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Table of Contents

Blindsight

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Epilogue

Copyright Notice

This book was hand-copied right by mad Benedictine monks.

Blindsight

Robin Cook

The cocaine shot into Duncan Andrews’ antecubital vein in a concentrated bolus after having

been propelled by the plunger of a syringe. Chemical alarms sounded immediately. A number of

the blood cells and plasma enzymes recognized the cocaine molecules as being part of a family of

compounds called alkaloids, which are manufactured by plants and include such physiologically

active substances as caffeine, morphine, strychnine, and nicotine.

In a desperate but vain attempt to protect the body from this sudden invasion, plasma enzymes

called cholesterases attacked the cocaine, splitting some of the foreign molecules into

physiologically inert fragments. But the cocaine dose was overwhelming. Within seconds the

cocaine was streaking through the right side of the heart, spreading through the lungs, and then

heading out into Duncan’s body.

The pharmacologic effects of the drug began almost instantly. Some of the cocaine molecules

tumbled into the coronary arteries and began constricting them and reducing blood flow to the

heart. At the same time the cocaine began to diffuse out of the coronary vessels into the

extracellular fluid, bathing the hardworking heart muscle fibers. There the foreign compound

began to interrupt the movement of sodium ions through the heart cells’ membranes, a critical

part of the heart muscle contractile function. The result was that cardiac conductivity and

contractility began to fall.

Simultaneously the cocaine molecules fanned out throughout the brain, having coursed up into

the skull through the carotid arteries. Like knives through butter, the cocaine penetrated the

blood brain barrier. Once inside the brain, the cocaine bathed the defenseless brain cells, pooling

in spaces called synapses across which the nerve cells communicated.

Within the synapses the cocaine began to exert its most perverse effects. It became an

impersonator. By an ironic twist of chemical fate, an outer portion of the cocaine molecule was

erroneously recognized by the nerve cells as a neurotransmitter, either epinephrine,

norepinephrine, or dopamine. Like skeleton keys, the cocaine molecules insinuated themselves

into the molecular pumps responsible for absorbing these neurotransmitters, locking them, and

bringing the pumps to a sudden halt.

The result was predictable. Since the reabsorption of the neurotransmitters was blocked, the

neurotransmitters’ stimulative effect was preserved. And the stimulation caused the release of

more neurotransmitters in an upward spiral of self-fulfilling excitation. Nerve cells that would

have normally reverted to quiescence and serenity began to fire frantically.

The brain progressively brimmed with activity, particularly the pleasure centers deeply embedded

below the cerebral cortex. Here dopamine was the principal neurotransmitter. With a perverse

predilection the cocaine blocked the dopamine pumps, and the dopamine concentration soared.

Circuits of nerve cells divinely wired to ensure the survival of the species rang with excitement

and filled afferent pathways running up to the cortex with ecstatic messages.

But the pleasure centers were not the only areas of Duncan’s brain to be affected, just some of

the first. Soon the darker side of the cocaine invasion began to exert its effect. Phylogenetically

older, more caudal centers of the brain involving functions like muscle coordination and the

regulation of breathing began to be affected. Even the thermoregulatory area began to be

stimulated, as well as the part of the brain responsible for vomiting.

Thus all was not well. In the middle of the rush of pleasurable impulses, an ominous condition

was in the making. A dark cloud was forming on the horizon, auguring a horrible neurological

storm. The cocaine was about to reveal its true deceitful self: a minion of death disguised in an

aura of beguiling pleasure.

Prologue

Duncan Andrews’ mind was racing like a runaway train. Only a moment ago he’d been in a groggy,

drugged stupor. Within seconds his dizziness and lethargy had evaporated like a drip of water falling onto

a sizzling skillet. A rush of exhilaration and energy consumed him, making him feel suddenly powerful. It

was as if he could do anything. In a glow of new clarity, he understood he was infinitely stronger and

smarter than he’d ever realized. But just as he was beginning to savor this cascade of euphoric thoughts

and this enlightened view of his abilities, he began to feel overwhelmed by intense waves of pleasure he

could define only as pure ecstasy. He would have shouted for joy if only his mouth could form the proper

words. But he couldn’t speak. Thoughts and feelings were reverberating in his mind too rapidly to

vocalize. Any fear or misgivings he had been feeling only minutes ago melted in this newfound rapture and

delight.

But like his torpor, the pleasure was short-lived. The blissful smile that had formed on Duncan’s face

twisted into a grimace of terror and panic. A voice called out that the people he feared were returning.

