Free Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page B

findings. The voice recognition software would have transcribed it into her computer by now. She’d edit it later.
    â€œBut he was a pot grower, a druggie. He had to—”
    â€œ Used to be a druggie,” Laura said. “And a big-time user at that.”
    â€œHow big?”
    â€œVery big. A ton of old track marks, and look at this.”
    She took a probe and stuck it in the corpse’s left nostril. It came out the right.
    Phil gave an uneasy laugh. “I’ll be.” Then he popped his neck.
    â€œThis was one hard-core user with emphasis on the past tense: was . All the scars are old. We tapped his bladder and ran a quick seven-drug screen on his urine. Not a trace of anything. But that’s not the real problem. What’s got me stumped is that hard-core IV users ruin their veins, yet his show no sign of sclerosis. And they inevitably pick up a variety of infections along the way, like hep-B, hep-C, HIV that cause all sorts of organ damage, especially to the liver. This guy’s liver is like a baby’s. I haven’t seen the slides yet, but I bet they’ll be clean.”
    The deputy was looking a little seasick. “And the rest of him?”
    â€œJust like the previous. No apparent cause of death beyond cardiac arrest of unknown etiology.”
    â€œDon’t you find that just a little strange?”
    Laura had to laugh. “A little? I find it a lot strange. I’ve never seen an adult body with perfect internal organs. There’s always something wrong. But to find two adult males—drug growers to boot—back to back with pristine organs?” She shook her head. “Uh-uh. That’s … that’s almost science fiction. That’s getting into X-Files territory.”
    An exaggeration … she hoped.
    â€œAnd those tattoos…”
    â€œRight. I’ve got something on those.” She whipped the sheet back over the corpse. “My office.”
    After shedding their protective wear, she led him up to the top floor. A hand-lettered sign on the wall next to her office door read WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE. An old joke, but she’d left it there because it was so apropos.
    â€œWow,” Phil said, staring at her array of tropical plants as he entered. She’d never invited him up before. “That sign isn’t kidding.”
    Half a dozen lush ferns of varying sizes— Achrostichum, Dicksonia, and other species—rimmed her office. Her window faced east, allowing the plants to feast on the morning sun and bathe in filtered light the rest of the day. Dr. Henniger, the CME, liked the department on the warm side year-round, so all Laura had to do was keep the plants watered and they grew like crazy.
    â€œThey’re all from Mesoamerica,” she said as she moved behind her desk and awaited the inevitable question.
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    Right on cue.
    â€œRoughly central Mexico down to Costa Rica.”
    She motioned to the chair on the far side of her desk. As Phil doffed his Stetson and seated himself, she wiggled her mouse to wake her computer.
    â€œOne of the assistants here is a graphic artist on the side, works with photos … manipulates them every which way. I gave him a couple of high-res shots of the burn vic’s back to see if he could clean them up some way that would bring out the tattoo.” She opened a desktop folder and clicked on the first jpeg icon. “Here’s the best he could do.”
    A rectangle of burned skin appeared with the tattoo vaguely visible. She clicked the NEXT arrow and the same image appeared except that the tattoo had been outlined in yellow, showing the snake, the staff, and the comet. It also showed a horizontal line through the middle.
    Next she opened a photo of the second vic’s back. No photo tricks needed on this one: all the same elements, except the line here was angled, running through four o’clock and ten