Something's bothering Henry, but this time the problem isn't purely emotional. Rated K.
Abe shook Henry's shoulder. Henry twitched, throwing off the intruding hand, and continued to sleep.
Abe looked at Jo Martinez sheepishly. "He's a heavy sleeper."
Another shake. This time Henry's hand brushed off the nuisance from the conscious world.
Finally Abe resorted to a trick he'd had to use only a few times. He took a firm grip on Henry's nose and pulled, turning Henry's head to the side.
A groan. A flailing of hands. And a hint of sleep-fogged eyes.
"Abe. What is it? What's the matter?" Henry's voice was thick with drowsiness. His blurred gaze registered Jo Martinez, arms crossed.
Blinking, Henry propped himself up on his elbows. "Why… are you in my bedroom?"
"There's been another one."
Henry fell back, then immediately sat up, blinking, fully awake.
"Where?"
He threw back the covers and padded over to the framed map of New York, circa 1800, on the wall.
"First one here … second here …"
Jo indicated. "Third one here. A 'V' pattern."
The first murder had been outside the Bronx Zoo. The second one, deep into Queens, off Linden Boulevard. Now there had been a third. Jo was pointing to what was now Pelham Parkway. A deep, narrow V.
"Maybe…" Henry said slowly. "Maybe not a V. Maybe the start of a pentagram."
"A pentagram? Like … Satanism?"
Henry sighed. "It might be a possible explanation for why the killer has been so meticulously collecting blood at the scenes."
Jo shrugged. "Souvenir."
Henry shook his head. "Blood makes a dreadful souvenir. Much too perishable, deteriorates quickly unless it's held under optimum conditions and even then it won't last long. A shoe, panties, something the killer can fondle, put under his pillow, wear, frame, add to his collection. Not blood. Not as a souvenir."
Abe interrupted. "Jo. Can I make you some coffee?"
Jo was impatient to get moving, but she was a reasonable woman. She knew Henry would need a few minutes to get out of his pajamas.
"Thanks." She followed Abe out of the room. Neither of them saw Henry grimace and double over. The stomach pain was back. This time it felt like a hand squeezing his intestines.
Neither said much on the drive to the scene. Henry, Jo saw, was obviously not a morning person. He was sipping the coffee, which Abe had decanted into a take-out cup, as if it were medicinal, and his face was pallid.
"Do they really drink the blood?" Jo asked, more to start a conversation than out of need to know.
"Some do," Henry said. "There are variations on satanic practices, but those who conduct a Black Mass, a deliberate reversal of the Catholic Mass, put blood in the chalice. Sometimes the priest will drink some of it; most of the communicants will simply put their lips to it and not really swallow."
"They fake it?"
Henry shrugged a shoulder. "The idea of drinking another person's blood is still one of the oldest and strongest taboos. Still, if that's why the killer is taking it … it seems misplaced."
"Misplaced how?"
"The blood is usually collected from willing volunteers. There's seldom a need to kill someone, collect a modest amount of blood, then leave the body. Those who specifically want to drink the blood of a victim will usually include the person in the sacrifice right then and there."
"So it could be someone who wants us to think it's Satanism."
"Possibly." Henry put up a warning hand. "It's only a possibility. There could be any number of reasons."
The pain came back as they were getting out of the car. Henry grimaced and tightened his abdominal muscles. A stabbing pain this time, low in his abdomen near the pelvis. He took a deep breath and managed to straighten up.
The victim was a 28-year-old secretary at Einstein, who'd not reported for work the day before. The blood, as with the other victims, was carefully and expertly collected from a vein in the crook of the elbow.
"Hell of a way to get a donation," Hanson said. Jo shot him a glance.
"All three strangled, all three missing blood, collected by someone who knows what he's doing," Henry said. "I'll know how much blood once I've got her in the lab."
"A link maybe?" Jo asked, once they were back in the car. "Einstein medical school … expertly collected blood …"
"Mm, no link to the other victims that we know of," Henry said. Jo was silent, thinking. Henry fell silent as well. The ride back seemed long, at least to Jo.
