“I’ve got to find out who it is.” Jason went out to the railed landing and looked down at the front door. He could see a figure through one of the glass panels.
“Be careful,” Shirley said.
Jason silently started down the stairs. The closer he got, the bigger the shadow of the individual in the foyer became. He was facing the nameplates and angrily hitting the buzzer. Suddenly he whirled around and pressed his face to the glass. For a moment, Jason’s and the stranger’s faces were only inches apart. There was no mistaking the massive face and tiny, closely set eyes. Their visitor was Bruno, the body-builder. Jason turned and fled back upstairs as the door rattled furiously behind him.
“Who is it?”
“A muscle-bound thug I know,” Jason told her, double-locking his door, “and the only person who knew I went to Seattle.” That point had just occurred to him with terrifying force. He ran into the den and snatched up the phone. “Damn!” he said after a minute. He dropped the receiver and tried the one in the bedroom. Again, there was no dial tone. “The phones are dead,” he said with disbelief to Shirley, who had followed him, sensing his panic.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re leaving. I’m not getting trapped here.” Rummaging in the hall closet, he found the key to the gate separating his building from the narrow alley that ran out to West Cedar Street. He opened the bedroom window, climbed onto the fire escape, and helped Shirley out after him. Single file, they descended to the small garden where the leafless white birches stood out like ghosts in the dark. Once in the alley, they ran to the gate, where Jason frantically fumbled to insert the key. When they emerged onto the narrow street, it was quiet and empty, the gloom pierced at intervals by the soft Beacon Hill gas lamps. Not a soul was stirring.
“Let’s go!” Jason said, and started down West Cedar to Charles.
“My car is back on Louisburg Square,” Shirley panted, struggling to match Jason’s pace.
“So is mine. But obviously we can’t go back. I have a friend whose car I can take.”
On Charles Street there were a few pedestrians outside the 7-Eleven. Jason thought about calling the police from the store, but now that he was out of his apartment he felt less trapped. Besides, he wanted to check the GHP computer again before he spoke with Curran.
They walked down Chestnut Street, lined with its old Federal buildings. There were several people walking dogs, which made Jason feel safer. Just before Brimmer Street, Jason turned into a parking garage where he gave the attendant ten dollars and asked for the car that belonged to a friend. Luckily, the man recognized Jason and brought out a blue BMW.
“I think it would be a good idea to go to my place,” Shirley said, sliding into the front seat. “We can call Curran from there and let him know where you are.”
“First I want to go back to the clinic.”
With almost no traffic, they reached the hospital in less than ten minutes. “I’ll only be a minute,” Jason said, pulling up to the entrance. “Do you want to come in or wait here?”
“Don’t be silly,” Shirley said, opening her side of the car. “I want to see these graphs myself.”
They waved ID cards at the security guard and took the elevator, even though they were going up only one floor.
The cleaning service had left the clinic in pristine condition — magazines in racks, wastepaper baskets empty, and the floor glistening with fresh wax. Jason went directly into his office, sat down at his desk, and booted up his computer terminal.
“I’ll call Curran,” Shirley said, going out to the secretaries’ station.
Jason gave a wave to indicate he’d heard her. He was already engrossed in data on the computer. First he called up the various clinic physicians’ identification numbers. He was particularly interested in Peterson’s. When he had all the numbers, he instructed the computer to separate the GHP patient population by doctor and then start drawing death curves on each group for the past two months, months that had shown the greatest changes when all the patients had been listed. He expected Peterson’s patients to show either a higher or lower death rate, believing that a psychopath would experiment either significantly more or less with his own patients.
Shirley came back into the office and stood watching him enter the data.
“Your friend Curran’s not back yet,” she said. “He called in to the station and said he might be tied up a couple more hours.”
Jason nodded. He was more interested in the emerging curves. It took about fifteen minutes to produce all the graphs. Jason separated the continuous sheets and lined them up.
“They all look the same,” Shirley said, leaning on his shoulder.
“Just about,” Jason admitted. “Even Peterson’s. It doesn’t rule out his involvement, but it doesn’t help us either.” Jason eyed the computer, trying to think of any other data that might be useful. He drew a blank.
“Well, that’s all the bright ideas for the moment. The police will have to take over from here.”
“Let’s go, then,” Shirley said. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” Jason admitted. Pushing himself out of the chair was an effort.
“Are these the graphs you produced earlier?” Shirley asked, pointing to the stack of printouts by the terminal.
Jason nodded.
“How about bringing them along? I’d like you to explain them to me.”
Jason stuffed the papers into a large manila envelope.
“I gave Curran’s office my phone number,” Shirley said. “I think that’s the best place to wait. Have you had a chance to eat anything?”
“Some dreadful airplane food, but that seems like days ago.”
“I have a little leftover cold chicken.”
“Sounds great.”
When they got to the car, Jason asked Shirley if she’d mind driving so he could relax and think a little.
“Not at all,” she said, taking his keys.
Jason climbed into the passenger side, tossing the envelope into the back seat. He fastened his seat belt, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He let his mind play over the various ways the clinic patients might have been given the releasing factor. Since it couldn’t be administered orally, he wondered how the criminal could have injected the patients undergoing executive physicals. Blood was drawn for lab workups, but vacuum tubes provided no way to inject a substance. For inpatients it was a different story — they were always getting injections and intravenous fluids.
He had reached no plausible conclusion when Shirley drew up before her house. Jason staggered and almost fell as he got out of the car. The short rest had exaggerated his fatigue. He reached into the back seat for the envelope.
“Make yourself at home,” Shirley said, leading him into the living room.
“First let’s make sure Curran hasn’t called.”
“I’ll check my service in a moment. Why don’t you make yourself a drink while I rustle up that chicken.”
Too tired to argue, Jason went over to the bar and poured some Dewar’s over ice, then retreated to the couch. While he waited for Shirley, he again pondered the ways the releasing factor might have been administered. There weren’t many possibilities. If it wasn’t injected, it had to be through rectal suppositories or some other direct contact with a mucous membrane. Most of the patients having a complete executive physical got a barium enema, and Jason wondered if that was the answer.
He began sipping his Scotch as Shirley came in with a cold chicken and salad.
“Can I make you a drink?” Jason asked. Shirley put the tray down on the coffee table. “Why not?” Then she added, “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”
Jason watched her add a drop of vermouth to her vodka, and that was when he thought of eyedrops. All patients having executive physicals had complete eye exams, including eyedrops to dilate their pupils. If someone wished to introduce the death gene’s releasing factor, the mucous membrane in the eye would absorb it perfectly. Even better, since the releasing factor could be secretly introduced to the regular eye medication, the fatal drops could be administered unwittingly by any innocent doctor or technician.