“Nope.”
“Third time this has happened.” The worker scratched the crown of his head, glanced at his Asian partner, then Ben. “Whoever’s supposed to let you people know isn’t doing their job.”
“Does that surprise you?” Ben asked. “If it does, you haven’t worked around this place very long.”
The Hispanic blew a pocket of air out from the side of his mouth. “It’s a capacity problem — the hospital’s maxed out and we’re reconfiguring the trunks to add more lines. Believe it or not, we’re trying to stay out of everyone’s way while we’re doing it. That’s why we’re here on a weekend.” The man gave him an expectant look.
Ben waved them in. “How long you gonna be?”
“Not long at all.”
Fifteen minutes later the Asian worker was still on a ladder with his shoulders and head buried inside the ceiling. A labyrinth of wires hung down through the hole where he had removed two ceiling tiles.
“You guys about done?” Ben asked.
The Hispanic said, “We should have it wrapped up in another few minutes. Sorry we’re taking so long.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ben grabbed his briefcase and tossed in some papers. “Will you be needing to get back in here again?”
“No. You won’t be seeing us again.”
18
Luke had been to Ben Wilson’s home only once, for a holiday party a few years earlier, but he immediately recognized the distinctive two-story Craftsman structure. Ben lived in an older area of the city known as Windsor Square, and his home made a statement with its bold red and brown tones and bright yellow trim. It looked like the type of house in which Hansel and Gretel might live.
The Lakers game was playing loudly in the background when a teenage girl answered the front door.
“I’m Dr. McKenna.”
She gave him an empty stare and smacked on a golf-ball-size piece of gum, then turned her head inside and screamed, “Dad, it’s someone for you.”
The door swung open and her arm shot out as if it were spring-loaded, pointing down a mahogany-paneled hallway toward the rear of the house.
As Luke stepped through the doorway, a gigantic bloodhound charged through the entry hall and raced out the front door.
From the back of the house Ben’s voice called out, “Don’t let the dog out.”
The girl shrugged at Luke, swung the door closed, then trotted up a broad stairway.
He found Ben in the kitchen, standing against the island counter mashing potatoes and wearing a ridiculous lavender apron. The pathologist said “Howdy” with a drawl that stretched the word into a lengthy greeting.
Luke had met Ben’s wife only in passing at that holiday party and couldn’t remember her name. “Where’s your wife?”
Ben pointed through the wall with the potato masher. “Lakers game. From the sound of it, things ain’t going too well.”
As if on command, a woman’s voice pierced through a mahogany door at the far end of the kitchen. “Wake up and get into the game. You guys are playing like a bunch of wusses.”
Ben’s daughter charged through the kitchen with two other gangly teenagers in jeans and halter tops. “Tell Mom I’m taking her car.”
A tangle of bony elbows and knees scurried out the screen door.
Ben opened his mouth as if to say something, then shrugged instead.
His wife’s voice called out again. “C’mon, you morons! You’re leaving the lane wide open.”
Ben’s head retreated into his shoulders. “We best leave Charlie alone in her misery.”
“Your wife’s name is Charlie?”
Ben grabbed a pair of barbecue tongs and led Luke out the back door. “Short for Charlotte.”
“Ah, I see.”
Ben turned on him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.”
Luke spread his palms, brimming with innocence.
“I like tarantulas,” Ben insisted. “They’re beautiful creatures.”
“Of course they are.”
“So I named one after my wife. What’s wrong with that?”
“Not that this discussion isn’t important in its own right,” Luke said as they stepped over to a brick-mounted barbecue grill, “but did you get a look at those lung slides?”
“Yep.” Ben scratched his nose with the tongs, then pointed them at Luke. “Like that little girl Alice said, it’s gettin’ curiouser and curiouser. That boy’s airways, particularly the smaller airways leading into the lung, looked like a tornado hit ’em.”
“Sepsis?”
“Doubt it. The epithelial cells lining the smaller airways were mostly gone. Poof. The few cells that were left aren’t consistent with sepsis.” Ben turned a steak. “But I haven’t told you the kicker.”
“What?”
“Even though the airways were all shot to hell, the lung tissue itself was normal. The alveoli, the air sacs — completely normal. Whatever this was, it attacked just one type of cell — the epithelial cells lining that boy’s airways.”
“Then why couldn’t we ventilate the patient? If the lung tissue was spared, how’d he die?”
Charlie erupted inside the house. “Open your eyes, guys. Ever heard of passing the ball?”
“Fluid and debris,” Ben said while handing a tray to Luke. “Here. Hold this.”
“Fluid and debris? I’m not following.”
“There was a thin layer of fluid and debris in the lungs — a slurry of dead tissue from the airways that followed gravity and flowed into the alveolar air sacs.”
Luke rotated the platter as Ben loaded it with steaks.
“You were able to push oxygen into the boy’s lungs,” Ben continued, “but it couldn’t get through the fluid and debris. The oxygen never got into his bloodstream. That’s almost certainly what killed him.” Ben pointed at the door. “It’s getting cold. Let’s take our little chat inside.”
Luke followed Ben into the kitchen, placed the platter on a kitchen counter, and the two of them went into the living room.
“Any idea how this ties into the boy’s pancreatic enzymes being elevated?”
“Nope.” Ben stooped to set some logs in the fireplace.
Luke stood at the front window, glancing up and down the street. “So, what’s your best guess? What caused the boy’s death?”
“I don’t have a guess at this point. You got something attacking this boy’s airways while leaving the lung tissue alone. Doesn’t look like an infection, at least no infection I’ve ever seen. Maybe some kind of autoimmune reaction, but again, I’ve never seen anything like it. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“So, unless the blood cultures turn up something, we’re at a dead end?”
Ben stuffed a wad of newspaper under the logs. “Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
Ben lit a match and touched the flame to one end of the paper. “You asked me to call the coroner about what happened with the autopsy, remember?”
“And?”
“I called him ‘bout an hour ago, just before you got here.” He stood and brushed his palms. “Turns out he’s the one that was talking to the consulate. He didn’t really add anything to what we already know—”
“So how does that help us?”
“Just hold on,” Ben said. “So, the coroner and I got to talking about this case and I tell him about these lung findings. He’s one of the brightest bulbs I know. I was interested in his opinion, ya know?”
Luke nodded while staring out the front window. There was a dark van directly across the street from Ben’s home, and two cars parked ahead of it. Neither of the cars was a Ford Mustang.
“It turns out,” Ben continued, “that the coroner had a case with similar lung findings — a Jane Doe case. It was a few months back.”