Free Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler Page A
Authors: Allen Wyler
counter to finish his coffee. But now it seemed too strong and bitter, and the mug felt heavy in his hand. Should’ve gotten rid of the damn mug at the same time he got the divorce from Linda Lee. That unfaithful bitch. Jesus, what a clusterfuck this thing was turning into. First the detective, then the doctor …
He took a deep breath and started to go through it again.
So a Seattle doctor in Hong Kong claimed to know the person whose head was used for the dissection. Big deal. That could be handled by simply claiming a case of mistakenidentity. After all, DFH had clean papers on the donor. Who the hell was going to prove it differently? No one.
But then there was the Suburban. Even if someone had seen it near a motel the hooker used, so what? He was no lawyer, but common sense said if that was all the detective knew, he was okay. Still …
Ditto took another sip of coffee, decided it hadn’t improved with age, and went back to the newspaper.
As long as nothing unexpected happened, he’d be all right.
10
H EALTH S CIENCES , U NIVERSITY OF W ASHINGTON
W ENDY DOUBLE-CHECKED THE number to the right of the doorjamb against the one she’d scribbled on a Post-it. A door identical to every other door along both sides of a long echoing hall painted institutional beige. No nameplate, just the alphanumeric TT425 engraved in an eye-level plastic plaque. She knocked.
“You may enter.”
You may enter? She opened the heavy door. “Professor Boynton?”
“That’s right.” He flashed a charming smile of perfect teeth.
He was the polar opposite from what she’d imagined after hearing his voice on the phone. Or maybe she’d been influenced by the title Professor, Department of Biological Structure. She’d envisioned a bald seventy-year-old with Dumbo ears, hunched over an old desk filled with high stacks of papers. Yoda in a white lab coat. Instead, this dude was tall, buff, tan, early forties and wore a Tommy Bahama shirt. Certainly not even close to any professors she’d seen at junior college.
They shook hands, and he pointed to the guest chair and said, “Please.”
The room felt more like a walk-in closet than a professor’s office. Barely enough space for the vintage oak desk, matching guest chair, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A solitarywindow allowed a restricted view of Northeast Pacific Street. That is, if you could see through the thick layer of grime coating the glass. A seventeen-inch laptop on the desk. The faint smell of incense caught her attention.
He took his chair and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “Now what exactly may I do for you?”
During the call, she’d mentioned needing some general information about the medical school’s Willed Body Program but hadn’t delved into particulars. She certainly hadn’t wanted to get into any sensitive questions without a face-to-face conversation. “First, thank you for taking the time to see me, Professor.”
“Call me Bill. Professor sounds too formal.” He flashed another smile.
“Okay, Bill. You’re in charge of the Willed Body Program here at the university?” When she’d Googled willed body program, it popped up with the UW Department of Biological Structure. Boynton’s name was on the site.
“Yes.”
“The information on your website answered a lot of questions, but I still have several more I need answers to.”
“Ask away.”
“It states bodies are used for medical research. What exactly does that mean?”
He pushed the laptop aside, knitted his fingers together, and leaned on the desk, eyeing her in a way that made her want to pinch her blouse collar closed. “Means a lot of things, but probably the most common use is education. Teaching students.” He seemed to savor those words. “I guess in the strictest sense student teaching is not truly research, but inthe more global sense it is. I like to believe that training new professionals is the only way to assure a supply of future researchers. Don’t
He took a deep breath and started to go through it again.
So a Seattle doctor in Hong Kong claimed to know the person whose head was used for the dissection. Big deal. That could be handled by simply claiming a case of mistakenidentity. After all, DFH had clean papers on the donor. Who the hell was going to prove it differently? No one.
But then there was the Suburban. Even if someone had seen it near a motel the hooker used, so what? He was no lawyer, but common sense said if that was all the detective knew, he was okay. Still …
Ditto took another sip of coffee, decided it hadn’t improved with age, and went back to the newspaper.
As long as nothing unexpected happened, he’d be all right.
10
H EALTH S CIENCES , U NIVERSITY OF W ASHINGTON
W ENDY DOUBLE-CHECKED THE number to the right of the doorjamb against the one she’d scribbled on a Post-it. A door identical to every other door along both sides of a long echoing hall painted institutional beige. No nameplate, just the alphanumeric TT425 engraved in an eye-level plastic plaque. She knocked.
“You may enter.”
You may enter? She opened the heavy door. “Professor Boynton?”
“That’s right.” He flashed a charming smile of perfect teeth.
He was the polar opposite from what she’d imagined after hearing his voice on the phone. Or maybe she’d been influenced by the title Professor, Department of Biological Structure. She’d envisioned a bald seventy-year-old with Dumbo ears, hunched over an old desk filled with high stacks of papers. Yoda in a white lab coat. Instead, this dude was tall, buff, tan, early forties and wore a Tommy Bahama shirt. Certainly not even close to any professors she’d seen at junior college.
They shook hands, and he pointed to the guest chair and said, “Please.”
The room felt more like a walk-in closet than a professor’s office. Barely enough space for the vintage oak desk, matching guest chair, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A solitarywindow allowed a restricted view of Northeast Pacific Street. That is, if you could see through the thick layer of grime coating the glass. A seventeen-inch laptop on the desk. The faint smell of incense caught her attention.
He took his chair and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “Now what exactly may I do for you?”
During the call, she’d mentioned needing some general information about the medical school’s Willed Body Program but hadn’t delved into particulars. She certainly hadn’t wanted to get into any sensitive questions without a face-to-face conversation. “First, thank you for taking the time to see me, Professor.”
“Call me Bill. Professor sounds too formal.” He flashed another smile.
“Okay, Bill. You’re in charge of the Willed Body Program here at the university?” When she’d Googled willed body program, it popped up with the UW Department of Biological Structure. Boynton’s name was on the site.
“Yes.”
“The information on your website answered a lot of questions, but I still have several more I need answers to.”
“Ask away.”
“It states bodies are used for medical research. What exactly does that mean?”
He pushed the laptop aside, knitted his fingers together, and leaned on the desk, eyeing her in a way that made her want to pinch her blouse collar closed. “Means a lot of things, but probably the most common use is education. Teaching students.” He seemed to savor those words. “I guess in the strictest sense student teaching is not truly research, but inthe more global sense it is. I like to believe that training new professionals is the only way to assure a supply of future researchers. Don’t