Chapter Eleven

Trapper waited until the gurney was pulled out of the ambulance before he stepped out and headed into the hospital behind it. Answering Stanley's surprised look before he got the first word out, Trapper said, "I stopped at the accident scene. What room?"

Stanley gave him a flat look. "Four," he said, falling in step with Trapper.

"You look disappointed, Stan."

"It's been a slow day. What have you got?"

"Nothing major. A few lacerations. Broken arm."

Dr. Riverside stopped and put his hand flat on the door, blocking Trapper's way. "Then why did you ride in the ambulance with him?"

"Because I need to talk to him," answered Trapper, pushing Stanley's arm out of his way.

"Hershel Maddox, Dr. Riverside," said Trapper, introducing patient to doctor. "Now, what I was saying in the ambulance; my son, JT, said you have some knowledge about pharmaceuticals. I'm looking for a combination that will make someone look dead, physiologically and electronically."

"Excuse me, John. I need to get that arm immobilized."

Shifting to the other side of the table, Trapper continued. "Could have been mixed with sodium thiopental."

"Well, I've not tried it myself, but I've heard there's a lot of interest in something like that on the black market. But I don't know anyone who's succeeded in producing a stable version."

"There's a paycheck in it for you if you can figure it out."

Standing back, Stanley creased his brow. "John, that's illegal." Sheepishly, he added, "Isn't it?"

At this point Hershel wasn't paying any attention to Dr. Riverside's examination of his arm. "How much?"

"What do you normally get paid?"

"It varies. Anywhere from a thousand to five thousand, depending on the research."

"How does ten sound?"

"Interesting," said Hershel, sitting up and pulling his arm away from Stanley.

"Now see here, John. This man has a broken arm." Grabbing Hershel by the chin and turning his head, Stanley added, "And some cuts that need attention."

"I'll tell you what," said Trapper, crossing his arms in front of him and leaning against the table. "When you're finished here, ask the nurse to bring you up to my office. We'll talk." Trapper nodded to the nurse before he left the exam room and went straight to his office without stopping at the nurse's station to say hello to Gloria or Ernie.

They gave each other a worried look. "He's up to something," said Ernie.

"He came in with the guy in exam four. You don't suppose he has anything to do with it, do you?" asked Gloria, looking down the hall toward the exam room.

Ernie shrugged. "I've stopped trying to figure out what he's going to do next. I just hope he pulls himself together before the board decides they need another Chief of Surgery."

When Trapper arrived in his office, the first thing he did was pour himself a cup of coffee, put spoon after spoon of sugar in it, and then walk to this desk while he stirred, sitting down and setting the coffee aside. He picked up the pad of paper on which he'd written notes from the books still haphazardly spread across his desk. Sodium thiopental would have immediately subdued her, but it wouldn't have left her unconscious for more than ten minutes. An injection would have been painful, but could have been led with Novocain. If she was injected, it would have to be a large dose to keep her unconscious. But the thiopental wouldn't have reduced her heart rate or her brain function to undetectable levels. There had to be something else...a combination of drugs. He closed his eyes. He'd stared at this very same page of notes for hours and had never gotten any further than he was now. Leaning back in his chair, he picked up his coffee cup. Maybe Hershel could, at least, send him in a direction. Any direction.

As he moved the cup to his lips, a knock sounded at the door. "Come in," he said with the cup hovering near his lips. A nurse pushed a wheelchair carrying Hershel Maddox into his office. "Mr. Maddox, glad you could make it," Trapper said, setting his coffee aside. Glancing up at the nurse who was waiting behind Hershel's chair, Trapper raised his brows.

"Call me when you want me to come get him," she said indignantly, turning and closing the door behind her.

"I'm glad you came," said Trapper. "Would you like some coffee?"

"As long as it's caffeinated. I live on the stuff. Don't get up. I'll get it," said Hershel as he wheeled himself around toward the coffee maker with one arm. "You're the doctor who was engaged to the woman they found dead on China Beach, aren't you?"

Trapper shot him a glare and set his coffee back down on the desk.

"Don't wig out, man. When someone swaps one dead body for another one, it makes the news. Only you don't think the one they found on China Beach is dead. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking me how someone fooled all you doctors into thinking she was dead." Hershel cursed and stood up from the wheelchair. "I can't do anything in his contraption. It's my arm that's broke; not my legs." Taking his prepared coffee, he moved to the chair in front of Trapper's desk. "Hey doc, you've been thinking about drinking your coffee since I got here. It ought to be lukewarm by now."

Trapper thrust up from his desk, grabbed his cup and went to the coffee maker, starting another one in a clean cup, all the while wondering if every college kid was like his son; a know-it-all. "Mr. Maddox, someone went to a great deal of trouble to remove everything that could have proven she wasn't dead. They switched her body before the autopsy, they stole every sample that was taken in the morgue, and they took the pathologist's report for the body that was autopsied. Then they killed the pathologist. The morgue attendant has disappeared. And now, the person who just might have all the answers ends up in an accident that could have killed him just as I had started looking for him."

Hershel's eyes widened. Then he winced and shook his head, but stopped and reconsidered what Trapper had just said. "The guy in the other car died."

Trapper snorted. "It wouldn't be the first time someone has died for a cause."

"Exactly what cause are you talking about?" asked Hershel as he set his coffee down on the desk and moved forward in his chair.

Exhaling, Trapper shook his head. "I'm probably overly suspicious with everything that's happened. What I need is to find out what they, whoever they are, could have used to make it appear she was dead. An EMT and three doctors all agreed she was dead."

