he did. But why now? After all those years?
The question seemed to echo through Devlin’s mind as she eyed the big leather chair from which McCracken liked to hold court, the couch that she had slept on more than once, and the old tube style TV that Mac loved to throw things at.
And somehow it was that vision. Of McCracken throwing an empty Pepsi can at the president of the United States, that neutralized the sense of dread the scientist had experienced earlier. Then, as if a pair of flood gates had been opened, the tears came. And that’s where Devlin was, seated in the big leather chair with tears running down her cheeks, when the cat strolled in out of the dining room. He licked his chops, padded across the hardwood floor, and leaped up onto the parasitologist’s lap. Mary, who had seen so much from her location over the fireplace, seemed to approve.
* * *
The gentle beeping noise came to an abrupt stop as Devlin fumbled with the travel alarm and managed to turn it off. There was a brief moment of disorientation as she realized that she wasn’t in Costa Rica. That was followed by a sense of dread as the reason for setting the alarm came back to her. Leander had apologized for scheduling the autopsy the day after Devlin arrived, but it seemed there were only so many slots available each week, and dead people were lined up waiting to be cut open.
What Leander didn’t say, but seemed obvious, was the fact that the procedure had been scheduled for the next day based on the assumption that the parasitologist wouldn’t want to take part in it.
There was a plaintive meow, followed by a thump, as the cat bailed out and Devlin swung her feet over onto the floor. Perhaps someone else would have been hesitant to sleep in the room where a friend committed suicide, but after a long plane flight, and the meeting with Leander, Devlin hadn’t been ready to explore the rest of the house yet.
But now she was faced with a new set of problems. Like brushing her teeth and finding something clean to wear. The first part of the challenge was easily solved—but the second was more difficult. Which was why the scientist eventually emerged from the house clad in a dark blue ball cap, a gray hoodie over a Corona T-shirt, and a pair of wrinkled khaki slacks. A pair of red high-tops completed the outfit.
The rain had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and Devlin could see her breath as she made her way down the side of the house to the point where the detached two-car garage stood. The old fashioned double doors squealed as she pulled them open. Two vehicles waited within. The car on the left was Mac’s prized candy apple red 1965 Mustang. The other vehicle was a somewhat dilapidated 1978 International Scout 4 X 4 that the professor drove back and forth to the University of Washington.
Devlin, who was accustomed to driving old four-wheelers, and acutely aware of the fact that she didn’t have any insurance yet, chose the Scout. It started with a satisfying roar, generated a cloud of gray smoke sure to make global warming even worse, and produced a blast of music from the jury rigged CD player. The song was A Boy Named Sue, from Johnny Cash’s San Quentin album, which must have been the last disc Mac listened to prior to his death.
Tears were streaming down Devlin’s cheeks as she backed the old rig out of the garage, got out to close the doors, and climbed back inside. One of the truck’s belts began to screech as the parasitologist backed out onto the street. But it stopped when she put the transmission into drive and took off. The passenger compartment smelled like stale pipe tobacco. So Devlin opened both side windows and let the cool air dry her tears. Finally, once A Boy Named Sue ran out, she turned the player off.
The first stop was the Starbucks on 15th avenue where Devlin purchased a Grande mocha, no whip, and a pumpkin scone. Thus fortified, the scientist guided the Scout through the Denny Regrade area to old Highway 99, which carried her north over the Aurora bridge. Devlin made good time because most of the traffic was headed south at that time of day, which meant she arrived at her destination with fifteen minutes to spare. The Hayley Medical Lab was located a block off Highway 99 in an area dominated by car lots, strip malls, and dilapidated apartment houses. What few windows the nondescript one-story building had were darkened, as if to prevent people from peeking inside. The only indication of the structure’s purpose was a black hearse that pulled away just as Devlin parked.
Devlin chased the final bite of scone with the last of the lukewarm mocha and wiped her mouth with a brown 100% recyclable napkin. After locking the truck Devlin made her way over to the building and pulled the heavy slab-like front door open.
The interior looked, smelled, and felt like all the various labs she had spent most of her adult life working in. The lighting was harsh, the walls were bare, and the air felt unnaturally cool. Not for the comfort of the facility’s staff, but in order to stabilize the customers, all of whom were dead. A waist-high counter barred further progress and a sign invited Devlin to, “Ring the bell for service.” The device produced a cheerful ding, but it was a good three minutes before a middle-aged black man sauntered into the room. There was a lot of gray mixed into his hair. He was dressed in blue scrubs and the expression on his face was professionally neutral. “Hello,” the man said. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Devlin. Sara Devlin,” the parasitologist replied. “And I’m here to observe an autopsy.”
