Robin Cook - Chromosome 6

Chromosone 6

Robin Cook

PROLOGUE: MARCH 3, 1997 3:30 P.M.

COGO, EQUATORIAL GUINEA

GIVEN a Ph.D. in molecular biology from MIT that had been earned in close cooperation with the

Massachusetts General Hospital, Kevin Marshall found his squeamishness regarding medical procedures

a distinct embarrassment. Although he'd never admitted it to anyone, just having a blood test or a

vaccination was an ordeal for him. Needles were his specific bete noire. The sight of them caused his legs

to go rubbery and a cold sweat to break out on his broad forehead. Once he'd even fainted in college

after getting a measles shot.

At age thirty-four, after many years of postgraduate biomedical research, some of it involving live

animals, he'd expected to outgrow his phobia, but it hadn't happened. And it was for that reason he was

not in operating room 1A or 1B at the moment. Instead he'd chosen to remain in the intervening scrub

room, where he was leaning against the scrub sink, a vantage that allowed him to look through angled

windows into both OR's-until he felt the need to avert his eyes.

The two patients had been in their respective rooms for about a quarter hour in preparation for their

respective procedures. The two surgical teams were quietly conversing while standing off to the side.

They were gowned and gloved and ready to commence.

There'd been little technical conversation in the OR's except between the anesthesiologist and the two

anesthetists as the patients were inducted under general anesthesia. The lone anesthesiologist had slipped

back and forth between the two rooms to supervise and to be available at any sign of trouble.

But there was no trouble. At least not yet. Nonetheless, Kevin felt anxious. To his surprise he did not

experience the same sense of triumph he had enjoyed during three previous comparable procedures

when he'd exalted in the power of science and his own creativity.

Instead of jubilation Kevin felt a mushrooming unease. His discomfort had started almost a week

previously, but it was now, watching these patients and contemplating their different prognoses, that

Kevin felt the disquietude with disturbing poignancy. The effect was similar to his thinking about needles:

perspiration appeared on his forehead and his legs trembled. He had to grasp the edge of the scrub sink

to steady himself.

The door to operating room 1A opened suddenly, startling Kevin. He was confronted by a figure whose

pale blue eyes were framed by a hood and a face mask. Recognition was rapid: It was Candace

Brickmann, one of the surgical nurses.

"The IV's are all started, and the patients are asleep," Candace said. "Are you sure you don't want to

come in? You'll be able to see much better."

"Thank you, but I'm fine right here," Kevin said.

"Suit yourself," Candace said.

The door swung shut behind Candace as she returned to one of the surgeries. Kevin watched her scurry

across the room and say something to the surgeons. Their response was to turn in Kevin's direction and

give him a thumbs-up sign. Kevin self-consciously returned the gesture.

The surgeons went back to their conversation, but the effect of the wordless communication with Kevin

magnified his sense of complicity. He let go of the scrub sink and took a step backward. His unease was

now tinged with fear. What had he done?

Spinning on his heels, Kevin fled from the scrub room and then from the operating suite. A puff of air

followed him as he left the mildly positive pressure aseptic OR area and entered his gleaming, futuristic

laboratory. He was breathing heavily as if out of breath from exertion.

On any other day, merely walking into his domain would have filled him with anticipation just at the

thought of the discoveries awaiting his magic hand. The series of rooms literally bristled with hi-tech

equipment the likes of which used to be the focus of his fantasies. Now these sophisticated machines

were at his beck and call, day and night. Absently he ran his fingers lightly along the stainless-steel

cowlings, casually brushing the analogue dials and digital displays as he headed for his office. He touched

the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar DNA sequencer and the five-hundred-thousand-dollar globular

NMR machine that sprouted a tangle of wires like a giant sea anemone. He glanced at the PCR's, whose

red lights blinked like distant quasars announcing successive DNA-strand doublings. It was an

environment that had previously filled Kevin with hope and promise. But now each Eppendorf

microcentrifuge tube and each tissue-culture flask stood as mute reminders of the building foreboding he

was experiencing.

Advancing to his desk, Kevin looked down at his gene map of the short arm of chromosome 6. His area

of principal interest was outlined in red. It was the major histocompatibility complex. The problem was

that the MHC was only a small portion of the short arm of chromosome 6. There were large blank areas

that represented millions and millions of base pairs, and hence hundreds of other genes. Kevin did not

know what they did.