"Henry," Jo said, rousing him from his reverie. "Your stop."
Henry forced a smile. "Ah, right. Thank you. I'll let you know."
Henry poked disconsolately at his vegetables. He knew he should try to force down a few bites, lest Abe suspect something. He stalled, taking a swallow of the ice water he had prepared, ignoring the glass of wine at his place.
"What's the matter?" Abe asked, the familiar note of gruff concern giving Henry's heart a pang. "Have a late lunch?"
Henry glanced off to the side, reflecting. He didn't remember actually eating lunch at all.
"No," he said slowly. "Just not hungry, I suppose." The rest of the sentence came out unguardedly. "Feeling a bit bloated, actually." Damn. He positively had not meant to tell Abe that.
Sure enough, Abe was immediately on his guard. "Bloated? Why, what's the matter? Here, let me see."
"Abraham," Henry protested. "I am a doctor. I'd know if there were anything actually wrong. I'm fine." He stood, pushing away his untouched plate. "Fine."
Abe turned in his seat, frowning, as Henry walked over to the sink and began washing the dishes.
He finished his wine and watched Henry. He looked all right, just a little pale, maybe. Then again, he was yanked out of bed early. Henry felt Abe's stare and turned, smiling.
"I'm fine," Henry said, his warm tone tinged with exasperation. Giving up, Abe brought his dishes over, then padded over to the turntable and switched on "How High the Moon," hoping to lighten the mood.
The next day proceeded uneventfully. Henry managed to escape without eating breakfast, claiming a need to get going on work at the lab. As before, the pain came and went, and his appetite remained dulled. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow maybe I'll see someone.
He spent a depressing amount of the day making a dent in paperwork, all the forms that needed completing and filing before the end of the year.
Only once did a severe spasm come over him. Luckily, Lucas was out to lunch. Henry crouched on the floor of the bathroom, taking some minimal comfort from the chill of the tiles creeping into his bottom and back. After several excruciating minutes, the spasm eased and he was able to stand. He splashed water on his face, then sat on the toilet, waiting for his pulse and breathing to return to normal.
I'll definitely go see someone tomorrow.
Then he was once again immersed in paperwork.
"Still not hungry?" Abe asked, frowning as he watched Henry push roast chicken and root vegetables around. The vegetables had been caramelized with garlic and would have been delicious, if Henry would only take a bite.
Henry shook his head.
"I'll give Phil Sterling a call tomorrow," Henry said. "I'm sure it's nothing, but if it will put your mind at ease…" he managed a halfhearted smile.
"Maybe it will put my mind at ease," Abe groused. "Something's wrong with you. I mean physically," he amended, as Henry opened his mouth. "Go to bed," he ordered.
Henry took himself off without arguing, which worried Abe.
"So here's what I think," Jo said, striding toward the table. "Wait, who's that?"
"Javier Molina, aged 67," Henry said. "Suffered a heart attack and fell off a ladder, breaking his neck."
"On the bright side," Lucas added, "at least he'll never have to clean out his gutters again."
"Thank you, Lucas," Henry said repressively.
"So… where's our victim?" Jo asked. "From yesterday."
"Do we have a name?" Henry asked drily.
"Tarenia Lee," Jo said, ignoring the tone. She knew Henry liked to personalize his victims, which she thought was unwise in a medical examiner, but she wasn't going to argue with him. Maybe it made him feel better.
"As we already know, a secretary at Albert Einstein College of Medicine," Jo said.
"Opened its doors in 1955, uniquely nonsectarian and open to all races and creeds, attached to Yeshiva University," Henry noted.
"Henry." By now that was Martinez shorthand for "Skip the lecture."
"Ahem. Sorry."
"Are you … feeling all right?"
"Yes, fine," Henry said, waving a hand. "Why?"
Jo peered at him. "You actually look a little pale."
