The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down. J.D. Barker

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       15

       Porter

       Day 1 • 10:31 a.m.

      The Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office was on West Harrison Street in downtown Chicago. Porter and Nash made good time from Flair Tower and parked in one of the spaces out front reserved for law enforcement. Eisley had instructed them to meet him in the morgue.

      Porter had never been a fan of the morgue. Formaldehyde and bleach seemed to be the air freshener of choice, but there was no disguising the fact that the morgue smelled like feet, stale cheese, and cheap perfume. Whenever he stepped through the doorway, he was reminded of the fetal pig Mr. Scarletto had forced him to dissect in high school. He just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. The walls were painted a cheerful light blue, which did little to help one forget one was surrounded by dead people. The employees all seemed to wear the same nonchalant expression, one that made Porter wonder what he’d find if he took a gander inside their home refrigerators. Nash didn’t seem to mind, though. He had stopped halfway down the hallway and was peering into a vending machine.

      “How could they run out of Snickers bars? Who’s in charge of this shit show?” he grumbled to nobody in particular. “Hey, Sam, can I borrow a quarter?”

      Porter ignored him and pushed through the double swinging stainless steel doors opposite a green leather sofa that might have been new around the time JFK took office.

      “Come on, man. I’m hungry!” Nash shouted from behind him.

      Tom Eisley sat at a metal desk in the far corner of the room, typing feverishly at a computer. He glanced up and frowned. “Did you walk here?”

      Porter considered telling him that they did, in fact, drive quite fast, lights and all, but thought better of it. “We were over at Flair Tower. We tracked down the victim’s apartment.”

      Most people would have asked him what they found, but not Eisley; his interest in people started when their pulse stopped.

      Nash came through the double doors, the remnants of a Kit Kat on his fingers.

      “Feel better?” Porter asked him.

      “Cut me some slack. I’m running on fumes.”

      Eisley stood from the desk. “Put on gloves, both of you. Follow me.”

      He led them past the desk and through another set of double doors at the back of the space into a large examination room. As they stepped inside, the temperature felt as if it dropped twenty degrees. Low enough for Porter to see his breath. Goose flesh crawled across his arms.

      A large round surgical light with handles on either side swung over the exam table at the center of the room, a naked male body lying atop. The face had been covered with a white cloth. The chest had been splayed open with a large Y incision that started at his navel and branched at the pectoral muscles.

      He should have brought gum — gum helped with the smell.

      “Is that our boy?” Nash asked.

      “It is,” Eisley said.

      The dirt and grime from the road had been washed away, but there was no cleansing the road rash, which covered his skin in patches. Porter took a closer look. “I didn’t catch that this morning.”

      Eisley pointed at a large purple and black bruise on the right arm and leg. “The bus hit him here. See these lines? That’s from the grill. Based on the measurements we took at the scene, the impact threw him a little over twenty feet, then he slid on the pavement for another twelve. I found tremendous internal damage. More than half his ribs cracked. Four of them punctured his right lung, two punctured the left. His spleen ruptured. So did one kidney. The head trauma appears to be the actual cause of death, although any one of the other injuries would have proved fatal. His death was near instantaneous. Nothing to be done.”

      “That’s your big news?” Nash balked. “I thought you found something.”

      Eisley’s brow creased. “Oh, there’s something.”

      “I’m not big on suspense, Tom. What’d you find?” Porter said.

      Eisley walked over to a stainless steel table and pointed at what appeared to be a brown ziplock bag filled with —

      “Is that his stomach?” Nash asked.

      Eisley nodded. “Notice anything odd?”

      “Yeah. It’s not in him anymore,” said Porter.

      “Anything else?”

      “No time for this, Doc.”

      Eisley let out a sigh. “See these spots? Here and here?”

      Porter leaned in a little closer. “What are they?”

      “Stomach cancer,” Eisley told them.

      “He was dying? Did he know?”

      “This is advanced. There’s no corrective treatment when the disease gets to this point. It would have been very painful. I’m sure he was well aware. I found a few interesting things in the tox screen. He was on a high dose of octreotide, which is typically used to control nausea and diarrhea. There was also a concentration of trastuzumab. It’s an interesting drug. They first used it to treat breast cancer, then discovered it helped with other types of cancer too.”

      “You think we can track him down with the drugs?”

      Eisley nodded slowly. “Probably. Trastuzumab in particular is administered intravenously for an hour, no less than once a week, possibly more often at this stage. I’m not aware of anyone offering this particular medication in private practice, which means he СКАЧАТЬ