Zero Cool, Page 4

  “All right,” Ross said.

  They went down a corridor, turned, and found themselves on another. The walls were painted a drab brown; Ross found it depressing.

  A girl came out of a side room. She wore a white uniform. She was tall, very blonde, and lushly proportioned.

  “Herr Doktor…”

  She stopped when she saw Carrini and Ross.

  “Oh, excuse me, I thought you were alone.”

  “It’s all right,” Garber said. He turned to the men. “This is my assistant, Karin. Mr. Carrini, and Dr. Ross.”

  She nodded shyly. Then she looked at Ross, an odd, questioning, almost frightened look.

  Dr. Garber said, “You will help Dr. Ross.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sure he won’t need much help,” Garber said, smiling at Ross. “Just show him where things are.”

  She nodded.

  “We have only one autopsy room here,” Garber said, “and it’s not used anymore. No one dies of tuberculosis these days, except the very poor, and the poor do not come to the Heitzman Sanatorium. You may find the room a bit dusty, but I think it will be satisfactory.”

  “Fine,” Ross said.

  “Then I’ll leave you for now. Karin will take you the rest of the way.”

  With a formal bow, he departed. Karin, Ross, and Carrini walked on, down still another corridor.

  “How long have you been here?” Ross said to Karin.

  “A year,” she said. She seemed unhappy, unwilling to talk. She glanced up at him once, and her eyes still had that odd look.

  At the end of the corridor were twin doors leading to an operating room. Four men—including three who had been in Ross’s hotel room the night before—were waiting there, solemn-faced. The fourth was a burly man with a briefcase. All four wore business suits.

  “My cousins,” said Carrini when they arrived. He nodded to the double doors. “The body is there?”

  “Yes,” Karin said.

  “Then you’d better start. I will watch.”

  Ross turned: “Are you sure? These things can be—”

  “I will watch,” Carrini said, his voice flat.

  “I really don’t advise—”

  “We will not argue about it,” Carrini said. “My mind is made up.”

  He nodded to the others. “They will wait outside, but I will watch.”

  Ross was astonished. He had heard strange things before, but he could not seriously imagine anyone wishing to observe an autopsy performed on his brother.

  “All right,” he said. He pushed through the swinging doors.

  It was a large room, with a high ceiling, and very old. It had obviously not been used for years; there was dust everywhere, though an attempt had recently been made to wipe it clean. The equipment was old and cumbersome, outdated, dulled and rusting from years of disuse. Most of the light in the room was natural, though a heavy operating light was located on a swinging overhead bracket. The stainless steel table in the center of the room held the body, covered with a sheet.

  Karin went to the wall along one side, where there were shelves and drawers. “Gloves?”

  “Size eight, please.”

  She brought him the gloves and the gown. She helped him into the gown and tied it efficiently around his back; she held the gloves for him to slip his hands into.

  He said, “You are a surgical nurse?”

  “I am Dr. Garber’s assistant. When he operates, I am with him.”

  Ross flexed his fingers inside the gloves and glanced over at Carrini. He was standing in a corner of the room, near the door. Ross saw that he had apparently taken the briefcase from the fourth man and was now holding it. He considered saying something, but decided against it.

  To Karin, he said, “Can you take dictation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get a pad and pencil. It will save time.”

  She went to a cupboard and found them, then returned. Ross reached for the sheet, paused, and looked back at Carrini.

  “Sure you want to stay?”

  Carrini nodded solemnly.

  Ross drew away the sheet.

  The body surprised him. It belonged to a short man, wiry, emaciated. The eyes were closed, and the face was frozen in a grimace of pain. Drawing the sheet farther down, he saw the abdomen. There were two neat, red, crusty punctures.

  Karin said, “What will you need?”

  Staring at the wounds in what he hoped was a businesslike way, Ross said, “Scalpel. Number twenty blade, if you have it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a half-dozen hemostats. Mosquito. Toothed forceps. And Metzenbaum shears.”

  She nodded and went to get them. If he had said something wrong, she gave no indication. When she returned, she set the instruments out on a table and picked up a pad and pencil.

  “You will dictate your notes, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” Ross said. He paused, looked at the body, and began.

  “Postmortem on Stephano Carrini,” he said. “An emaciated white male of—” he turned to Carrini, “—how old?”

  “Fifty,” Carrini said.

  Ross thought that odd. He could have sworn the newspaper had called the man younger. But there was no doubt this was the body of a fifty-year-old man.

  “Man of fifty, hair brown, eyes—” he lifted one eyelid with his thumb, “—blue, false upper dentures. No scars.

  “Two symmetrical punctures suggestive of bullet wounds in the abdomen, lower left and upper right quadrant Am I going too fast?”

  “No,” she said.

  “No other surface markings,” he said, examining the body. “Except for punctures in olecranon fossa of both arms.” He looked close. “Needle punctures. Was your brother an addict, Mr. Carrini?”

  “For many years.”

