She nodded. “The case drew nationwide attention because of its use of DNA testing. B negative blood was found at the scene—the same blood type as Betsy Jackson’s husband, Kevin. But Kevin Jackson’s attorneys claimed that many people had B negative blood and thus the evidence meant nothing.”
“I remember it now,” Harvey said. “Didn’t the DNA test prove that the blood found at the scene was a perfect match with Kevin Jackson’s?”
“Yes. When Jackson’s attorney tried to question the validity of the test, the prosecution came back with evidence that proved DNA testing was 99.7 percent accurate.”
“So what does this have to do with Bruce Grey?”
“Suppose,” she continued, “that Bruce wanted to compare the two blood samples from the same patient and see if they matched.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he had some reason to believe that the blood in the vials labeled A would not match the blood in the vials labeled B. Maybe he thought that someone had tampered—”
“Whoa, slow down a minute, Sara. I explained to you and Lieutenant Bernstein that there were always two of us handling the blood. It would be impossible to tamper with the blood samples.”
“But there is something else to consider,” Sara said. “Eric took blood from Michael without your knowledge.”
“So?”
“So he could have done it other times. Bruce could have done it too.”
“To what end?”
“I’m not sure, but there has to be a connection here somehow. First, Bruce sends himself blood samples with instructions about DNA testing. Then Eric takes a blood sample from Michael in direct defiance of your rules.”
“So? You’re not suggesting that Eric is somehow involved in all of this, are you?”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Sara said. “The only way to know for sure is to run a DNA test on the blood samples. Where are they now?”
“The blood specimens? They’re in the lab.”
“Doesn’t Eric have a key to the lab?”
“Of course.”
Sara felt something cold prick at the base of her neck. Her voice sounded distant, hollow. “Is Eric at the clinic right now?
“Yes.”
“You saw him?”
“A little while ago. Why?”
She swallowed. “Did you ask him why he took Michael’s blood without your authority?”
“He said he needed it for treatment verification, that’s all.”
“And you believed him?”
Harvey looked at her. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Has Eric ever done anything like this before?”
Pause. “No,” Harvey said slowly. “Never.”
She stood. “We have to get to the lab.”
“Why?”
“Eric could be in there destroying the evidence.”
“Evidence? Sara, what are you talking about?”
“The blood samples,” she urged. “Why would Bruce have mailed them out hours before he was killed unless they were important? Harvey, listen to me: somebody murdered Bruce to get that package.”
Harvey opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.
“Damn!” He stood and ran toward the door.
“What is it?” she asked.
Harvey stopped, turned, and told her the awful truth. “Eric is in the lab right now.”
RALPH Edmund was standing over a corpse, biting down on a souvlaki, when Max stumbled into the morgue.
“Willie said you wanted to speak with me?”
Ralph looked up. The juices from the souvlaki spilled out of the pita bread, down his gloved hands and onto his arms.
“Hand me a napkin, will ya, Twitch?”
“Where are they?”
He signaled with his elbow, trying to hold back the gushing souvlaki. “Over there. Bottom drawer. Hurry—before this shit falls into this guy’s intestines.”
Max fetched the napkins and brought them to Ralph, his eyes averted from the still form on the table. Max was not good with corpses, and down here a casual glance was always an unpleasant surprise. An accident victim with no face. A homeless man found gnawed on by rats. An infant who had fallen from a fourth-floor window.
“Here, hold this.”
Ralph Edmund handed the souvlaki to Max and took hold of the napkins.
“Look, Ralph—”
“Hold up a sec.” Ralph wiped his hands and forearms, changed gloves, and took back the souvlaki. “There, thanks.”
Still fighting off the desire to look down at the corpse, Max said, “Willie told me you had the test results for Riccardo Martino?”
Ralph took another bite and nodded. “When you first asked me to run the tests, I didn’t understand the relevance. It was clear that Martino did not die of something AIDS-related.”
“I know.”
“I mean, AIDS had absolutely nothing to do with the cause of death. But then I saw that report on TV the other night—the one that said Martino and a couple of other guys with AIDS had become HIV negative—and I got to thinking: Twitch is up to something.”
“Ralph, I don’t have the time. Was Martino HIV negative, yes or no?”
Ralph smiled. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“As positive as Martino’s HIV test. I ran two Western blots and two ELISAs just to be certain. If Martino had been cured of AIDS, his tests had a funny way of showing it. I also ran a test on his T cells and the count was dangerously low.”
“Then you’re saying—”
“Riccardo Martino had AIDS.”
Max felt his legs go weak.
“Where’s the phone?”
“Over there.”
Max sprinted, picked up the receiver, dialed the safe house, and waited for Dr. Zry to answer.
Zry answered. “Hello?”
“You get those HIV test results on Krutzer, Leander, and Singer yet?” Max asked.
“Yeah, they check out.”
“All three of the patients are cured.”
“Yep. HIV negative.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Krutzer, Leander, and Singer have all been cured of AIDS. It’s a miracle, Twitch.”
“How do they look to you?”
“Healthy as can be. Just a few side effects from the SR1.”
Max hung up, his mind spinning. Fragments flew about his head, but for the first time Max was able to reach out, grab them, sift through them, and piece the important ones together. The first three cured patients. The blood work. Grey’s patients. Riker’s patients. Eric. Sanders. Sara’s father. The senator. Markey. The blood work, the damn blood work. Martino HIV positive. Krutzer, Leander, Singer HIV negative.