Laura snatched up the phone, dialed Information, and got the number of the anatomy department at the medical school. She was connected with a man named Bishoff, the administrator of the department.
'Mr. Bishoff, thanks for speaking with me,' Laura said. 'My name is Laura Scott. I'm doing some research for a novel, and I need some information on how med-school anatomy departments acquire the bodies they use for students to dissect.'
'You a mystery writer?' The man sounded intrigued.
'That's right.'
'Published?'
'No, not yet.'
'Oh.' Laura could sense the man's interest begin to wane.
'But I'm under contract,' she said eagerly.
'Well, then, in that case congratulations are in order. Your first sold novel. You know, I've been planmng, a book myself. A medical mystery.
I haven't quite gotten to the actual writing yet, but I do have a title:
Take Two Aspirins and Call Me in the Morgue.
Catchy, don't you think?'
Laura wished she had decided on some other ploy. 'It… has potential,' she said.
'Glad you think so. Now then, author to author, what do you want to know?'
'well, Mr. Bishoff, where do you get your bodies?'
'Why, they're donated.'
'By whom?'
'By the only person authorized to do so-the deceased.'
'Pe-People sign their bodies over in their wills?'
'That's right. They are required to notify us of their desire when they are sound of mind, and to sign a notarized form in triplicate. A copy goes to their records, a copy goes to us, and a copy goes on their will.'
'Do the police ever supply you with bodies?'
'Never.'
'And you get enough that way?'
'More than enough, actually. We keep them on ice. Say, wouldn't it be great to have a big chase scene that ends up in a body freezer?'
'It would be, Mr. Bishoff, been done already.' but I think it may have 'Oh, 'Tell me,' she said, 'do you Pay for them?'
'The bodies? Hell no. Only burial fees if the family Wants to use the county's boot hill up on the North Shore.'
'You never pay for a body?'
'Absolutely not. We can't make budget as it is.
Does that wreck your plot?'
'It may.'
'In that case, I'm sorry.'
'One last time, just so I can be sure: There is no way someone can profit from selling bodies to medical schools?'
'Absolutely none.'
'Thank you, Mr. Bishoff. You've been very helpfull.'
'My pleasure. Now I have one question for you.
'Yes?'
'Do you think I should get an agent before or after I write my book?'
Laura smiled. 'I think after might be better, Mr. Bishoff,' she said.
She hung up and then dialed the number of the medical examiner Thaddeus Bushnell. A recording told her that the line was out of order.
Ten minutes later she was in a cab headed toward his lower Beacon Hill town house, hoping that in midday she Might find him a bit more sober and easier to talk to.
At the Turn onto Bushnell's street, she spotted the wooden barriers on the sidewalk in front of his place.
The building itself was gutted-a burned-out shell.
The stench of smoke and charred wood hung heavy in the air.
She asked the cabbie to wait and walked to the barriers. A uniformed fire inspector was standing beside what remained of the front doorway.
'What happened?' she asked.
The man stared at her.
'The house burned down,' he said, his tone asking: What do you think happened?
'What about Dr. Bushnell?'
Laura sensed ominously that she needn't have bothered asking the question.
'You a friend?'
'I… I knew him.'
The man softened. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'The old guy never made it out.'
'I knew he would do this to himself,' Laura said.
'Pardon?'
'Dr. Bushnell. I saw him the other night, and he was drinking too much and smoking. I was frightened that something like this might happen to him.'
The inspector looked back at the house, and then at Laura.
'You a reporter?' he asked.
'No, why?'
'Who are you?'
'I'm… I'm visiting from the South. Why?'
'Because I'm not supposed to talk to anyone until we've checked on a few more things.'
'Please,' Laura said, suddenly apprehensive.
'Please tell me what happened. It… it's very important.' The man sized her up for a few moments and then said simply, 'The fire was set.
Professional job from the looks of it, but not the best. The old guy was on the second floor. The thing was put together in such a Way that he probably couldn't have gotten out even if he wanted to…
Miss? You look a little pale.'
Laura pictured the frail little man, wrapped in his blanket, speaking of events long past as if they had happened yesterday.
'I'm feeling a little pale,' she said. 'There are some terrible things going on around here.'
The man gazed again at the shell that was once Thaddeus Bushnell's home.
'Yes. Yes, I suppose there are.' He put his hand out and peered overhead. 'Rain's startin',' he said.
Except for the elegant county Medical Library on Huntington Avenue, the Hoffman Medical Library at White Memorial was the largest in the city.
Eric planned to start his research there with a screening of basic textbooks in the areas of toxicology, metabolism, and cardiOlOgy- He would pay special attention to the bibliographies at the end of each pertinent chapter, and set up a card file of the journal articles that would form phase two of his project. His operating thesis was that somehow the two patients had encountered the same Poison or environmental Pollutant-a toxin powerful enough to cause cardiovascular collapse and profound metabolic slowing.
It was just after four in the afternoon. Earlier in the day a light rain had moved in on the city, floating a slick of embedded oil up onto the highways. The result-a series of multivictim accidents-had kept him at work in the E.R. longer than he had wished.
Finally he had signed out to the senior resident Joe Silver had appointed-to take Reed's place, and agreed to split shifts with the man each day until a more permanent arrangement could be made.
Earlier in the day, Laura had phoned with a report of her call to the anatomy department and news of the