  He checked the legs and found more punctures. He straightened and, with Karin’s help, rolled the body over. The back was deep purple: dependent lividity. No markings. They returned the body to its original position.

  He began to cut. He looked over at Karin, but her eyes were blank and expressionless as she watched him work. He made the usual Y-shaped incision and felt it was not too clumsily done. With the organs exposed, he could see the full extent of damage. One bullet had passed upward, shattering the spleen and the left kidney behind. The other had burrowed through the liver and punctured the duodenum.

  He continued to work, dictating his observations to the girl. An hour passed, and then a second. He finished with the abdominal viscera and began on the chest, cutting away the ribs with an osteo knife. He exposed the mediastinum and its contents and removed the heart.

  At that point, Carrini, who had been silent, suddenly spoke.

  “Miss?”

  Karin looked up. “Yes?”

  “Would you go out and explain the findings to my relatives? They are waiting to hear.”

  “You go yourself,” Ross said. “She’s helping me.”

  “I have not been able to see much from here. Besides, all that talk is meaningless to me. I am sure the girl could explain much better. Don’t you, Dr. Ross?”

  There was an unmistakable insistence in his voice. The girl hesitated and glanced at Ross; he saw that she was frightened.

  “Go ahead,” Ross said quietly. “Do as he asks.”

  She left the room.

  “Goddamn it,” Ross said, “what the hell was the point of that? There’s no mystery here about the findings. Your brother was shot to death and took two bullets in the gut.”

  But Carrini was not listening. He had moved alongside Ross, setting the briefcase down on the edge of the table, near his brother’s feet. To Ross, he said, “Now listen very carefully, Doctor. You have done an excellent job so far, and I am pleased with your work. But from now on, you are to do exactly as I say, as quickly as I can say it. I will have no arguments: do as you’re told.”

  He opened the briefcase. Inside was a small package the size of a man’s fist. It was wrapped i
n a heavy, shiny black material of some kind—a bag of plastic.

  “Put this in the body,” Carrini said.

  “What?”

  “No arguments. Put it in the body, in place of the heart, and sew it up.”

  Ross started to protest.

  “No arguments!” Carrini hissed. He gave Ross the object. It was very heavy and cool, as if made of stone or metal. Ross placed it inside the chest, between the lungs. It fit easily.

  “Now sew,” Carrini said.

  “But I haven’t finished my examination.”

  “The examination is finished. Sew!”

  “The girl will be right back.”

  “My relatives will talk to her for at least fifteen minutes. Those were my instructions. They will keep her occupied. Now sew it up.”

  Ross threaded a curved suture needle and began to sew. He started at the lower abdomen and worked upward in long, looping stitches. He finished in twelve minutes, then stepped back from the table.

  Carrini snapped the briefcase shut and walked back to his former position.

  “That was very well done, Doctor,” he said. “I congratulate you.”

  “What was it?”

  “Take my advice,” Carrini said. “Forget you ever saw it. It will be better if you forget.”

  “Heroin?”

  Carrini shook his head. “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Listen,” Ross said, “there are enzymes and corrosive substances in the body. They’ll destroy almost anything—”

  “Forget,” Carrini said, in a low voice. “Forget, forget.”

  The girl came back into the room. “I’m sorry to be so long,” she said to Ross. “They were full of questions.”

  She stopped as she saw the body, sewn up.

  “The postmortem is finished,” Carrini announced crisply. “While you were gone, Dr. Ross concluded that nothing more of value could be learned. You will no doubt wish to accompany him as he writes up the report and fills out the papers.”

  Karin looked at Ross questioningly.

  “That’s right,” Ross said. He pulled the sheet over the body again. They left the room. Outside, the relatives were standing about, smoking and talking quietly, very grave. Carrini said to them, “The undertakers will arrive in an hour. Wait here for them.”

  Carrini went with Ross and the girl to another room, where the autopsy report was briefly written up. A number of forms and papers had to be signed by Ross and countersigned by Karin as a witness. Throughout, Carrini never left them alone. And the girl continued to give Ross frightened, questioning looks.

  Later, there was a moment of confusion as the undertakers arrived. Ross felt a piece of paper being slipped into his pocket. He looked over; Karin smiled slightly. No one else noticed what had happened.

  Twenty minutes later, he left the sanatorium and returned by helicopter and private car to the Costa Brava.

  5. Barcelona

  BACK AT THE HOTEL, CARRINI SAID, “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “Thanks,” Ross said, “I’d rather not.”

  “Very sour of you, Doctor. You seem unhappy.”

  “Me? Unhappy? Just because you threaten to murder me, then whisk me off to perform an autopsy, and then right in the middle you—”

  Ross stopped. Carrini was frowning angrily. “You have done nothing illegal. You performed a straightforward autopsy, and you wrote a straightforward report. Nothing else happened.” He gripped Ross’s arm tightly. “Nothing. Now: a drink?”

  “A drink,” Ross said.