The man in the scrubs eyed a clipboard, nodded agreeably, and handed Devlin a packet of forms as he opened a waist-high gate. “I'm Charles,” he informed her. “I’m the diener and will assist Doctor Yano with the autopsy. Please take a seat, fill out the forms, and I’ll be back in five minutes.”
The title “diener” was new to Devlin, but given the context, she assumed Charles was a technician of some sort. So Devlin went to work on the forms and had them ready when the diener reappeared five minutes later. The tech scanned the documents to make sure they were complete, captured them with a black binder clip, and led Devlin back into what looked like an operating theatre. A pair of autopsy tables occupied the center of the room. They were equipped with faucets, and flanked by stainless steel back tables, one of which supported a surprisingly modest row of instruments.
Further back, against the opposite wall, two side-by-side scrub sinks could be seen, along with a row of wall-hung cabinets, a mostly bare counter below them, and lots of carefully labeled drawers. Two large drains had been set into the tiled floor, which was streaked with water, as if from a recent mop-down.
Double doors swung open and a second man entered. His hair was hidden beneath a green scrub hat, and he had bright inquisitive eyes, with olive colored skin. He was dressed in blue scrubs and his manner was brisk. “Dr. Devlin? I’m Dr. Yano…. Or just plain Jim to my friends.”
Yano had a firm handshake and Devlin took an immediate liking to him. “The name’s Sara…. And I’m a PhD rather than an MD.”
Yano nodded. “What discipline?”
“Parasitology.”
“Okay, then,” the medical doctor replied matter of factly. “So you know basic anatomy—and have probably performed more dissections than I have. But it’s different with humans—especially ones you know. What was your relationship with the deceased if you don’t mind my asking?”
A lump formed in Devlin’s throat but she managed to swallow it. “I was one of Professor McCracken’s grad students. We became friends and I’m the executor of his estate.”
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Yano said sympathetically. “Can I ask another question?”
Devlin nodded. “Of course.”
“What are we looking for?” the pathologist wanted to know. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Yano added hurriedly. “But I read the medical examiner’s report, and there’s no question as to cause of your friend’s death. Professor McCracken died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”
“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Devlin confessed uncertainly. “Mac left instructions that a private autopsy be performed. He also specified that I be present. As to why, well, your guess is as good as mine. ”
“Okay,” Yano agreed. “But I should warn you…. Dead bodies never look good. And this one could be especially gruesome. Both because of the head wound, and the fact that after the King County Medical Examiner performed the first autopsy, they sewed everything back together.”
Devlin nodded soberly. “I understand.”
“Good,” Yano replied briskly. “Let’s suit up.”
Ten minutes later the double doors opened and Charles pushed a sheet-draped cart into the room. Like the other two, he was wearing a gown, surgical gloves, and disposable shoe covers. Light reflected off the plastic shield that protected the diener’s face. Yano looked at Devlin. “Are you okay?”
Devlin produced a short jerky nod as Charles pushed the gurney up next to the brightly lit autopsy table, and locked the wheels. Once that was accomplished the diener pulled the sheet down to reveal Professor McCracken’s body. Devlin had been dreading that moment, and steeled herself against it, but experienced a strange sense of anti-climax once it actually arrived. Because even though she recognized the big nose, and the rounded jaw as belonging to the professor, it wasn’t him. Not without the smart, funny, and often profane spirit to whom the body belonged.
Yano nodded as if somehow able to read her mind. “Back in 1907 Dr. Duncan MacDougall performed a series of experiments to determine whether the human soul has mass. He concluded that something departs the body at the moment of death, and whatever it is weighs 21 grams, or about three-fourths of an ounce.”
It was a strange thing to say, but comforting nevertheless, because like Devlin the pathologist was first and foremost a scientist. And that meant he was interested in facts. And if the human soul could be weighed, then that meant it was real, and something a rational mind could believe in.
The two of them watched Charles jerk, shove, and ultimately drag the unresisting corpse from the cart to the table where it lay face up. Once that was accomplished the diener shoved a body block in under McCracken’s back. That pushed his nearly hairless chest up, while allowing his arms and neck to fall back, exposing his trunk.
It was at that moment when Devlin saw the ugly exit wound in the professor’s left temple, the rough-looking stitches that followed an incision across the top of his skull, and the huge Y-shaped closure which ran the length of the academic’s chalk white body. It wasn’t pleasant to look at, but the knowledge that the real Mac was long gone, helped her deal with the moment.
“I can approach this one of two ways,” Yano said conversationally. “With a minimum of notes into my recorder—or a full blown narrative. Which would you prefer?”
“I’ll take the full blown narrative,” Devlin replied.
“Spoken like a true parasitologist,” the doctor replied approvingly. “Although I doubt we’re going to encounter any tapeworms today. Okay,” Yano continued, as his assistant began to cut the sutures that held the long Y-shaped incision closed. “Normally we would open the abdominal cavity ourselves, but thanks to the medical examiner, that won’t be necessary.”