His eyes darted around the room. He saw no one, yet the voice continued its message. Quickly he

looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. It was empty. Turning his head, he looked down the hallway

toward the bedroom. No one was there, but the voice remained. Now it was whispering a more dire

prediction: he was going to die.

“Who are you?” Duncan screamed. He put his hands over his ears as if to block the sound out. “Where

are you? How did you get in here?” His eyes again raced searchingly about the room.

The voice didn’t answer. Duncan didn’t know it was coming from inside his head.

Duncan struggled to his feet. He was surprised to realize he’d been on his living room floor. As he rose,

his shoulder bumped against the coffee table. The syringe that had so recently been in his arm clattered to

the floor. Duncan stared at it with hatred and regret, then reached for it to crush it between his fingers.

Duncan’s hand stopped just short of the syringe. His eyes opened wide with confusion mixed with a new

fear. All at once he could feel the unmistakable itch of hundreds of insects crawling on the skin of his

arms. Forgetting the syringe, Duncan held out his hands with his palms up. He could feel the bugs

squirming all over his forearms, but no matter how hard he searched he couldn’t see them. His skin

appeared perfectly clear. Then the itch spread to his legs.

“Ahhhhhh!” Duncan screamed. He tried to wipe his arms, guessing the insects were too small to be seen,

but the itching only got worse. With a shiver of profound fear it dawned on him that the organisms had to

be under his skin. Somehow they had invaded his body. Perhaps they had been in the syringe.

Using his fingernails, Duncan began to scratch his arms in a frantic attempt to allow the insects to escape.

They were eating him from within. Desperately he scratched harder, digging his nails into his skin until he

drew blood. The pain was intense, but the itching of the insects was worse.

Despite the terror of the insects, Duncan stopped his scratching, as he became aware of a new

symptom. Holding up his bloodied hand, he noticed that he was shaking. Looking down at himself he

saw that his whole body was shaking, and the tremors were getting worse. For a brief instant he thought

about calling 911 for help. But as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed something else. He was warm.

No, he was hot!

“My God!” Duncan managed when he realized that sweat was pouring from his face. With a trembling

hand he felt his forehead: he was burning up! He tried to unbutton his shirt but his tremulous hands were

incapable. Impatient and desperate, he ripped the shirt open and off. Buttons flew in all directions. He did

the same with his pants, throwing them to the floor. But it was to no avail; clad only in his undershorts, he

still felt suffocatingly hot. Then, without a moment’s warning, he coughed, choked, and vomited in a

forceful stream, spattering the wall below his signed Dali lithograph.

Duncan staggered into his bathroom. Through sheer force of will he got his shaking body into the shower

and turned on the cold tap full force. Gasping for breath, he stood beneath the cascade of frigid water.

Duncan’s relief was brief. Involuntarily a pitiful cry escaped from his lips, and his breathing became

labored as a white-hot pain stabbed into his left chest and ripped down the inside of his left arm.

Intuitively Duncan knew he was having a heart attack.

Duncan clutched his chest with his right hand. Blood from his abraded arms mixed with water from the

shower and swirled down the drain. Half-falling and half-staggering, Duncan stumbled from the bathroom

and headed for the door of his apartment. Never mind that he was near naked, he needed air. His

broiling brain was about to explode. Using his final reserve of strength, he gripped the knob to his front

door and yanked it open.

“Duncan!” Sara Wetherbee cried. She couldn’t have been more startled. Her hand was poised inches

from Duncan’s door. She had been about to knock when Duncan yanked it open and confronted her. He

was clad in nothing but soggy Jockey shorts. “My God!” cried Sara. “What’s happened to you?”

Duncan did not recognize his lover of two and a half years. What he needed was air. The crushing pain

in his chest had spread throughout his lungs. It felt as if he were being stabbed over and over again.

Blindly he lurched forward, reaching out to sweep Sara from his path.

“Duncan!” Sara cried again as she took in his near nakedness, the bleeding scratches on his arms, his

wild, dilated eyes, and the grimace of pain on his face. Refusing to be thrust aside, she grabbed his

shoulders and restrained him. “What’s the matter? Where are you going?”

Duncan hesitated. For a brief moment Sara’s voice penetrated his dementia. His mouth opened as if he

were about to speak. But no words came. Instead he uttered a pitiful whine that ended in a gasp as his

tremors coalesced into spasmodic jerks and his eyes disappeared up inside his head. Mercifully

unconscious, Duncan collapsed into Sara’s arms.

