“That’s wonderful. Very admirable, sir.”
He nodded, proud but not smug. “For several years we’ve put the lion’s share of our focus on a rare but debilitating disease called Phasger’s Syndrome, named for the first known patient to display the symptoms. That was in 1918.”
“What are the symptoms, Doctor?”
He flipped a hand. “They are actually quite mild, Mr. Hammer, initially. So mild that those who’ve contracted the disease often don’t know it until it’s too late. The victim has a strong sensation of a bitter taste, and the constant scent of ashes, followed by mild muscular aches not unlike the flu. In these early stages, we can already cure Phasger’s, and we are frankly on the brink of a total cure.”
The quiet pride in his voice said he could picture the Nobel Prize for Medicine on his wall right now, between the diplomas and the ducks.
“When you say ‘brink,’ Doctor — how close are you?”
The linebacker shoulders shrugged. “Five years. A year? It’s impossible to say, as a breakthrough at any given time can change everything. But I’m confident that ten years from now, Phasger’s Syndrome will be a remnant of the past, like polio.”
“Impressive.” I gestured toward the small army of research scientists. “How do you manage such feats? I would imagine the costs are staggering.”
“They are,” he said, “yet we get no government funding, and are wholly independent in that fashion. We survive on grants and gifts from corporations, charitable groups, and of course...” He gestured toward me with a smile. “...individuals.”
I smiled back at him. “The kindness of strangers, somebody said. You mentioned the early symptoms, Doctor. What does full-blown Phasger’s Syndrome develop into?”
His expression turned grave. “Something quite terrible. Every facet of the nervous system attacks the patient. The pain is excruciating and constant. It is resistant to the most potent pain medications. Something like morphine, in this context, is akin to giving aspirin to a migraine sufferer. Within a year a patient is bedridden, and must be fed intravenously. Speech is distorted to the eventual point of incomprehensibility. There is frequent bleeding from every orifice, requiring regular transfusions. The gums decay, and the teeth rot and fall out. Blindness gradually occurs within the first six months. These poor wretches... excuse my melodramatic phrasing... are prisoners in their own bodies, bodies that are declaring war on themselves.”
“Damn.”
He flipped the other hand. “So you can see why we work so diligently, around the clock, to eradicate this cruel killer. And you can see why we are so grateful to those, like yourself, who are willing to step up and contribute to this important work.”
“I’m sure you are.”
The smile blossomed even bigger. “And I must say, Mr. Hammer, that the figure you mentioned to my nurse is an impressive one. From a private individual, particularly one with no history of Phasger’s in the family, such a donation is rare indeed. Fifty thousand dollars will go a very long way in this research.”
“I’m afraid your nurse misunderstood, Doctor.”
“Oh?”
“As you know, I’m a private investigator. And I’m here to ask about a fifty-thousand dollar contribution someone made to your institute. Actually, two twenty-five-thousand dollar contributions.”
He drew back in his chair, sucking in breath, agape. Well, why not? Hadn’t I sucker-punched him?
From my inside suit coat pocket, I withdrew the two cancelled checks and I put them in front of him. “Leif Borensen made these generous donations, both in recent months. Take a look.”
Frowning, he did so, without touching them. Maybe he was afraid of catching something. “I do remember these.”
“What do you remember about Leif Borensen?”
“Why, nothing.”
“He wasn’t a patient? Or don’t you have patients here?”
His eyes and nostrils flared. “Do I have to tell you, Mr. Hammer, that patient confidentiality—”
So they did treat sufferers, or experiment on them.
“Doc, you already said you didn’t remember anything about Borensen. Can you confirm he wasn’t a patient?”
He thought about that so long, I thought his beard might grow. But finally he nodded.
“Is there anyone close to him that you know of,” I said, “a friend or relative who may have contracted Phasger’s, perhaps suffering now or possibly already dead from it, that might inspire Mr. Borensen to make such a generous contribution?”
Another sigh. “Frankly, no.”
“Well, isn’t this kind of contribution unusual?”
“It is.” Something about the contribution did seem to bother him. “Mr. Hammer, there is generally paperwork we must provide to the effect that our institute is an organization funded by charity, giving the donor a tax benefit. Mr. Borensen did not pursue that avenue. My sole contact with him were these two checks.”
I thought about that.
Then I asked, “Doctor, have you received any similar contributions, from donors otherwise unknown to you, over the past, say, five years?”
Impatience was tightening his face. “I don’t know that I want to answer that, Mr. Hammer. I am willing to respond to you on the basis of the cancelled checks you presented me... and, frankly, I read the newspapers, and know that Mr. Borensen died a suicide recently... but I see no reason for our conversation to go further...” He rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rather important work to get back to.”
He came around his desk and I got up and faced him, blocking the way. Not threateningly, just blocking it.
“I have important work to do, too, Doc. You’re chasing a killer called Phasger’s Syndrome. I’m chasing down a killer who doesn’t have a name yet, but he’s killed many times, and will continue doing so until I eradicate this human disease.”
He studied my face. “Mr. Hammer, have you ever seen a psychiatrist?”
“Once,” I said. “Didn’t work out. Answer my question, Doctor — have you received similar contributions in recent years, possibly not always twenty-five thousand but certainly in that vicinity?”
“...Yes.”
“Any repeat contributions from any of those donors?”
“Occasionally, as with Mr. Borensen, there have been several donations of that size. But nothing regular. And no personal contact.”
“None of them wanting help claiming a fat tax deduction?”
This was something that clearly had bothered him. He said, “No, sir. Not one. Do you... do you have an idea why they might do that?”
“Yes. These people wanted to attract a minimum amount of attention. They paid their money and disappeared.”
“Paid...?”
“Just a theory I’m working on, Doc. Would you be willing to provide a list of names and addresses for these other big donors?”
His chin came up. “Well, no. Why should you expect me to? You’re just a private investigator, Mr. Hammer.”
“That makes me an officer of the court.”
“Be that as it may — no.” He was firm. “Bring me a court order, however, and I’ll provide that list.”
I moved away from him, easing toward the door. “Fair enough. You’ll be hearing from Patrick Chambers, Captain of Homicide, NYPD. When exactly, I can’t say. But I would go ahead and get that list together. And might I make another suggestion?”
A bitter little smile formed. “I’m quite sure I can’t stop you, Mr. Hammer.”
“Take on some security. Twenty-four hour security.”
“We have a security man who...”
“Not ‘man.’ Men. With guns and military experience. I can give you the name of a good agency out of Manhattan — I’m part of only a two-person operation and couldn’t handle it for you.”