"Yeah, you do," Lucas chimed in. "What's your temperature?"
"Tarenia Lee, if you please, Lucas."
"Okay, okay." Lucas disappeared, coming back with the body.
"Tarenia Lee," Henry said. "Age 28. Former smoker, probably quit … three to five years ago. No regular exercise program, but probably walked to and from work. She was surprised while changing out of her work clothes, fought back, and was overpowered. She was tied up and held down while the blood was collected, then strangled." Henry shook his head.
"And whoever's doing the collecting knows what he's doing." Henry directed Jo's gaze to the crook of the elbow. "One very small puncture. The person got a good vein on the first try, collected the blood, and even stopped the flow afterward."
"And then he killed her," Jo said dryly.
"Yeah, normally they thank you for coming and give you a cookie," Lucas said brightly. Both Jo and Henry gave him the look that deserved.
Jo shrugged. "We need to find this guy before he finishes the pentagram," Jo said. "I guess I'll tell the lieutenant about the Satanism thing."
Henry shook his head as Jo walked away.
"Uh, Henry? Not to be a pest about this, but you really don't look so great," Lucas said. "Look, why don't you go on home. I'll close up Ms. Lee."
Henry opened his mouth, prepared to protest, then took a deep breath and swallowed hard as pain gripped his abdomen. Again.
"All right," he said. "I suppose so. Call if you need me."
The journey up the stairs took much longer than usual. Abe met him at the head of the stairs, frowning.
"Henry!"
"I'm fine," Henry said, although his face was pallid and damp with perspiration. "I'm just gonna go lie down for a little while."
"You need to call someone," Abe persisted.
"Not at this hour," Henry said. "Truly, I'm all right. A good night's sleep, that's all I need." And a good bowel movement, he did not add.
He got neither, but evaded Abe's concern by slipping out of the shop before dawn. As an accidental result, he succeeded in making a decent dent in the end-of-year paperwork.
Lucas might have been impressed, but he was diverted by his boss' appearance.
"Henry, I gotta ask… when's the last time you took your own temperature?"
"What? I'm fine," Henry said unconvincingly.
"Hey, humor me," Lucas said. He produced a mercury thermometer, which he knew his boss preferred to digital ones.
"Oh, all right," Henry grumbled. He obediently stuck the thermometer under his tongue and drew out his wristwatch.
"Henry, can you…" Jo Martinez stopped in her tracks.
"One hundred degrees on the nose," Henry announced. "Morning, Jo." He looked over at Lucas. "Barely a degree above normal. I'm fine."
Jo gave him a look that said he was anything but fine, then resumed. "We've got a weird one. Guy arrives the night before to spend a couple days in town, bunks with family. There's an argument over breakfast. His brother-in-law pulls out a gun and shoots our victim in the stomach – but the vic clutches his chest before dying. They want you to take a look."
Once they were in Jo's car and headed toward the scene, she said, "You really do have a fever. You don't need to be going out."
"No, it's fine," Henry insisted, grimly ignoring the clutching of his stomach. "I'm …" Fine, he started to say, then felt a wave of dizziness and nausea sweep over him.
Jo immediately pulled over and pulled out her cell phone. "Lucas? You're the M.E. in charge on this case. Meet the officers at the scene." She gave the address. "I'm escorting Henry directly to the hospital." She ignored Henry's weakly flapping hand and protestations.
"Call … Philip Sterling," Henry said. "Abe has the number."
Jo reached Abe, then dialed again.
"Dr. Sterling's office."
"Detective Jo Martinez, NYPD, for Dr. Sterling," Jo snapped. "It's an emergency."
A pause.
"Dr. Sterling."
"Henry, we're on speaker."
"Philip. Henry Morgan."
"What are your symptoms?" There was no nonsense, and no time for pleasantries.
"Abdominal discomfort. Comes and … goes. Distention. Loss of appetite. Constipation. Fever … 100 degrees."
"You know what you're describing, don't you?"
"I haven't got time for appendicitis, Philip."