At first Sara struggled vainly to hold Duncan upright. But she was unable to support him, especially since

Duncan’s jerks became progressively more violent. As gently as possible Sara let Duncan’s writhing

body fall across the threshold, half into the hall. Almost the moment he touched the floor, Duncan’s back

arched up and his jerks rapidly coalesced into the rhythmical throes of a grand mal seizure.

“Help!” Sara screamed as she glanced up and down the hall. As she might have expected, no one

appeared. Aside from the noise Duncan was making, all she could hear was the percussive thump of a

nearby stereo.

Desperate for help, Sara managed to step over Duncan’s convulsing and incontinent body. A glimpse of

his bloody and foaming mouth appalled and frightened her. She desperately wanted to help, but she

didn’t know what to do save for calling an ambulance. With a trembling finger she punched 911 on

Duncan’s living room phone. As she impatiently waited for the connection to go through, she could hear

Duncan’s head repeatedly thump against the hardwood floor. All she could do was wince with each

sickening sound and pray that help would be there soon.

Pulling her hands away from her face, Sara checked her watch. It was almost three o’clock in the

morning. She’d been sitting on the same vinyl seat in the waiting room of the Manhattan General Hospital

for over three hours.

For the umpteenth time she scanned the crowded room that smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, alcohol,

and wet wool. There was a large sign directly opposite her that read: NO SMOKING, but the notice

was roundly ignored.

The injured mixed with those who’d accompanied them. There were wailing infants and toddlers,

battered drunks, others clutching a towel to a cut finger or slashed chin. Most stared blankly ahead,

inured to the endless wait. Some were obviously sick, others even in pain. One rather well dressed man

had his arm around his equally well dressed female companion. Only minutes before he’d been arguing

heatedly with a rather intimidatingly large triage nurse who hadn’t been ruffled by his threats to call his

lawyer if his companion were not seen immediately. Resigned at last, he too stared vacantly into the

middle distance.

Closing her eyes again, Sara could still feel her pulse hammering at her temples. The vivid image of

Duncan convulsing on the threshold of his apartment haunted her. Whatever happened tonight, she knew

she would never banish the vision from her mind.

After having called the ambulance and given Duncan’s address, Sara had returned to Duncan’s side.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d remembered that something should be put in a convulsing

person’s mouth to keep him from biting his tongue. But try as she might, she’d not been able to pry apart

Duncan’s clenched teeth.

Just before the EMTs arrived, Duncan finally stopped convulsing. At first Sara had been relieved, but

then she noticed with renewed alarm that he was not breathing. Wiping the foam and a bit of blood from

his mouth, she tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but she found herself fighting nausea. By

then some of Duncan’s hallway neighbors had appeared. To Sara’s relief, one man said he’d been a

corpsman in the navy, and he and a companion graciously took over the CPR until the EMTs arrived.

Sara could not imagine what had happened to Duncan. Only an hour earlier he’d called her and had

asked her to come over. She thought he’d sounded a little tense and strange, but even so she’d been

totally unprepared for his state once she got there. She shuddered again as she saw him standing before

her in the doorway with his bloodied hands and arms and his dilated, wild eyes. It was as if he’d gone

insane.

Sara’s last glimpse of Duncan came after they’d arrived at the Manhattan General. The EMTs had

allowed her to ride in the ambulance. Throughout the whole hair-raising trip, they’d maintained the CPR.

The last she’d seen of Duncan was when he’d been rolled through a pair of white swinging doors,

disappearing into the inner recesses of the emergency unit. Sara could still see the EMT kneeling on top

of the gurney and continuing the chest compressions as the doors swung closed.

“Sara Wetherbee?” a voice asked, rousing Sara from her reverie.

“Yes?” Sara said as she looked up.

A young doctor sporting a heavy five o’clock shadow and a white coat slightly splattered with blood had

materialized in front of her.

“I’m Dr. Murray,” he said. “Would you mind coming with me. I’d like to talk with you for a moment.”

“Of course,” Sara said nervously. She got to her feet and pulled her purse high on her shoulder. She

hurried after Dr. Murray, who’d turned on his heels almost before she’d had a chance to respond. The

same white doors that had swallowed Duncan three hours before closed behind her. Dr. Murray had

stopped just inside and turned to face her. She anxiously looked into the man’s eyes. He was exhausted.

She wanted to see some glimmer of hope, but there wasn’t any.