Hershel stroked his chin. "Ten thousand dollars?"

"That's what I said. Five thousand now, five thousand when you deliver a solution."

"What if I can't?"

"Somehow, I think you can. At least, I'm counting on it."

"How they did it is easy." Hershel got up and looked outside the door and down the hall. "When I leave here, you can't contact me," he said, closing the door and returning to his chair. "These people aren't necessarily nice people, but they sometimes throw a few bucks my way for research. Slowing everything down to almost nothing is easy. As you said, sodium pentothal would knock her out pretty quickly. They'd have to give her a larger than normal dose to keep her out until the dimethyltryptamine could start to affect her normal reflexes, including ocular as well as her respiration. Lastly, they'd give her large doses of some kind of cholesterol lowering medication that would dull the electrical activity in the brain, however that alone wouldn't keep you from picking up electrical activity on an EEG. So they imbed a tiny transmitter under her skin that sends false signals to any electronics around it. It's a pretty sophisticated piece of programming."

Trapper had leaned back in his chair, letting his mouth drop open. "How the hell do you know this?"

"I get paid for research, Dr. McIntyre. I don't ask for references. This alone isn't going to get you anywhere. These people work in the underground...black market, and there's several groups of them. Tracking them down isn't going to be easy."

"What about the government? They should know about this," said Trapper, leaning forward and clasping his hands on his desk.

"Who do you think pays me to do the research on this kind of stuff?" Hershel stood. "I want cash."

Creasing his brows, Trapper moved his hands to the edge of his desk, pushing his chair back with his legs as he stood. "Wait a minute. Telling me what they did without telling me the likely suspects isn't going to help find her."

"You asked me to find out how they did it. This is the only thing I know of that's been tried...and failed. Maybe they got it right this time."

Trapper sucked in a quiet breath. "What do you mean 'maybe they got it right?'"

"No one that I know of has ever survived the cocktail," answered Hershel, bowing his head. "When they add the cholesterol drug, it reduces brain function to the point that the autonomics break down."

"Great," said Trapper, sinking back into his chair. "I'm right back where I was not knowing if she's alive or dead."

"Doc, if I knew anything else, I'd tell you." Standing, Hershel headed for the door. "There's an electronics shop on the northwest corner of Van Ness and California Street. Put the cash in a plain brown envelope with the name Louie on it and slip it through the mail slot."

Trapper raised his chin. "I'd prefer a money order or cashier's check."

Folding his lips into a tight line, Hershel nodded. "Look, Doc, normally, I'd prefer anything other than cash, but with what you've got going on, I don't want to be traceable. If my accident was no accident, I don't want to be around for awhile. It's time for a vacation anyway. I've been at the University for eight years." Halfway through the door, he added, "I'll leave tomorrow, so if you can take care of it today, I'd appreciate it." With that, Hershel Maddox was gone.

Trapper bowed his forehead into his hand and exhaled. He didn't hear the FBI agents enter his office.

"Dr. McIntyre, are you all right?" asked Tamara Savage.

Jerking his head up, he closed his eyes for a moment before he answered. "No. I know what they used to make it look like Leah was dead. And she still might be dead. What they gave her might have killed her."

Darren Allen stepped forward. "How did you find that out?"

"Never mind how I found out. We're dealing with some well connected people; someone with enough financial backing to pay the kind of people who'd be able to pull this off," said Trapper wearily. "Why are you here?"

Agent Savage closed the door and walked to the front of Trapper's desk. "We need your help, Dr. McIntyre."

"You need my help?"

"It seems the local FBI office has been given orders to go through the motions on this case." Trapper's eyes turned dark, causing Tamara to raise her hand. "That's...why we need your help. We're not going back to the office. We need a place to work...with access to a telephone, to keep our notes, and to store anything we find."

"Why would the FBI tell you to go through the motions?"

"Because they want a bigger fish. As far as they're concerned, your fiancé and Ms. Bedford are collateral damage."

Moving his hand to the back of his neck, Trapper shook his head. "Who are we up against here? And why would they want Leah?"

Leaning back on the door, Agent Allen crossed his arms. "She had a high-level government clearance. She's good at what she does, and some of the things I saw her do are beyond normal. Other countries who aren't as advanced as us would make someone a rich man if that someone could provide her services."

Trapper suddenly felt light-headed as if his blood drained to his feet. He sat down hard in his chair. "Doug Manning."

"I'm not so sure," said Savage. She pulled out the envelope containing the chain and ring and poured them out on his desk. "Do you recognize these?"

"Leah's," Trapper said, quietly. "They belong to Leah." He looked up. "Where did you find them?"

"They were sold at a pawn shop," said Allen. "And you'll never guess the name the guy gave the pawn dealer." Trapper glared at him. "Mark Hansen."

With his lips parted, Trapper looked disbelievingly, first at Allen and then at Savage. He shook his head. "No, Mark Hansen wasn't out to hurt her. He was in love with her."

"Think about it, Dr. McIntyre. She taught him everything she knew. He was out of a job, and thanks to Manning, he wasn't going to get another one. So maybe he cashed in."

Rolling his eyes, Trapper barked, "I just said whoever took her had to be well-connected...not only in who they knew, but financially. Mark is neither of those."

"Then explain to me how he got his hands on her engagement ring?" asked Allen with his hands on his hips.

Trapper threw his hands in the air. It seemed the answers they had only created more questions.