"You haven't got time to die of a ruptured appendix, either," Sterling replied. "Meet me at the emergency department of Columbia-Presbyterian in ten minutes. And you'd better hope you have ten minutes."
Eight minutes later, a very worried Jo Martinez helped Dr. Henry Morgan into the emergency department. Immediately, a white-coated figure was striding forward.
"Jesus, Henry," Sterling muttered. "Nothing like leaving it to the last minute."
"Good to see you too, Philip," Henry managed.
Together they steered Henry toward a cubicle.
"Take off everything, jewelry and all," Sterling said. "Put on the gown. Put your belongings in that bag. Dr. Grenier will be along in a couple of minutes, and Dr. Brunson, the anesthesiologist."
Henry looked up.
"You're going straight into surgery, pal."
"Did you want to examine me first, perhaps?" Henry asked drily.
"Once you're gowned and ready," Sterling said. "Hurry up."
"Nice bedside manner," Jo observed as Henry sat down heavily on the chair and began to remove his shoes. "Whoa, here, let me help."
By now Henry's pain was continuous. He made no protest as Jo helped him out of his clothes and into the gown.
"Perfect," Sterling said, striding back into the cubicle. "Dr. Curtis Grenier, surgeon on call, Dr. Stefan Brunson, anesthesiologist. Gentlemen, may I present a textbook case of appendicitis."
"Also known as Henry Morgan," Henry said. He nodded. "Gentlemen."
"On the table, please, Dr. Morgan," Grenier said. "Lie flat. Try to relax your abdominal muscles."
Together Grenier and Sterling listened, palpated, checked the pulse and heartbeat.
"We need to cut, now," Grenier said. "I seriously doubt we even have time to go in laparoscopically."
"Wait, wait," Henry protested.
"I concur," Sterling said. "I'm guessing under ten minutes."
"You like to scrub in?" Grenier asked. "Be my guest."
"Sure, thanks," Sterling said.
Brunson stepped up. "Dr. Morgan, any known allergies? No? Any food in your stomach? No? I'm still going to insert a tube in case of aspiration. I'll anesthetize you with a mixture of isoflurane, desflurane, sevoflurane, and nitrous oxide. Enjoy the ride." He allowed himself a quick smile before stepping back.
A couple of orderlies stepped in and started wheeling the gurney down the hall.
Jo was left standing in the cubicle holding the bag of Henry's clothes. She shook her head.
She called Hanson first.
"Lucas didn't see much weird medically at the scene, but he says Henry will need to open him up first. Just in case, we're holding the brother-in-law. Where the hell is Henry?"
A pause. "Oh. Well, geez, I hope he's okay, but we can only hold him for 72 hours."
Then Jo called Abe.
They found unspoken comfort in each other's company, sitting in the day surgery waiting room as the minutes dragged on.
Two hours later, Grenier and Sterling approached.
"Detective Martinez? And…"
"I'm Henry's …"
"Family," Jo said quickly. "Abe is family."
"Ah. Well. Henry will be fine. That appendix needed to come right out, and we took it out," Grenier said. "We're going to want to keep him at least overnight for observation to ensure we don't see any peritonitis. He's in the recovery room now, but once he's awakened they'll move him to a room and then you can see him." He stuck out his hand. "Nice meeting you," and he was gone.
Jo and Abe sat back down.
"So apparently Henry never had his appendix out," Jo said.
Abe shook his head. "I don't think he's ever been a hospital patient before."
Jo rolled her eyes. "Here we go," she said. She laughed. "Can you imagine what kind of patient Henry will make?"
"Describe … the wound." Lucas was on speaker, and Henry, though his voice was hoarse and thick with sleep, was still lucid.
"Just … nicked the large intestine," Lucas said. "Hardly any damage, virtually no blood."
"So the gunshot didn't kill him," Henry said slowly.
"He is dead," Jo pointed out.
"So…" Henry said. "There must be another cause of death. Is our victim overweight?"