“I understand you are Mr. Andrews’ girlfriend,” Dr. Murray said. Even his voice sounded tired.

Sara nodded.

“Normally we talk to the family first,” Dr. Murray said. “But I know you came in with the patient and

have been waiting. I’m sorry it has taken so long to get back to you, but several gunshot victims came in

right after Mr. Andrews.”

“I understand,” Sara said. “How is Duncan?” She had to ask, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted

to know.

“Not so good,” Dr. Murray said. “You can be sure our EMTs tried everything. But I’m afraid Duncan

passed away anyway. Unfortunately, he was DOA. Dead on arrival. I’m sorry.”

Sara stared into Dr. Murray’s eyes. She wanted to see a glint of the same sorrow that was welling up

inside of her. But all she saw was fatigue. His apparent lack of feeling helped her maintain her own

composure.

“What happened?” she asked almost in a whisper.

“We’re ninety percent sure that the immediate cause was a massive myocardial infarction, or heart

attack,” Dr. Murray said, obviously more comfortable with his medical jargon. “But the proximate cause

appears to be drug toxicity or overdose. We don’t know yet what his blood level was. That takes a bit

more time.”

“Drugs?” Sara said with disbelief. “What kind of drug?”

“Cocaine,” said Dr. Murray. “The EMTs even brought in the needle he’d used.”

“I never knew Duncan used cocaine,” Sara said. “He said he didn’t use drugs.”

“People always lie about sex and drugs,” Dr. Murray said. “And with cocaine sometimes it only takes

once. People don’t realize how deadly the stuff can be. Its popularity has lulled people into a false sense

of security. Be that as it may, we do have to get in touch with the family. Would you know the telephone

number?”

Stunned by Duncan’s death and the revelation about his apparent cocaine use, Sara recited the

Andrews’ phone number in a dazed monotone. Thinking about drugs allowed her to avoid thinking about

death. She wondered how long Duncan had been on cocaine. It was all so hard to understand. She’d

thought she’d known him so well.

1

November

6:45 a.m., Monday

New York City

The alarm of the old Westclox windup never failed to yank Laurie Montgomery from the depths of

blessed sleep. Even though she’d had the clock since the first year of college, she’d never become

accustomed to its fearful clatter. It always woke her up with a start, and she’d invariably lunge for the

cursed contraption as if her life depended on her getting the alarm shut off as soon as humanly possible.

This rainy November morning proved no exception. As she replaced the clock on the windowsill, she

could feel her heart thumping. It was the squirt of adrenaline that made the daily episode so effective.

Even if she could have gone back to bed, she’d never have gotten back to sleep. And it was the same for

Tom, her one-and-a-half-year-old half-wild tawny tabby who, at the sound of the alarm, had fled into the

depths of her closet.

Resigned to the start of another day, Laurie stood up, wiggled her toes into her sheepskin slippers, and

turned on the TV to the local morning news.

Her apartment was a small, one-bedroom affair on Nineteenth Street between First and Second avenues

in a six-story tenement. Her rooms were on the fifth floor in the rear. Her two windows faced out onto a

warren of overgrown backyards.

In her tiny kitchen she turned on her coffee machine. The night before, she’d prepared it with a packet of

coffee and the right amount of water. With the coffee started she padded into the bathroom and looked

at herself in the mirror.

“Ugh!” she said as she turned her face from side to side, viewing the damage of another night with not

enough sleep. Her eyes were puffy and red. Laurie was not a morning person. She was a confirmed night

owl and frequently read until all hours. She loved to read, whether the book was a ponderous pathology

text or a popular bestseller. When it came to fiction, her interests were catholic. Her shelves were

crammed with everything from thrillers to romantic sagas, to history, general science, and even

psychology. The night before it had been a murder mystery, and she’d read until she’d finished the book.

When she’d turned out the light, she’d not had the courage to look at the time. As usual, in the morning

she vowed never to stay up so late again.

In the shower Laurie’s mind began to clear enough to start going over the problems that she would have

to address that day. She was currently in her fifth month as an associate medical examiner at the Office of

the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. The preceding weekend, Laurie had been on call,

which meant that she worked both Saturday and Sunday. She’d performed six autopsies: three one day

and three the next. A number of these cases required additional follow-up before they could be signed

out, and she began making a mental list of what she had to do.

Stepping out of the shower, Laurie dried herself briskly. One thing she was thankful about was that

today would be a “paper day” for her, meaning that she would not be assigned any additional autopsies.

