Public Anatomy (5 page)

The adrenaline rush that comes with trying to save a life had now subsided, and Eli felt the familiar drag of exhaustion. He saw the piles of fresh scrubs in the linen rack. That’s all he wanted, a nonbloodied pair. He planned to change from his scrubs and leave quietly down the back stairwell. He had done all he could do for the injured boy. The cardiac surgery team would take care of him, Eli told himself. But before he could grab a pair of scrubs, two men, dressed most inappropriately for the surgical suite in dark suits, entered the room and stood between him and the clean surgical attire. And they weren’t moving.

“Dr. Branch, we need a moment with you.”

The words brought Eli an instance of déjà vu. Maybe it was the time of night or the wake of a trauma resuscitation thrill ride. But when the man removed a leather wallet from inside his coat pocket and flipped it open to show Federal Bureau of Investigation, Eli’s déjà vu turned to stark reality.

These were the same men who’d helped close the corporate biotechnology scandal, a weeklong nightmare that cost Eli his job, the use of his left hand, and possibly his surgical career.

“It’s good to see you again, doctor. Looks like you’re up to your elbows again.”

At this comment, the larger of the two men snorted.

Eli failed to see the humor. “I thought we were done. The biotech investigation is over.”

“Nothing is ever completely over, Dr. Branch. We informed you last time that we would call on your services again.” The man looked at Eli’s blood-covered scrubs. “This time, you practically came to us,” he said. “Go change clothes, we’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

What Eli wanted was a bed in a dark room of his apartment with the air conditioner on full blast. Not a cup of coffee. After his job demotion and the dramatic cut in his salary, he no longer lived in plush Harbor Town. His new apartment was a little farther south and not in the best part of town, but it would do for now. At least he still lived by the Mississippi River. He longed now for a view of the water from his tiny balcony. He would fry a couple of eggs, maybe a half pound of bacon, and then hit the sack.

Instead, he had two suits wanting to talk “investigation.” All of this because he’d exposed one of the most pervasive biotech corruptions in medical history, which also took down several academic accomplices—one of whom happened to be his former boss and chairman of the Department of Surgery. Now, the feds wanted him on the inside, their inside, where it was crowded and wrapped in red tape.

The agents had indeed told him they would call again. Eli wasn’t sure whether he believed them or chose to deny the possibility of further involvement. Since he’d last seen them, he had planned to make enough income to pay his rent, catch up on the monthly nursing home payments for his brother, Henry, and complete rehabilitation of his hand so he could hopefully operate again.

On good days, he believed he could regain full function and return to the OR. Maybe go into private practice, or even sneak back into academia. On bad days, which seemed to be ever more frequent, he thought his hand and his surgical career were shot forever. So much for his dream of becoming the star academic surgeon. Now, he was worried more about supporting his mentally challenged brother. What would
happen if his sporadic emergency room shifts were not enough to pay Henry’s nursing home rent and Henry was forced to leave the institution? He shuddered to think of the consequences.

Eli changed scrubs in the dressing room and returned to the lounge. The sleeping surgical resident was gone. The two feds sat on the couch. One wore a moustache that curled over his top lip and needed a trim. He strategically placed a cup of coffee into Eli’s right hand—old black coffee from a carafe in the lounge. But at least it was hot.

“What do you know about robotic surgery?”

Eli took some of the coffee. More of a drink than a sip. “You came here in the middle of the night to ask me about robotic surgery?”

“Is it safe?” Moustache asked. “Should it be done?”

Eli knew this was leading somewhere. These weren’t the type of guys to be curious for no reason.
Something must have happened
, Eli thought.
I haven’t seen the news or read the paper. I just don’t know about it yet
.

“Is the robot better than an actual human?” Moustache’s partner asked.

Based on this question, Eli knew that the concept of robotic surgery was lost on them. At least he could clarify. “Robotic surgery is being used increasingly,” he said. “It is very safe and effective and, in fact, easier on the patient.”

Eli immediately felt as though he was defending the new, cutting-edge technique, although he’d never been involved in a robotic procedure himself. He decided to get more specific.

“Especially for prostate surgery. Are you having problems with yours?” Eli smiled, took another gulp.

They ignored his question.

“What about for . . . .” The agent stopped and checked his notes. “Hysterectomy?”

Eli thought a moment. He knew the uterus could be safely removed with that approach. “Sure.”

“What’s the advantage? Or is this just another marketing tool?”

“Think of robotic surgery,” Eli said, “as very advanced laparoscopy. You know, small incisions, a camera inside the abdomen. The instruments are controlled through a computerized robotic system that
allows for greatly enhanced precision. Manipulation of the tissue is state-of-the-art—and the surgeon doesn’t even have to get his hands wet, if you know what I mean.”

They didn’t know what he meant. Hadn’t a clue. That’s why they’d come to Dr. Branch.

The large man leaned forward. “Enough of the introductory questions.” He planted both elbows on his knees, fingers locked. “Yesterday, here in Memphis, one of these robotic uteroectomies was done. The uterus came out but the patient didn’t. She died on the table.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, so was her family, I’m sure. She was only fifty-three. Had a husband, kids.”

Eli put his cup down. “You came all the way from D.C. to tell me surgery can be dangerous?”

They chose to follow that line. “So you think this type of surgery is dangerous?”

Eli became defensive of his own profession, even though lately he felt like an outsider, skirting the fringes of medicine.

“All operations have risks, whether assisted by a robot or not. A death happens so rarely now that people forget about the possible complications. And when they do occur, no one seems to understand.”

“What if I told you two deaths have occured? Same hospital, same operation, same surgeon?”

Eli wanted to steer the discussion elsewhere. These questions made him think about his own fallibility as a surgeon, a theme that increasingly haunted his thoughts.

