“I’m sorry but Dr. Chu is out of town today and won’t be back until the end of the week. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’d like to speak directly with him. I can come to his office when he’s free.”
“What is your name, please?”
Now she couldn’t go back or she might be dismissed. “Rachel Whitman.”
“Ms. Whitman, Dr. Chu is very busy. So if you could please give me some idea what your interest is—if you’re a student, or a researcher, or a pharmaceutical rep …”
Before Rachel could think, she said, “I took LSD laced with TNT some years ago, and I’m concerned my child has been … affected.”
“I see.” There was a long pause. “He’s free next Wednesday at one,” she said, then gave directions to the office in New Haven.
When she hung up, Rachel’s eye fell on the baby picture of Dylan on the fireplace mantel. He was sitting in the bathtub covered with big puffs of bubblebath and laughing happily. He looked gorgeous.
According to the report on Chu’s study, two-thirds of the TNT women studied had given birth to children with birth defects, and half of those suf fered damage to the brains.
When Rachel got off the phone, there was a message from Sheila to meet her at the Dells. She had some “important information” for her. So she drove to the club and went in the side entrance, which took her through the lounge.
Because it was a little after ten, the room was empty. But as she passed through, she spotted Brendan LaMotte behind the large mahogany bar with a buffing cloth. But instead of polishing glasses, he appeared to be slouched low with his back to her. As she walked by, she caught him unawares, sniffing from an open bottle of liquor. Startled, he capped the bottle and pretended to be wiping it clean and lining it on the shelves.
Rachel did not want to make a scene, so she continued through the lounge with no more than a chirpy “hello” which was her cue that being underage, he would be fired if caught.
Sheila was waiting for her at a table. A waitress came over and took their orders and left.
“Here you go,” Sheila said and pulled out one of her business cards. On the back she had written: “Nova Children’s Center.”
Also, a telephone number and address: “452 Franklin Avenue, Myrtle.” That was a town between Hawthorne and Gloucester.
“So, what is the place?”
“A complete child-care center with therapists, child psychologists, pediatricians, development experts, neurologists, whatever. The whole shebang for kids.”
“You mean a clinic?”
“Well, kind of. But it’s
“I’ve never heard of them.” But then again she had only lived in the area for six months. “So, what makes them so unique?”
Rachel lowered her voice. “Well, what I know is that they can help children with learning disorders and, you know, neurological problems, brain dysfunctions. Stuff like that. Some kind of
“Enhancement procedures?”
“Yeah, for kids with memory and information-processing problems. Whatever.”
Sheila was being vague again, probably not to offend Rachel with the suggestion that Dylan had a neurological disorder. “You said something about corrective procedures.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve heard they can, you know … raise a kid’s IQ—maybe even double it.”
“Double it! That’s not possible.”
Sheila rolled her eyes in frustration. “Look, sweetie, I don’t know the ins and outs, so I don’t want to mislead and all. But they’ve got all kinds of programs, procedures, and stuff—I’m not sure of the details—but what I do know is that they’re very exclusive, if you know what I mean. Like they don’t take just anybody, and they’re tres expensive. But you got their number, so why don’t you just call them and make an appointment and bring in all your questions, okay?”
“How do you know so much about them?”
“Because this is a small town and I’ve lived here for twenty years is how come. Look, give them a call, they’re supposed to be the best, and they’re in your own backyard. If Dylan’s got a problem, he can be fixed.”
“Whom do I ask for?”
Sheila lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Lucius Malenko.”
“Who?”
Sheila wrote the name on the card. “He’s one of the directors. You’re going to want to talk to him eventually, but first you’ll have to bring Dylan in to be tested so they can see what his problems are. So, call and make an appointment. You can’t lose.”
Rachel thanked her and stared at the name. Lucius Malenko.
16
It was a little before noon when Greg showed up at the Essex Medical Center. He would have put it off until the evening, but Nurse Cynthia Porter and the others were working the ER day shift. Instead of reporting to Lieutenant Gelford where he was heading, Greg slipped out of the barracks and headed north.
He met Nurse Porter in a small conference room in the ER complex. With her was a radiologist, introduced as Dr. Adrian Budd, and a resident physician, Dr. Paul Doria. They were there at Nurse Porter’s request.
Greg sat down opposite them and removed from his briefcase the photographs of the skulls, including the computer schematics with the holes marked. “There’s a pattern of evidence that may shed light on what happened to these kids,” he said, and he described the circumstances surrounding each of the remains.
While Greg spoke, Dr. Budd and Nurse Porter listened with interest. But Dr. Doria, a mutt-faced man with a goatee, nodded impatiently in time with his “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” That annoyed Greg. When he finished, Doria glanced at his watch. “I wish we could help, but we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Patient confidentiality,” Doria said curtly. “We can’t release the patient’s name or discuss his condition.” He made a move to get up.
Greg looked at Cindy. “On the telephone, you said you would be able to show me the X rays so we could make comparisons.”
“I know, but then I checked with my supervisor, and we can’t do that.” She made a woeful expression. “I’m really sorry, Officer. I just found out, or I would have saved you the trip.”
Greg looked at them, thinking of his two-hour drive and what Gelford would say if he found out that Greg had come up here and returned emptyhanded.
Doria took a step from the table toward the door. “The only way we could release them is through a court order or a subpoena. Sorry.”
Budd began to inch his chair back from the table also.
“Well, then, what can you tell me?”
“Just that the patient had scars on his head that looked similar to those in the newspaper,” Nurse Porter said.
“Any idea where they came from?”