A recent request for information concerning these genes that he'd put out over the Internet had resulted

in some vague replies. Several researchers had responded that the short arm of chromosome 6 contained

genes that were involved with muscular-skeletal development. But that was it. There were no details.

Kevin shuddered involuntarily. He raised his eyes to the large picture window above his desk. As usual it

was streaked with moisture from the tropical rain that swept across the view in undulating sheets. The

droplets slowly descended until enough had fused to reach a critical mass. Then they raced off the

surface like sparks from a grinding wheel.

Kevin's eyes focused into the distance. The contrast between the gleaming, air-conditioned interior with

the outside world was always a shock. Roiling, gun-metal gray clouds filled the sky despite the fact that

the dry season was supposed to have begun three weeks previously. The land was dominated by riotous

vegetation that was so dark green as to almost appear black. Along the edge of the town it rose up like a

gigantic, threatening tidal wave.

Kevin's office was in the hospital-laboratory complex that was one of the few new structures in the

previously decaying and deserted Spanish colonial town of Cogo in the little-known African country of

Equatorial Guinea. The building was three stories tall. Kevin's office was on the top floor, facing

southeast. From his window he could see a good portion of the town as it sprawled haphazardly toward

the Estuario del Muni and its contributory rivers.

Some of the neighboring buildings had been renovated, some were in the process, but most had not

been touched. A half dozen previously handsome haciendas were enveloped by vines and roots of

vegetation that had gone wild. Over the whole scene hung the perennial mist of super-saturated warm air.

In the immediate foreground Kevin could see beneath the arched arcade of the old town hall. In the

shadows were the inevitable handful of Equatoguinean soldiers in combat fatigues with AK-47's

haphazardly slung over their shoulders. As usual they were smoking, arguing, and consuming

Cameroonean beer.

Finally Kevin let his eyes wander beyond the town. He'd been unconsciously avoiding doing so, but now

he focused on the estuary whose rain-lashed surface looked like beaten tin. Directly south he could just

make out the forested shoreline of Gabon. Looking to the east he followed the trail of islands that

stretched toward the interior of the continent. On the horizon he could see the largest of the islands, Isla

Francesca, named by the Portuguese in the fifteenth century. In contrast to the other islands, Isla

Francesca had a jungle-covered limestone escarpment that ran down its center like the backbone of a

dinosaur.

Kevin's heart skipped a beat. Despite the rain and the mist, he could see what he'd feared he'd see. Just

like a week ago there was the unmistakable wisp of smoke lazily undulating toward the leaden sky.

Kevin slumped into his desk chair and cradled his head in his hands. He asked himself what he'd done.

Having minored in the Classics as an undergraduate, he knew about Greek myths. Now he questioned if

he'd made a Promethean mistake. Smoke meant fire, and he had to wonder if it was the proverbial fire

inadvertently stolen from the gods. 6:45 P.M.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

While a cold March wind rattled the storm windows, Taylor Devonshire Cabot reveled in the security

and warmth of his walnut-paneled study in his sprawling Manchester-by-the-Sea home north of Boston,

Massachusetts. Harriette Livingston Cabot, Taylor's wife, was in the kitchen supervising the final stages

of dinner scheduled to be served at seven-thirty sharp.

On the arm of Taylor's chair balanced a cut-crystal glass of neat, single-malt whiskey. A fire crackled in

the fireplace as Wagner played on the stereo, the volume turned low. In addition there were three,

built-in televisions tuned respectively to a local news station, CNN, and ESPN.

Taylor was the picture of contentment. He'd spent a busy but productive day at the world headquarters

of GenSys, a relatively new biotechnology firm he'd started eight years previously. The company had

constructed a new building along the Charles River in Boston to take advantage of the proximity of both

Harvard and MIT for recruitment purposes.

The evening commute had been easier than usual, and Taylor hadn't had time to finish his scheduled

reading. Knowing his employer's habits, Rodney, his driver, had apologized for getting Taylor home so

quickly.

"I'm sure you'll be able to come up with a significant delay tomorrow night to make up," Taylor had

quipped.

"I'll do my best," Rodney had responded.

So Taylor wasn't listening to the stereo or watching the TVs. Instead he was carefully reading the

financial report scheduled to be released at the GenSys stockholders' meeting scheduled the following

week. But that didn't mean he was unaware of what was going on around him. He was very much aware

of the sound of the wind, the sputtering of the fire, the music, and alert to the various reporters' banters

on the TVs. So when the name Carlo Franconi was mentioned, Taylor's head snapped up.

