research do you do?”
Alex wet his lips with his tongue. “I study the stressed brain … the brain in trauma, in oxygen deprivation, at the boundary between life and death.”
“Is this theoretical? Practical?”
“Well, this is a medical school. I’m a pediatric neurologist. I split my time between patient care and research. My grant funding points toward the discovery of new drugs for brain injury; but it is fundamental thanatobiology—the biology of death—that really gets my motor running. Death isn’t instantaneous, you know. We’re complex machines, and when we shut down, a lot happens in specific sequences at a cellular and molecular level. By understanding death, maybe we’ll get a better understanding of life.”
Cyrus raised his eyebrows. “If you say so. What kind of people go to your salon?”
“All types: biologists, psychologists, philosophy students, dilettantes, a theologian or two.”
“Thomas was a nurse. What did he bring?”
“Thomas was an interesting man, very astute. He wasn’t all that book smart, yet his line of work made him a keen observer of life and death. He held his own in debates with PhDs.”
“What is it you debate about?”
“This is relevant to Thomas’s murder, how?” Cyrus was staring back at him icily, prompting Alex to add, “I’m just asking.”
“I’m not sure it is, I’m not sure it isn’t,” Cyrus said evenly. “A guy’s got a fascination with death, his last cell phone call is to another guy who’s got the same interest and he winds up dead. I don’t know … call me crazy for being curious.”
“Just as long as you don’t think I had anything to do with it,” Alex said with forced cheeriness. “We debate many things: What should we read into the differences in cross-cultural beliefs in life after death? Does God exist—that’s a biggie. Why are so-called near death experiences so similar by description across multiple cultures? Is there a biological basis for them or should we be looking toward spirituality? We ask large questions and after lively discussion, we come up with small answers, which guarantees we’ll be talking for a very long time.”
Cyrus slipped into a higher gear and asked a series of rapid-fire questions. Did Thomas have any serious conflicts with members of the group? Could he get a list of members? Did Thomas have any enemies? Did Alex know whether he engaged in illicit activities? What did he know about Thomas’s relationship with Davis Fox?
Alex’s short, bland answers added nothing. Then Cyrus caught him off guard with, “Do you know any prostitutes?”
Alex finally pulled his feet off the desk. “What?”
“Prostitutes. Know any? Use any?”
For the first time, Alex got surly. “Absolutely not! I’ve got a girlfriend. Why are you asking me that?”
Cyrus’s mobile rang. He was going to ignore it but the caller ID said MARIAN so he picked up, listened to her then said, “I’m just down the street from Children’s. I can meet you there in ten minutes.”
He put the phone away. “I’ve got to take off. Thank you for your time, Doctor Weller. I may need to talk with you again.”
Alex rose, momentarily towering over him until Cyrus stood himself. Alex’s anger over the last question seemed to have dissipated and he said in a quiet, almost pastoral voice, “You’re going to Children’s Hospital?”
Cyrus put his coat back on and didn’t answer.
“Do you have a sick child?”
Cyrus found himself nodding. There was an odd expression on Weller’s face. He reached into the breast pocket of a white lab coat hanging on a nearby hook. There was a stack of three-by-five cards stamped with names and scribbled with notes. He rifled through them like he waslooking for jokers in a deck before plucking out one card. Cyrus couldn’t imagine what he was up to.
“Your daughter’s name isn’t Tara O’Malley, is it?”
It was like getting hit in the gut by a thick piece of wood. Cyrus felt
Alex wet his lips with his tongue. “I study the stressed brain … the brain in trauma, in oxygen deprivation, at the boundary between life and death.”
“Is this theoretical? Practical?”
“Well, this is a medical school. I’m a pediatric neurologist. I split my time between patient care and research. My grant funding points toward the discovery of new drugs for brain injury; but it is fundamental thanatobiology—the biology of death—that really gets my motor running. Death isn’t instantaneous, you know. We’re complex machines, and when we shut down, a lot happens in specific sequences at a cellular and molecular level. By understanding death, maybe we’ll get a better understanding of life.”
Cyrus raised his eyebrows. “If you say so. What kind of people go to your salon?”
“All types: biologists, psychologists, philosophy students, dilettantes, a theologian or two.”
“Thomas was a nurse. What did he bring?”
“Thomas was an interesting man, very astute. He wasn’t all that book smart, yet his line of work made him a keen observer of life and death. He held his own in debates with PhDs.”
“What is it you debate about?”
“This is relevant to Thomas’s murder, how?” Cyrus was staring back at him icily, prompting Alex to add, “I’m just asking.”
“I’m not sure it is, I’m not sure it isn’t,” Cyrus said evenly. “A guy’s got a fascination with death, his last cell phone call is to another guy who’s got the same interest and he winds up dead. I don’t know … call me crazy for being curious.”
“Just as long as you don’t think I had anything to do with it,” Alex said with forced cheeriness. “We debate many things: What should we read into the differences in cross-cultural beliefs in life after death? Does God exist—that’s a biggie. Why are so-called near death experiences so similar by description across multiple cultures? Is there a biological basis for them or should we be looking toward spirituality? We ask large questions and after lively discussion, we come up with small answers, which guarantees we’ll be talking for a very long time.”
Cyrus slipped into a higher gear and asked a series of rapid-fire questions. Did Thomas have any serious conflicts with members of the group? Could he get a list of members? Did Thomas have any enemies? Did Alex know whether he engaged in illicit activities? What did he know about Thomas’s relationship with Davis Fox?
Alex’s short, bland answers added nothing. Then Cyrus caught him off guard with, “Do you know any prostitutes?”
Alex finally pulled his feet off the desk. “What?”
“Prostitutes. Know any? Use any?”
For the first time, Alex got surly. “Absolutely not! I’ve got a girlfriend. Why are you asking me that?”
Cyrus’s mobile rang. He was going to ignore it but the caller ID said MARIAN so he picked up, listened to her then said, “I’m just down the street from Children’s. I can meet you there in ten minutes.”
He put the phone away. “I’ve got to take off. Thank you for your time, Doctor Weller. I may need to talk with you again.”
Alex rose, momentarily towering over him until Cyrus stood himself. Alex’s anger over the last question seemed to have dissipated and he said in a quiet, almost pastoral voice, “You’re going to Children’s Hospital?”
Cyrus put his coat back on and didn’t answer.
“Do you have a sick child?”
Cyrus found himself nodding. There was an odd expression on Weller’s face. He reached into the breast pocket of a white lab coat hanging on a nearby hook. There was a stack of three-by-five cards stamped with names and scribbled with notes. He rifled through them like he waslooking for jokers in a deck before plucking out one card. Cyrus couldn’t imagine what he was up to.
“Your daughter’s name isn’t Tara O’Malley, is it?”
It was like getting hit in the gut by a thick piece of wood. Cyrus felt
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