Devlin watched as the last suture was cut, an opening appeared, and Yano pulled the loose chest flap up over McCracken’s open-mouthed face.
“Now this is where it gets a bit weird,” Yano continued clinically. “Rather than the anatomy you would expect to see once Charles opens the body—we’re going to be looking at a hodgepodge of organs. Because once an autopsy is complete most pathologists simply pour everything back into the cavity. So, rather than carry out the usual dissection I’m going to remove each organ, identify it, and check for any abnormalities that the ME might have missed.”
Devlin nodded, and had little choice but to watch as all of her old friend’s component parts were sectioned, weighed, and examined. A process that gave her the opportunity to consider the overarching mystery. Why had Mac chosen to commit suicide? And knowing he was going to kill himself, why would he insist on a private autopsy?
The answer, or the beginnings of an answer, came ten minutes later as Yano removed the last organ from the now empty cavity. “This is strange,” Yano remarked, as he pointed down into the body. “I wonder why the ME left that off the report?”
Devlin was just about to say, “What?” when Charles spoke for the second time since the autopsy had begun. “Because he already knew the cause of death,” the diener observed cynically. “And there were a dozen stiffs waiting in the cooler.”
The comment lacked sensitivity, given Devlin’s presence, which earned Charles a dirty look from Yano. But if the technician felt any sense of remorse there was no sign of it. And based on the fact that the pathologist allowed the comment to stand Devlin got the impression that it was probably true. “What are you referring to?” Devlin wanted to know, as she peered down into the hole. The odor that wafted up into the parasitologist’s nostrils was similar to raw lamb.
“There,” Yano said, using the eighteen-inch long “bread knife” as a pointer. “See those white things? The ones that look like ligaments? They shouldn’t be there.”
Now Devlin could see that half a dozen white tendrils had wrapped themselves around McCracken’s spine, and based on the way things appeared, had tapped into it. Looking at the structures the scientist was immediately reminded of a microscopic parasite called Sacculina, which having found its way into a crab, creates a distinctive bulge as it grows and sprouts a network of horrible roots. “That’s it!” Devlin exclaimed excitedly. “That’s what Mac wanted us to find! Don’t you see? He knew, damn it, he knew!”
Though not entirely sure what the parasitologist was getting at, Yano was intrigued, and immediately went to work teasing the root-like structures away from the professor’s spinal cord. Then, after that part of the process was complete, it was time to flip the body over. Once again it was the normally taciturn diener who was critical of the medical examiner’s work. “How in the hell did the pin heads down at the county miss that?” the technician wanted to know.
“That,” as the diener put it, was a prominent swelling located just below the base of McCracken’s neck. It occupied an area approximately eight-inches across—and extended five-inches down along the professor’s spine. The result was a bulging hunch-like formation centered slightly above the academic’s shoulder blades.
“Damn,” Yano said feelingly. “Charles is right…. How did they miss that?”
“It’s my guess that they failed to spot the root-like formation—and therefore never turned him over,” Devlin put in coldly. “Hand me that scalpel…. Let’s see what we have here.”
The diener looked at Yano and the pathologist shrugged. “We’re in unknown territory here Charles…. Give the doctor a scalpel.”
The technician obeyed, and with Yano’s assistance, Devlin went to work. The first task was to make a deep U-shaped incision that began high on the left side of McCracken’s back, and proceed down under the lowest part of the swollen area, and back up the other side. With that accomplished it was possible for the parasitologist to free the flap of skin and subcutaneous tissue from the underlying structures and pull it up towards the professor’s neck. The ensuing dissection occupied the better part of five minutes. Once the process was complete, the “thing,” as Devlin thought of it was laid bare.
The parasite, if that’s what it was, consisted of a purplish nodule, which might have been the equivalent of a brain, surrounded by what looked like a couple of pounds of raw meat. It was shot through with white tendrils similar, if not identical, to those that Yano had separated from McCracken’s spine.
“Now that’s just plain ugly,” Charles put in disgustedly. “What is it anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” Devlin replied cautiously. “But I’ll tell you this much…. Mac blew his brains out rather than let it live.”
“Holy shit,” Yano exclaimed softly. “You really think so?”
“Yes, I do,” Devlin replied soberly. “So, let’s cut whatever it is out of there, and send it off to be tested. And let’s be real careful about how we do it.”
“Because?” Charles inquired.
“Because if this is some sort of parasite, we don’t know how it spreads.”
“Uh, oh,” Yano said incredulously. “Look at that!”
Devlin looked, saw that the matrix of meat had begun to pulsate, and knew that Mac’s act of self-sacrifice had been in vain. The parasite was alive.