The first thing Taylor did was lift the remote and turn up the sound of the central television. It was the

local news on the CBS affiliate. The anchors were Jack Williams and Liz Walker. Jack Williams had

mentioned the name Carlo Franconi, and was going on to say that the station had obtained a videotape of

the killing of this known Mafia figure who had some association with Boston crime families.

"This tape is quite graphic," Jack warned. "Parental discretion is recommended. You might remember

that a few days ago we reported that the ailing Franconi had disappeared after his indictment, and many

had feared he'd jumped bail. But then he'd just reappeared yesterday with the news that he'd struck a

deal with the New York City's DA's office to plea-bargain and enter the witness-protection program.

However, this evening while emerging from a favorite restaurant, the indicted racketeer was fatally shot."

Taylor was transfixed as he watched an amateur video of an overweight man emerge from a restaurant

accompanied by several people who looked like policemen. With a casual wave, the man acknowledged

the crowd who'd assembled and then headed to an awaiting limousine. He assiduously ignored questions

from any journalists angling to get close to him. Just as he was bending to enter the car, Franconi's body

jerked, and he staggered backward with his hand clasping the base of his neck. As he fell to his right, his

body jerked again before hitting the ground. The men who'd accompanied him had drawn their guns and

were frantically turning in all directions. The pursuing journalists had all hit the deck.

"Whoa!" Jack commented. "What a scene! Sort'a reminds me of the killing of Lee Harvey Oswald. So

much for police protection."

"I wonder what effect this will have on future similar witnesses?" Liz asked.

"Not good, I'm sure," Jack said.

Taylor's eyes immediately switched to CNN, which was at that moment about to show the same video.

He watched the sequence again. It made him wince. At the end of the tape, CNN went live to a reporter

outside the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York.

"The question now is whether there were one or two assailants," the reporter said over the sound of the

traffic on First Avenue. "It's our impression that Franconi was shot twice. The police are understandably

chagrined over this episode and have refused to speculate or offer any information whatsoever. We do

know that an autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and we assume that ballistics will answer the

question."

Taylor turned down the sound on the television, then picked up his drink. Walking to the window, he

gazed out at the angry, dark sea. Franconi's death could mean trouble. He looked at his watch. It was

almost midnight in West Africa.

Snatching up the phone, Taylor called the operator at GenSys and told him he wanted to speak with

Kevin Marshall immediately.

Replacing the receiver, Taylor returned his gaze out the window. He'd never felt completely comfortable

about this project although financially it was looking very profitable. He wondered if he should stop it.

The phone interrupted his thoughts.

Picking the receiver back up, Taylor was told that Mr. Marshall was available. After some static Kevin's

sleepy voice crackled over the line.

"Is this really Taylor Cabot?" Kevin asked.

"Do you remember a Carlo Franconi?" Taylor demanded, ignoring Kevin's question.

"Of course," Kevin said.

"He's been murdered this afternoon," Taylor said. "There's an autopsy scheduled for the morning in New

York City. What I want to know is, could that be a problem?"

There was a moment of silence. Taylor was about to question whether the connection had been broken

when Kevin spoke up.

"Yes, it could be a problem," Kevin said.

"Someone could figure out everything from an autopsy?"

"It's possible," Kevin said. "I wouldn't say probable, but it is possible."

"I don't like possible," Taylor said. He disconnected from Kevin and called the operator back at

GenSys. Taylor said he wanted to speak immediately to Dr. Raymond Lyons. He emphasized that it was

an emergency.

NEW YORK CITY

"Excuse me," the waiter whispered. He'd approached Dr. Lyons from the left side, having waited for a

break in the conversation the doctor was engaged in with his young, blond assistant and current lover,

Darlene Poison. Between his gracefully graying hair and conservative apparel, the good doctor looked

like the quintessential, soap-opera physician. He was in his early fifties, tall, tanned, and enviably slender

with refined, patrician good looks.

"I'm sorry to intrude," the waiter continued. "But there is an emergency call for you. Can I offer you our

cordless phone or would you prefer to use the phone in the hall?"

Raymond's blue eyes darted back and forth between Darlene's affable but bland face and the

considerate waiter whose impeccable demeanor reflected Aureole's 26 service rating in Zagat's

restaurant guide. Raymond did not look happy.