Instead she would have the time to do the necessary paperwork on the autopsies that she’d already

done. She was currently waiting for material on about twenty cases from either the lab, the medical

examiner investigators, local hospitals or local doctors, or the police. It was this avalanche of paperwork

that constantly threatened to overwhelm her.

Back in the kitchen Laurie prepared her coffee. Then, carrying her mug, she retreated to the bathroom

to put on makeup and blow-dry her hair. Her hair always took the longest. It was thick and long and of

an auburn color with red highlights she liked to burnish with henna once a month. Laurie was proud of her

hair. She thought it was her best feature. Her mother was always encouraging her to cut it, but Laurie

liked to keep it beyond shoulder length and wear it in a braid or piled on top of her head. As for makeup,

Laurie always subscribed to the theory that “less is more.” A bit of eyeliner to line her blue-green eyes, a

few strokes with an eyebrow pencil to define her light, reddish blond eyebrows, and a brief application of

mascara and she was nearly done. A dab of coral blush and lipstick completed the routine. Satisfied, she

took her mug and retreated to the bedroom.

By then,Good Morning America was on. She listened with half an ear as she put on the clothes she had

laid out the night before. Forensic Pathology was still largely a man’s world, but that only made Laurie

want to emphasize her femininity with her dress. She slipped into a green skirt and matching turtleneck.

Eyeing herself in the mirror, she was pleased. She’d not worn this particular outfit before. Somehow it

made her look taller than her actual height of five foot five, and even slimmer than her hundred and fifteen

pounds.

With her coffee drunk, a yogurt eaten and dried cat food poured into Tom’s bowl, Laurie struggled into

her trench coat. She then grabbed her purse, her lunch, which she had also prepared the night before,

and her briefcase, and stepped out of her apartment. It took her a moment to secure the collection of

locks on her door, a legacy of the apartment’s previous tenant. Turning to the elevator, Laurie pushed the

down button.

As if on cue, the moment the aged elevator began its whining ascent, Laurie heard the click of Debra

Engler’s locks. Turning her head, Laurie watched as the door to the front apartment opened a crack and

its safety chain was pulled taut. Debra’s bloodshot eye peered out at her. Above the eye was a tousle of

gray frizzy hair.

Laurie aggressively stared back at the intruding eye. It was as if Debra hovered behind her door for any

sound in the hallway. The repetitive intrusion grated on Laurie’s nerves. It seemed like a violation of her

privacy despite the fact that the hallway was a common area.

“Better take an umbrella,” Debra said in her throaty, smoker’s voice.

The fact that Debra was right only fanned Laurie’s irritation. She had indeed forgotten her umbrella.

Without giving Debra any sense of acknowledgment lest her irritating watchfulness be encouraged, Laurie

turned back to her door and went through the complicated sequence of undoing the locks. Five minutes

later as she stepped into the elevator, she saw that Debra’s bloodshot eye was still watching intently.

As the elevator slowly descended, Laurie’s irritation faded. Her thoughts turned to the case that had

bothered her most over the weekend: the twelve-year-old boy hit in the chest with a softball.

“Life’s not fair,” Laurie muttered under her breath as she thought about the boy’s untimely death.

Children’s deaths were so hard to comprehend. Somehow she’d thought medical school would inure her

to such senselessness, but it hadn’t. Neither had a pathology residency. And now that she was in

forensics, these deaths were even harder to take. And there were so many of them! Up until the accident,

the softball victim had been a healthy child, brimming with health and vitality. She could still see his little

body on the autopsy table; a picture of health, ostensibly asleep. Yet Laurie had had to pick up the

scalpel and gut him like a fish.

Laurie swallowed hard as the elevator came to a bumping stop. Cases like this little boy made her

question her career choice. She wondered if she shouldn’t have gone into pediatrics, where she could

have dealt with living children. The field of medicine she’d chosen could be grim.

In spite of herself, Laurie was grateful for Debra’s admonition once she saw what kind of day it was.

The wind was blowing in strong gusts and the promised rain had already started. The view of her street

that particular day made her question her choice of location as well as her career. The garbage-strewn

street was not a pretty sight. Maybe she should have gone to a newer, cleaner city like Atlanta, or a city

of perpetual summer like Miami. Laurie opened her umbrella and leaned into the wind as she trudged

toward First Avenue.