  They went into the bar and sat down. Carrini relaxed, his anger gone as quickly as it had come. “Tell me,” he said pleasantly, “what are your future plans?”

  “Well, I’m still on vacation,” Ross said.

  “Then you will remain here?”

  He shrugged. “Until the conference.”

  Carrini’s body tensed slightly. “Conference?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “Yes. There’s a conference in Barcelona in a few days. The American Society of Radiologists.”

  “I see,” Carrini said slowly. “And you are attending?”

  “Yes. I’m giving a paper.”

  “I see.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Surprise me? No, indeed. I congratulate you. I had no idea you were so distinguished.”

  The drinks came. Carrini raised his glass. “Your health.”

  They drank. Carrini finished his quickly, then said, “Oh, there is one other thing. I owe you some money.” He reached for his checkbook.

  “You owe me nothing.”

  “I thought we agreed—”

  “Let’s just say,” Ross said, “that I did it out of friendship.”

  Carrini smiled. “You are a fool. Take the money. You deserve it.”

  “No.”

  “But I insist.”

  “No.”

  Carrini sighed. “As you wish.” He stood to go. “Then it seems our business is concluded.”

  “I hope so,” Ross said.

  “So do I,” Carrini said, and his voice was coldly serious.

  He found her on the beach. It was late afternoon, and the sun was falling, turning the water to lapping gold. An evening breeze was blowing up; she had goose pimples.

  “Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you.”

  “I’ve been to the sanatorium.”

  “The what?”

  “The Heitzman Sanatorium. North of Barcelona.”

  “What for?”

  He sat down on the sand. “For an autopsy,” he said.

  “You did it?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. It was just an autopsy. Two bullet wounds. He was pretty dead.”

  She shivered. “Don’t tell me about it,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “You look frightened.”

  “Just confused. I don’t think there’s any danger now.” He stared out at the ocean and the reddened, angry sun.

  “I hope not,” she said.

  He nodded. She took his hand.

  “Anything I can do for you?” she asked.

  He looked at her, her dark hair, her tan, the outrageous pink bikini, and her goose pimples.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  She kissed his ear. “Now?”

  He considered. “It’s pretty cold out here.”

  “I didn’t mean here.”

  “Then where did you mean?”

  “I meant,” she said softly, “somewhere else.”

  Much later, while she was taking a shower in his room, he remembered the note. He searched through his pockets and found it, a small, carefully folded piece of paper. The words were hastily scrawled.

  CALL ME BARCELONA

  K BRENNER

  He stared at the note and thought about the frightened girl. He thought about Carrini, and then he found himself thinking about everything, the whole business.

  Angela came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. She grinned at him.

  “And now, the latest creation. Straight from the greatest couturier collection of all. We call this one ‘Thirteenth Rib.’”

  She threw the towel away and pirouetted for him.

  “Blasphemy,” Ross said.

  “It’s the basis for the new line this year,” she said. “It’s supposed to appeal to men. Doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “It comes in a variety of styles to suit every occasion.”

  “I’ll take it just as it is,” he said.

  “Will you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I will,” he said.

  It was over dinner that Angela, looking radiantly happy, said, “Maybe we should go somewhere else for a few days.”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Anywhere. France, or Majorca, or Tangier. Even Barcelona.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  �
�Barcelona’s fun. Ever been?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then why don’t we?”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s.”

  They left in the morning.

  Barcelona: the largest city in Spain, the wealthiest, the most vibrant. Sprawling along the coast and back into the hills, by turns peaceful and raucous, elegant and tawdry, serene and violent. The port, at the end of Calle Ramblas, was crude, noisy, filled with whores, brawling sailors, day laborers. Back in the hills, near the modern university, the residential sections were fashionable and secluded.

  They stayed in the center of town, in a large hotel off the Plaza Cataluña, with a room with a balcony overlooking the fountains.

  Angela said she wanted to shop, but Ross refused to accompany her, saying he hated to shop with women; it was a personal thing, no offense intended. She grinned at him.

  “And what are you going to do while you’re alone?”

  He shrugged. “Walk around. Sight-see.”

  “Meet me back here in two hours? For lunch?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes,” he laughed.

  “If you’re late,” she said, “I’ll seduce the bellboy to occupy the time.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I will.”

  “Spaniards,” he said, “are known to be humorless people.”

  When she was gone, he hunted through the telephone directory for Karin Brenner’s name. He found it, at an address in the north of town.

  He called. The phone rang six times, and then a cautious voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Brenner?”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Dr. Ross.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a little sob. “Oh, I’m so frightened, Doctor.”

  “Why?”

  “I must talk to you.” Her voice was quavering, on the edge of hysteria.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, I’m so frightened.” A little gasp. “I know what has happened.”

  “What?”

  “The thing you put in the body. I know what it is.”

  “How do you know about that?” Ross was frowning.

  “Before, I was listening to the cousins. It was an accident; they did not know I was near. I heard them argue. About X-rays. What would happen if the body was X-rayed. I heard everything. I must talk to you.”