"Perhaps I should tell them you are not available," the waiter suggested.

"No, I'll take the cordless," Raymond said. He couldn't imagine who could be calling him on an

emergency basis. Raymond had not been practicing medicine since he'd lost his medical license after

having been convicted of a major Medicare scam he'd been carrying on for a dozen years.

"Hello?" Raymond said with a degree of trepidation.

"This is Taylor Cabot. There's a problem."

Raymond visibly stiffened and his brow furrowed.

Taylor quickly summarized the Carlo Franconi situation and his call to Kevin Marshall.

"This operation is your baby," Taylor concluded irritably. "And let me warn you: it is small potatoes in

the grand scheme of things. If there is trouble, I'll scrap the entire enterprise. I don't want bad publicity,

so handle it."

"But what can I do?" Raymond blurted out.

"Frankly, I don't know," Taylor said. "But you'd better think of something, and you'd better do it fast."

"Things couldn't be going any better from my end," Raymond interjected. "Just today I made positive

contact with a physician in L.A. who treats a lot of movie stars and wealthy West Coast businessmen.

She's interested in setting up a branch in California."

"Maybe you didn't hear me," Taylor said. "There isn't going to be a branch anyplace if this Franconi

problem isn't resolved. So you'd better get busy. I'd say you have about twelve hours."

The resounding click of the disconnection made Raymond's head jerk. He looked at the phone as if it

had been responsible for the precipitate termination of the conversation. The waiter, who'd retreated to

an appropriate distance, stepped forward to retrieve the phone before disappearing.

"Trouble?" Darlene questioned.

"Oh, God!" Raymond voiced. Nervously he chewed the quick of his thumb. It was more than trouble. It

was potential disaster. With his attempts at retrieving his medical license tied up in the quagmire of the

judicial system, his current work situation was all he had, and things had only recently been clicking. It

had taken him five years to get where he was. He couldn't let it all go down the drain.

"What is it?" Darlene asked. She reached out and pulled Raymond's hand away from his mouth.

Raymond quickly explained about the upcoming autopsy on Carlo Franconi and repeated Taylor

Cabot's threat to scrap the entire enterprise.

"But it's finally making big money," Darlene said. "He won't scrap it."

Raymond gave a short, mirthless laugh. "It isn't big money to someone like Taylor Cabot and GenSys,"

he said. "He'd scrap it for certain. Hell, it was difficult to talk him into it in the first place."

"Then you have to tell them not to do the autopsy," Darlene said.

Raymond stared at his companion. He knew she meant well, and he'd never been attracted to her for

her brain power. So he resisted lashing out. But his reply was sarcastic: "You think I can just call up the

medical examiner's office and tell them not to do an autopsy on such a case? Give me a break!"

"But you know a lot of important people," Darlene persisted. "Ask them to call."

"Please, dear..." Raymond said condescendingly, but then he paused. He began to think that unwittingly

Darlene had a point. An idea began to germinate.

"What about Dr. Levitz?" Darlene said. "He was Mr. Franconi's doctor. Maybe he could help."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Raymond said. Dr. Daniel Levitz was a Park Avenue physician with

a big office, high overhead, and a dwindling patient base, thanks to managed care. He'd been easy to

recruit and had been one of the first doctors to join the venture. On top of that, he'd brought in many

clients, some of them in the same business as Carlo Franconi.

Raymond stood up, extracted his wallet, and plopped three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

He knew that was more than enough for the tab and a generous tip. "Come on," he said. "We've got to

make a house call."

"But I haven't finished my entree," Darlene complained.

Raymond didn't respond. Instead he whisked Darlene's chair out from the table, forcing her to her feet.

The more he thought about Dr. Levitz, the more he thought the man could be the savior. As the personal

physician of a number of competing New York crime families, Levitz knew people who could do the

impossible.

CHAPTER 1: MARCH 4, 1997 7:25 A.M.

NEW YORK CITY

JACK Stapleton bent over and put more muscle into his pedaling as he sprinted the last block heading

east along Thirtieth Street. About fifty yards from First Avenue he sat up and coasted no-hands before

beginning to brake. The upcoming traffic light was not in his favor, and even Jack wasn't crazy enough to

sail out into the mix of cars, buses, and trucks racing uptown.

The weather had warmed considerably and the five inches of slush that had fallen two days previously

was gone save for a few dirty piles between parked cars. Jack was pleased the roads were clear since

he'd not been able to commute on his bike for several days. The bike was only three weeks old. It was a

replacement for one that had been stolen a year previously.