As she walked she thought of one of the ironies of her career choice. She’d chosen pathology for a

number of reasons. For one thing she thought that predictable hours would make it easier to combine

medicine with having a family. But the problem was, she didn’t have a family, unless she considered her

parents, but they didn’t really count. In fact she didn’t even have a meaningful relationship. Laurie had

never thought that by age thirty-two she wouldn’t have children of her own, much less that she’d still be

single.

A short cab ride with a driver whose nationality she could not even guess brought her to the corner of

First and Thirtieth. She’d been shocked to get the cab. Under normal circumstances a combination of

rain and rush hour meant no taxis. This morning, however, someone had been getting out of a cab just as

she reached First Avenue. Yet even if she’d not been able to get one, it wouldn’t have been a disaster.

That was one of the benefits of living just eleven blocks away from work. Many a day she walked in both

directions.

After paying her fare, Laurie started up the front steps of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for

the City of New York. The six-story building was overshadowed by the rest of the New York University

Medical Center and the Bellevue Hospital complex. Its facade was constructed of blue-glazed brick with

aluminum windows and door casements of an unattractive modern design.

Normally Laurie paid no attention to the building, but on this particular rainy November Monday it

wasn’t spared her critical review any more than her career or her street. The place was depressing. She

had to admit that. She was shaking her head, wondering if an architect could have been genuinely pleased

by his handiwork, when she noticed that the foyer was packed. The front door was propped open

despite the morning chill, and cigarette smoke could be seen languidly issuing forth.

Curious, Laurie pushed into the crowd, making her way with some difficulty toward the ID room.

Marlene Wilson, the usual receptionist, was obviously overwhelmed as at least a dozen people pressed

against her desk as they plied her with questions. The media had invaded, complete with cameras, tape

recorders, TV camcorders, and flashing lights. Clearly something out of the ordinary had happened.

After a brief pantomime to get Marlene’s attention, Laurie managed to get herself buzzed into the inner

area. She experienced a mild sense of relief when the closing door extinguished the babble of voices and

the acrid cigarette smoke.

Pausing to glance into the drab room where family members were taken to identify the deceased, Laurie

was mildly surprised to find it empty. With all the commotion in the outer area, she thought she’d see

people in the ID room. Shrugging her shoulders, she proceeded into the ID office.

The first person Laurie confronted was Vinnie Amendola, one of the mortuary techs. Oblivious to the

pandemonium in the reception area, Vinnie was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and studying the

sports pages of theNew York Post . His feet were propped up on the edge of one of the gray metal

desks. As usual before eight in the morning, Vinnie was the only person in the room. It was his job to

make the coffee for the coffee pool. A large, commercial-style coffeemaker was in the ID office, a room

that served a number of functions, including an informal morning congregation area.

“What on earth is going on?” Laurie asked as she picked up the day’s autopsy schedule. Even though

she wasn’t scheduled for any autopsies, she was always curious to see what cases had come in.

Vinnie lowered his paper. “Trouble,” he said.

“What kind of trouble?” Laurie asked. Through the doorway leading to the communications room, she

could see that the two day-shift secretaries were busy on their phones. The panels in front of them were

blinking with waiting calls. Laurie poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Another “preppy murder’ case,” Vinnie said. “A teenage girl apparently strangled by her boyfriend. Sex

and drugs. You know rich kids. Happened over near the Tavern On The Green. With all the excitement

that first case caused a couple of years ago, the media has been here from the moment the body was

brought in.”

Laurie clucked her tongue. “How awful for everyone. A life lost and a life ruined.” She added sugar and

a touch of cream to her coffee. “Who’s handling it?”

“Dr. Plodgett,” Vinnie said. “He was called by the tour doctor and he had to go out to the scene. It was

around three in the morning.”

Laurie sighed. “Oh boy,” she muttered. She felt sorry for Paul. Handling such a case would most likely

be stressful for him because he was relatively inexperienced like herself. He’d been an associate medical

examiner for just over a year. Laurie had been there for only four and a half months. “Where’s Paul now?

Up in his office?”

“Nope,” Vinnie said. “He’s in doing the autopsy.”

“Already?” Laurie questioned. “Why the rush?”

“Beats me,” Vinnie said. “But the guys going off the graveyard shift told me that Bingham came in around

six. Paul must have called him.”

“This case gets more intriguing by the minute,” Laurie said. Dr. Harold Bingham, age fifty-eight, was the

Chief Medical Examiner of New York City, a position that made him a powerful figure in the forensic

world. “I think I’ll duck into the pit and see what’s happening.”

Robin Cook - Blindsight

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