"I've already shown you the PET scan pictures," Davies said, shoving his hair out of his eyes with one hand and waving a color-enhanced photo of a shriveling brain with the other as they walked away from the populated area of the lab. "So you see the progressive destruction of the cortical areas, yes?"
His eyes still full of desiccated brain, Murphy nodded. Here he took notes. He was hearing about hippocampuses and neurofibrillary tangles and serum amyloid P. Words so familiar to Davies that he didn't stop to explain them to the reporter. The reporter, frustrated, tired, and disappointed by finding just what people had said he would, desperately wanted a cigarette. Instead, he got a stool at the far end of the lab, which made him think Davies had probably forgotten where his office was.
"It is the amyloidal plaques we're interested in," Davies said, pacing. "They're sort of like neurological junk piles that build up in certain areas of the brain, yes? Our focus is to keep them from forming and interfering with the neurotransmitters that link neural synapses and form thought. You understand?"
No.
"Sure."
A quick nod and he was off again. "To do that, we have concentrated on the part played by a substance known as apolipoprotein E, or Apo E, which seems to collect the plaques like a... well, a lint catcher."
Murphy jotted the words protein lint catcher and left it at that. He didn't give a damn about proteins he couldn't pronounce. He just wanted to know what they had to do with Restcrest.
"And how does your unique arrangement with Restcrest help you do this?" he asked.
Davies blinked a moment in response to the change of conversational direction. "Research money, of course. Alex is a whiz at that kind of thing. And we do excellent work because of our relationship with Restcrest. Restcrest gives us access to raw material other research labs are begging for."
"Raw material?"
Davies blinked again. "You do know that right now the only way to definitely diagnose Alzheimer's is through autopsy, yes?"
"You can't just mock up the problem on a computer simulation, you mean."
"Exactly. We need affected tissue to study it, and Restcrest provides that. It also enables us to correlate a patient's symptomology and family history with the postmortem microscopic changes on a scale not easily matched. A rare opportunity."
"I imagine."
Davies bounced, then leaned close. "Most people don't appreciate how important that is," he insisted, his eyebrows telegraphing his intensity like furry semaphores. "Without a facility like Restcrest, we would have to rely on donations. We wouldn't have complete access to the patients to study them while they're alive, not to mention the next generation of potential patients before they're symptomatic. As a matter of fact, because of the good image Restcrest has, we're starting to see donations of nonsymptomatic brains with familial histories. Young brains, Mr. Murphy. We don't get many of those, you see?"
Calling Mel Brooks. Your Frankenstein is waiting. It was all Murphy could do to keep a straight face.
Nursing home supplies raw research material, he scribbled, knowing that he'd never use it. Not like that. It was too scary. Too confusing. The truth was that the geek doctor was probably as sincere as hell. He performed a service, and inflammatory stories would only scare possible donors away from a good cause.
Unless, of course, the doctor's good luck had something to do with Murphy's mysterious phone call.
"Have you been getting more donations lately?" he asked.
Davies paused a second to sign off on some result a staff member presented. "More?" he asked, his attention on the clipboard. "Yes, I suppose we have gotten more. It happens like that sometimes, though. This week, in fact, we've already had three. Two from the unit and one from the coroner."
Murphy looked up from his notes. "Coroner?"
"Yes. The healthy donation."
Did Murphy remind the guy that if a brain had been healthy it wouldn't have been in his refrigerator? "Murder victim?"
Davies looked up. "No, no. An accident. It was just released today, in fact. Not perfect, of course. Heat damage. But usable."
Did Murphy hope for recognition or misapprehension?
"Name of Adkins?" he asked.
Davies started a little, then blinked. "Of course, you work for the local paper. You'd know about him, yes?"
"Yes," Murphy said, knowing damn well he shouldn't have felt that flush of triumph simply because he'd just heard an interesting coincidence and he hadn't believed in coincidence since the day a brand-new twenty-dollar bill had shown up on his dresser not two hours after he'd caught his father playing sink the Bismarck with his cousin Mary. "I knew about him."
* * *
Not enough, obviously.
"You want to tell me why you're investigating Alex Raymond?" Sherilee demanded an hour later when Murphy dragged himself back into the newspaper.
Punching his blinking answering machine, Murphy feigned innocence. "You were the one who told me to do the dry-good series on the Neurological Research Group. I'm doing."
Sherilee aimed a computer printout at him like a signed confession. "And personal finances are, like, important to the spreading of the unit's good name how, Murphy?"
"I don't go through your desk, Sherilee," he said agreeably. "Don't you think it's bad manners to go through mine?"
"Not when you're not telling me what's going on," she retorted. "You work for me, Murphy, remember?"
Murphy held up a hand as he waited for his messages. It was better than laughing at Sherilee when she was serious. The only words he'd heard more in his life than "You work for me, Murphy, remember?" were "Closing time."
"Something came up I'm investigating."
Three messages. Beep.
"Not about Alex Raymond."
Beep. "I'd say you owe me," the deep, laughing voice announced on his recorder, "but I've been saying that for years. Call me back. I've dug into your boy, and I'm afraid I came up empty. But I might have some other tidbits you'll like."
Marty Gerst. City-desk editor of The Philadelphia Inquirer, which would have covered one of Alex Raymond's failed units.
"Murphy?" Sherilee insisted, up on her toes now. "You aren't going after Alex Raymond."
Beep. "Just thought I'd let you know," Pete Mitchell offered in tight tones that betrayed his excitement. "Your boy kept more to himself than just his service record. Call me."
Hmmmm. This town was like an old knit sweater. Pull one loose strand and the whole thing began to unravel.
Beep. "You haven't listened—" Murphy hit the button at light speed. He'd been threatened enough over the years to recognize another of the breed. Definitely not the voice he'd heard before. Probably the one Leary didn't want to talk about.