Originally, Jack had planned on replacing the bike immediately. But he'd changed his mind after a

terrifyingly close encounter with death made him temporarily conservative about risk. The episode had

nothing to do with bike riding in the city, but nonetheless it scared him enough to acknowledge that his

riding style had been deliberately reckless.

But time dimmed Jack's fears. The final prod came when he lost his watch and wallet in a subway

mugging. A day later, Jack bought himself a new Cannondale mountain bike, and as far as his friends

were concerned, he was up to his old tricks. In reality, he was no longer tempting fate by squeezing

between speeding delivery vans and parked cars; he no longer slalomed down Second Avenue; and for

the most part he stayed out of Central Park after dark.

Jack came to a stop at the corner to wait for the light, and as his foot touched down on the pavement he

surveyed the scene. Almost at once he became aware of a bevy of TV vans with extended antennae

parked on the east side of First Avenue in front of his destination: the Office of the Chief Medical

Examiner for the City of New York, or what some people called simply, the morgue.

Jack was an associate medical examiner, and he'd been in that position for almost a year and a half so

he'd seen such journalistic congestion on numerous occasions. Generally it meant that there had been a

death of a celebrity, or at least someone made momentarily famous by the media. If it wasn't a single

death, then it was a mass disaster like an airplane crash or a train wreck. For reasons both personal and

public Jack hoped it was the former.

With a green light, Jack pedaled across First Avenue and entered the morgue through the receiving dock

on Thirtieth Street. He parked his bike in his usual location near the Hart Island coffins used for the

unclaimed dead and took the elevator up to the first floor.

It was immediately apparent to Jack that the place was in a minor uproar. Several of the day secretaries

were busily manning the phones in the communications room: they normally didn't arrive until eight. Their

consoles were awash with blinking red lights. Even Sergeant Murphy's cubicle was open and the

overhead light was on, and his usual modus operandi was to arrive sometime after nine.

With curiosity mounting, Jack entered the ID room and headed directly for the coffeepot. Vinnie

Amendola, one of the mortuary techs, was hiding behind his newspaper as per usual. But that was the

only normal circumstance for that time of the morning. Generally Jack was the first pathologist to arrive,

but on this particular day the deputy chief, Dr. Calvin Washington, Dr. Laurie Montgomery, and Dr. Chet

McGovern were already there. The three were involved in a deep discussion along with Sergeant

Murphy and, to Jack's surprise, Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano from homicide. Lou was a frequent

visitor to the morgue, but certainly not at seven-thirty in the morning. On top of that, he looked like he'd

never been to bed, or if he had, he'd slept in his clothes.

Jack helped himself to coffee. No one acknowledged his arrival. After adding a dollop of half-and-half

as well as a cube of sugar to his cup, Jack wandered to the door to the lobby. He glanced out, and as

he'd expected the area was filled to overflowing with media people talking among themselves and

drinking take-out coffee. What he didn't expect was that many were also smoking cigarettes. Since

smoking was strictly taboo, Jack told Vinnie to go out there and inform them.

"You're closer," Vinnie said, without looking up from his newspaper.

Jack rolled his eyes at Vinnie's lack of respect but had to admit Vinnie was right. So Jack walked over

to the locked glass door and opened it. Before he could call out his no smoking pronouncement, he was

literally mobbed.

Jack had to push the microphones away that were thrust into his face. The simultaneous questions

precluded any real comprehension of what the questions were other than about an anticipated autopsy.

Jack shouted at the top of his lungs that there was no smoking, then had to literally peel hands off his arm

before he was able to get the door closed. On the other side the reporters surged forward, pressing

colleagues roughly against the glass like tomatoes in a jar of preserves.

Disgusted, Jack returned to the ID room.

"Will someone clue me in to what's going on?" he called out.

Everyone turned in Jack's direction, but Laurie was the first to respond. "You haven't heard?"

"Now, would I be asking if I'd heard?" Jack said.

"It's been all over the TV for crissake," Calvin snapped.

"Jack doesn't own a TV," Laurie said. "His neighborhood won't allow it."

"Where do you live, son?" Sergeant Murphy asked. "I've never heard of neighbors not allowing each

other to have a television." The aging, red-faced, Irish policeman had a pronounced paternal streak. He'd

been assigned to the medical examiner's office for more years than he was willing to admit and thought of

all the employees as family.