"Yup. Five foot six, two hundred eighteen pounds."
"Smoker?"
"Yup."
"Any alcohol or medication in his blood?"
"No alcohol, no meds. But the police found a bottle in his name for a 50-mil dosage of metoprolol."
"So, high blood pressure and a smoker. Lucas," Henry said, "describe the heart."
"Guy's arteries are so clogged they look like the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour," Lucas said. "Hey, wait a minute, hold on. Whoa!"
" 'Whoa,' what, Lucas?"
"There's a hole in the apex," Lucas said.
"Like a bullet wound?"
"Not exactly… More like … well, like he blew a gasket."
"So… early morning, elevated blood pressure, an overweight smoker with clogged arteries gets an argument along with his bacon and eggs," Henry said. "He then gets a gun pointed at him. His adrenaline shoots up, his already elevated blood pressure increases…
"Detective, this man was scared to death."
"What?" Jo shot Henry a look. Was he sober?
"He had a cardiac episode, brought on by the stress of the argument and the fear of being at gunpoint. He had a heart attack in the split second before his brother-in-law fired. I don't know what you want to charge him with, but the gunshot was not the cause of death." Henry paused and breathed slowly and heavily for several seconds. "Good job, Lucas."
Dr. Philip Sterling spoke up from the corner of the room. "And now, Dr. Morgan, you need to stop working and rest. If the detective doesn't mind."
"Sorry," Jo said. "We'll figure out something to charge him with. Henry, thanks. See you later." She walked out.
Sterling was shaking a finger at his colleague. "You left it too late, pal. Your appendix was probably five minutes from rupture."
"You went in laparoscopically?" Henry asked, pushing a button to elevate himself to a sitting position.
"No time," Sterling said. "Got a show and tell for you here." He indicated a wheeled cart, and drew away a cloth covering a jar. "Normal appendix here." He held it up, the organ floating in fluid, then set it down.
"Your appendix … here." He held the second jar up for display. The organ was red and swollen, clearly on the verge of bursting like a sausage on a grill.
Abe whistled.
"All right, you win," Henry conceded.
"Now," Sterling said, pulling out a prescription pad, "I'm going to write that it is medically inadvisable for you to return to work for at least a week. A week," he repeated, seeing the look on Henry's face. "And I mean complete rest. No more autopsies by conference call."
Left to his own devices, Henry would have ignored the restriction, but Lucas, Jo, and Abe conspired to ensure that he did nothing more strenuous than move from bed to shop to bed again until, an agonizingly long seven days later, he was allowed to return.
"Good news," Jo said, striding with familiarity into Henry's office and dropping into a chair. "We solved the pentagram."
She took a breath. "A group of stoner gang members forcing the murders as an initiation ritual," she said. "They're organized around heavy metal and drug use," she added. "Satanism kind of came along as an add-on, really their own interpretation of what Satanism looks like – which would explain collecting blood, but not in the way most satanic groups would. The appeal is the idea of the occult, some knowledge that most people can't or don't understand."
Henry frowned. "Gang members aren't going to be drawing blood that expertly."
"Wait, I'm not finished." Jo held up a hand. "The blood work was done by a medical student at Einstein who had accumulated quite a pile of gambling debts. Apparently looking for a new way to finance his education."
"Ach." Henry made a dismayed sound.
"And guess who was his ex-girlfriend?"
"Tarenia Lee," Henry said slowly.
Jo nodded. "Wraps that one up. And our brother-in-law is being charged with manslaughter and attempted murder. He didn't cause the heart attack outright, but he sure helped."
Henry nodded. "That sounds about right. Of course, one could argue that the victim precipitated his own death."
"You doctors are no fun," Jo said, rolling her eyes. "And you're lousy patients."
Henry grinned. "This doctor, at least, has finally regained his appetite. What would you say to some lunch?"
"Only if you pick up the tab," Jo said. She felt a smile quirk her lips as she stood. Maybe, she thought, she would even find out about that other scar.