forty-two, had worked for the Canada Revenue Agency as a delinquent-accounts officer. He died on October nineteenth, nine days after Delia Smart. He’d been on sick leave since May. The hospital chart contained only the barest details of his illness because he was never admitted to the hospital and not evaluated there as an outpatient. He must have seen a doctor at another clinic. On the evening of his death he vomited at home, choked until he turned purple, and was found without vital signs when the paramedics arrived.
“All attempts to revive him on the scene and at Caledonian’s Emergency Department were unsuccessful,” said Hamish, closing the chart.
“Did the autopsy confirm the cause of death as suffocation after aspiration?” Zol asked.
Hamish made a face. “Yes, his lungs were full of vomit.”
“And his brain?”
“Same as the others.”
“All right,” said Zol. “Now it’s your turn, Natasha.”
“I’ll start with Rita Spinelli, age thirty-eight. She owned the Sunroom Boutique, an expensive dress shop on Concession Street. She died almost exactly like Danesh Patel.”
“How so?” Hamish asked.
“Hit by a truck when she wandered into four lanes of traffic.” Natasha explained that after three days in intensive care at Caledonian Medical Centre Rita was declared brain-dead. Her husband wanted to donate her organs, but the consulting neurologist in ICU put a stop to that upon learning she had memory problems, a change of personality, and hadn’t been able to run her business since August. He couldn’t rule out CJD . As it turned out, he was correct.
“Can you imagine if she’d donated her organs?” asked Zol. “We’d be looking at half a dozen more cases at least.”
Natasha closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“When you’re ready, Natasha, tell us about the fourth case,” said Zol.
“This one is really sad. She was only twenty-seven.”
Tonya Latkovic, a high-school math teacher, had been referred to Caledonian’s psychiatric clinic during the summer because of depression and forgetfulness. Except for a history of migraine headaches, she had always been healthy and vivacious. She showed no response to antidepressants, and when she couldn’t face returning to her classroom in September she was put on stress leave. In the middle of the night of October thirty-first she wandered off from the home she shared with her parents. The next day she was found dead at the bottom of the Escarpment.
Natasha fingered the iridescent black opal pendant she wore every day. Its teardrop shape seemed to glow of its own accord. “The
Spectator
published an interview with the woman who found the body while she was walking her dog. I remember reading it and thinking . . .” She clutched her arms to her chest.
Hamish shifted his chair closer to the table. “What did the autopsy show?”
“A fractured femur,” Natasha said. “She bled to death from a fractured femur. I didn’t know that could happen.”
Hamish raised his index finger to its professorial position. “Oh, yes,” he said, “it’s
classic
.”
Natasha looked at Zol and held his gaze, then lifted her eyebrows again as they covertly shared their understanding of the quirky young professor. “And of course,” she continued, “it showed CJD with tulip plaques, just like the others.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. Zol hoped it was Max or Ermalinda saying they’d seen their movie and were on the way home. No such luck. It was Peter Trinnock.
“So, Zol, how are things on the CJD business?”
Zol cleared his throat. “Banbury has just reported four newcases. We’re reviewing them now. Planning our strategy for the weekend.”
“You’ll have to do a lot more than plan. And who’s
we
?”
“Natasha and Hamish Wakefield.”
“Natasha who? Oh yes, the new girl. Why do you have her on the case? Why not Gibson? He’s got a lot more experience.”
“She’s got the nose for this sort of
“All attempts to revive him on the scene and at Caledonian’s Emergency Department were unsuccessful,” said Hamish, closing the chart.
“Did the autopsy confirm the cause of death as suffocation after aspiration?” Zol asked.
Hamish made a face. “Yes, his lungs were full of vomit.”
“And his brain?”
“Same as the others.”
“All right,” said Zol. “Now it’s your turn, Natasha.”
“I’ll start with Rita Spinelli, age thirty-eight. She owned the Sunroom Boutique, an expensive dress shop on Concession Street. She died almost exactly like Danesh Patel.”
“How so?” Hamish asked.
“Hit by a truck when she wandered into four lanes of traffic.” Natasha explained that after three days in intensive care at Caledonian Medical Centre Rita was declared brain-dead. Her husband wanted to donate her organs, but the consulting neurologist in ICU put a stop to that upon learning she had memory problems, a change of personality, and hadn’t been able to run her business since August. He couldn’t rule out CJD . As it turned out, he was correct.
“Can you imagine if she’d donated her organs?” asked Zol. “We’d be looking at half a dozen more cases at least.”
Natasha closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“When you’re ready, Natasha, tell us about the fourth case,” said Zol.
“This one is really sad. She was only twenty-seven.”
Tonya Latkovic, a high-school math teacher, had been referred to Caledonian’s psychiatric clinic during the summer because of depression and forgetfulness. Except for a history of migraine headaches, she had always been healthy and vivacious. She showed no response to antidepressants, and when she couldn’t face returning to her classroom in September she was put on stress leave. In the middle of the night of October thirty-first she wandered off from the home she shared with her parents. The next day she was found dead at the bottom of the Escarpment.
Natasha fingered the iridescent black opal pendant she wore every day. Its teardrop shape seemed to glow of its own accord. “The
Spectator
published an interview with the woman who found the body while she was walking her dog. I remember reading it and thinking . . .” She clutched her arms to her chest.
Hamish shifted his chair closer to the table. “What did the autopsy show?”
“A fractured femur,” Natasha said. “She bled to death from a fractured femur. I didn’t know that could happen.”
Hamish raised his index finger to its professorial position. “Oh, yes,” he said, “it’s
classic
.”
Natasha looked at Zol and held his gaze, then lifted her eyebrows again as they covertly shared their understanding of the quirky young professor. “And of course,” she continued, “it showed CJD with tulip plaques, just like the others.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. Zol hoped it was Max or Ermalinda saying they’d seen their movie and were on the way home. No such luck. It was Peter Trinnock.
“So, Zol, how are things on the CJD business?”
Zol cleared his throat. “Banbury has just reported four newcases. We’re reviewing them now. Planning our strategy for the weekend.”
“You’ll have to do a lot more than plan. And who’s
we
?”
“Natasha and Hamish Wakefield.”
“Natasha who? Oh yes, the new girl. Why do you have her on the case? Why not Gibson? He’s got a lot more experience.”
“She’s got the nose for this sort of
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