"He lives in Harlem," Chet said. "Actually his neighbors would love him to get a set so they could

permanently borrow it."

"Enough, you guys," Jack said. "Fill me in on the excitement."

"A Mafia don was gunned down yesterday late afternoon," Calvin's booming voice announced. "It's

stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble since he'd agreed to cooperate with the DA's office and was under

police protection."

"He was no Mafia don," Lou Soldano said. "He was nothing but a mid-level functionary of the Vaccarro

crime family."

"Whatever," Calvin said with a wave of his hand. "The key point is that he was whacked while literally

boxed in by a number of New York's finest, which doesn't say much about their ability to protect

someone in their charge."

"He was warned not to go to that restaurant," Lou protested. "I know that for a fact. And it's almost

impossible to protect someone if the individual refuses to follow suggestions."

"Any chance he could have been killed by the police?" Jack asked. One of the roles of a medical

examiner was to think of all angles, especially when situations of custody were concerned.

"He wasn't under arrest," Lou said, guessing what was going through Jack's mind. "He'd been arrested

and indicted, but he was out on bail."

"So what's the big deal?" Jack asked.

"The big deal is that the mayor, the district attorney, and the police commissioner are all under a lot of

heat," Calvin said.

"Amen," Lou said. "Particularly the police commissioner. That's why I'm here. It's turning into one of

those public-relations nightmares that the media loves to blow way out of proportion. We've got to

apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators ASAP, otherwise heads are going to roll."

"And not to discourage future potential witnesses," Jack said.

"Yeah, that too," Lou said.

"I don't know, Laurie," Calvin said, getting back to the discussion they'd been having before Jack's

interruption. "I appreciate you coming in early and offering to do this autopsy, but maybe Bingham might

want to do it himself."

"But why?" Laurie complained. "Look, it's a straightforward case, and I've recently done a lot of gunshot

wounds. Besides, with Dr. Bingham's budget meeting this morning at City Hall, he can't be here until

almost noon. By then I can have the autopsy done and whatever information I come up with will be in the

hands of the police. With their time constraint, it makes the most sense."

Calvin looked at Lou. "Do you think five or six hours will make a difference with the investigation?"

"It could," Lou admitted. "Hell, the sooner the autopsy is done the better. I mean, just knowing if we're

looking for one or two people will be a big help."

Calvin sighed. "I hate this kind of decision." He shifted his massive two-hundred-and-fifty-pound

muscular bulk from one foot to the other. "Trouble is, half the time I can't anticipate Bingham's reaction.

But what the hell! Go for it, Laurie. The case is yours."

"Thanks, Calvin," Laurie said gleefully. She snatched up the folder from the table. "Is it okay if Lou

observes?"

"By all means," Calvin said.

"Come on, Lou!" Laurie said. She rescued her coat from a chair and started for the door. "Let's head

downstairs, do a quick external exam, and have the body X-rayed. In the confusion last night it

apparently wasn't done."

"I'm right behind you," Lou said.

Jack hesitated for a moment then hurried after them. He was mystified why Laurie was so interested in

doing the autopsy. From his perspective she would have done better to stay clear. Such politically

charged cases were always hot potatoes. You couldn't win.

Laurie was moving quickly, and Jack didn't catch up to her and Lou until they were beyond

communications. Laurie stopped abruptly to lean into Janice Jaeger's office. Janice was one of the

forensic investigators, also called physicians' assistants or PAs. Janice ran the graveyard shift and took

her job very seriously. She always stayed late.

"Will you be seeing Bart Arnold before you leave?" Laurie asked Janice. Bart Arnold was the chief of

the PAs.

"I usually do," Janice said. She was a tiny, dark-haired woman with prominent circles under her eyes.

"Do me a favor," Laurie said. "Ask him to call CNN and get a copy of the video of Carlo Franconi's

assassination. I'd like to have it as soon as possible."

"Will do," Janice said cheerfully.

Laurie and Lou continued on their way.

"Hey, slow down, you two," Jack said. He had to run a couple of steps to catch up to them.

"We've got work to do," Laurie said without breaking stride.

"I've never seen you so eager to do an autopsy," Jack said. He and Lou flanked her as she hurried to the

autopsy room. "What's the attraction?"

"A lot of things," Laurie said. She reached the elevator and pressed the button.

Robin Cook - Chromosome 6

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