Instead, he asked, “Same robot?”

They hesitated, which for them was tantamount to laughter.

Moustache said, “Funny you should ask that. We’ve already talked to the surgeon. Lady doctor, real nice.”

The big man cleared his throat. “Yeah, very nice.”

“Anyway, she says it wasn’t her fault. Blames the death on the robot.”

“The robot?” Eli asked.

“Says the machine started moving, doing things, beyond her control.”

The big man winked at Eli. “Killer robot.”

Eli did not respond. The “robotic” portion of the operation is always under the surgeon’s control. To blame it on the instrument was most unusual. A shot at an easy way out of a career-threatening situation.

“Any comments about that?”

“I don’t have enough details to comment,” Eli said.

The two men made eye contact with each other and nodded simultaneously. “There’s another little detail we haven’t told you yet.”

Eli waited as Moustache checked his notes.

“The name Liza French mean anything to you?”

Eli clenched his jaw.

“Doctor
Liza French,” the agent added, as though the prefix was needed to jog Eli’s memory.

Eli knew she had recently taken a position at Gates Memorial. He had kept up with advances in her robotic surgery research, but had not seen her again in nearly ten years since they were interns together. He had tried not to think of her.

“You think there’s some connection between us?”

“If you say so, doc. All we know is she personally asked us to notify you.”

“Why me?”

“You know why.”

Eli didn’t want to hear this again. How just weeks ago he’d exposed the corrupt company, Regency Biotech International, while running from an ill-conceived police search that pinned him as the main murder suspect. What they didn’t know was that he needed to take care of his institutionalized brother, work on rehabilitating his hand, and land a steady job as a surgeon in this town.

“Frankly, doc, you don’t have much of a job anymore.”

Maybe they did know.

“You can’t operate—”

“Hey,” Eli said, raising his left hand, a fresh scar down the length of his forearm. He pointed in the direction of the operating room where he had delivered the injured boy, “Did you see?”

“Okay, let’s put it this way. You can’t operate on people who actually
consent to your operating on them.” He cleared his throat. “You’re working shift-to-shift in an ER out in the, how you say it? Boondocks?”

Eli thought about the previous night’s call. Waterpiking maggots seemed preferable to getting involved in this mess. Especially since his previous foray into the dark side of medicine had gotten him shot at, sliced open, and stabbed.

“We’ll put you on a steady income, with benefits. And health insurance.” Moustache gestured to Eli’s hand. “Which it looks like you could use about now.”

That got Eli’s attention. He had been paying for his rehab out-of-pocket. But he remained silent, wondering what else they had to offer.

“We’re being gentle here. We have ways of requiring you to assist us if you prefer we open that can of worms.” The big man sneered, proud of using such a clever expression.

“All you’ve told me is there have been two deaths during surgery by the same surgeon. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You seem to be able to figure out these tricky little situations.” They got up to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”

Police detective Nate “The Lip” Lipsky got the call soon after he sat down for his first cup of coffee. He liked to sit at his desk a few minutes each morning and think about the previous day and the day ahead. A Memphis homicide investigator, he enjoyed this brief time of humaneness before his day became veritably inhumane. He needed his coffee this morning, craved it.

He chewed the first few sips, an act intended to activate his taste buds and scrape off the caffeine receptors. He’d come home late the night before after investigating a potential homicide that turned out to be a heat-related death behind a Dumpster on Poplar Avenue. He drank four beers, watched a
Taxi
rerun and an old episode of
Kojak
, and fell asleep in his recliner. Woke at two thirty and couldn’t go back to sleep until thirty minutes before his alarm clock screeched, at which time, of course, he was sleeping like a baby.

His desk phone rang and he grabbed it, not wanting to suffer another shrill ring.

“It’s too damn early.”

“Good morning to you, Nate.”

The only person who ever called him by his first name was Phil Doster, the officer who delivered assignments like a warm batch of glazed doughnuts. Lipsky didn’t much like the name Phil or the fact that Doster’s voice had never lowered, like he’d skipped puberty altogether.

“Got a homicide for you down on Second.”

“You’ll have to sell it better than that, Phil. Homicide these days means heat-fried brains.”

“Workers found the body strung up in an old cotton warehouse.”

Lipsky took a gulp of brew; the luxury of sipping was gone. “I could’ve tolerated your whiny ass much better if you’d called after this cup of coffee.”

Like a schoolgirl, Phil said, “I’m sorry, Nate.”

“Strung up?”

“Yeah, that’s what they said.”

“Who’s they?”

“Couple of patrol officers. They’re on the scene now.”

Downtown Memphis was coming alive with steady but not yet congested traffic. Lipsky drove past the Front Street Deli. A couple at retirement age emerged with tall cups of coffee-to-go. The woman wore a camera around her neck. Tourists headed to Graceland, or Sun Studio, or maybe to catch the Peabody ducks, unaware that a few blocks away, a body was “strung up.”

For a homicide detective in Memphis, there was always business somewhere, and lately business was booming. A bump in violent crime during the hottest part of the summer was to be expected, whether in Memphis or Boston or Wichita. But this heat wave had been extreme. Temps over 100 degrees for days in a row. And not that dry heat like out West. Yesterday hit a dripping 104.

Violence wasn’t occurring in only the bad parts of town, either. A housewife in Central Gardens stabbed her neighbor with an ice pick because she wouldn’t let her borrow a couple of eggs. Ice pick injuries were way up, a sign of the times. Homemakers were filling Tupperware bowls with water and freezing them for extra ice. Then they’d find some rusty old ice pick in the back of the drawer to bust up the bowl-sized blocks. Ice picks lying around are a dangerous thing, Lipsky thought. They’re sharp and thin, and a mild-mannered housewife can drive one six inches to the hub.