Coma

“Please. I’m expecting a call. Please don’t use the phone for just a few moments.” Susan stood up, beseeching the stubbly-faced man.

“Sorry, sister, got to use the phone.” The man picked up the receiver and reached up to drop in his dime.

For the first time in her life, Susan lost all semblance of control or rationality.

“No!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, causing every head in the diner to snap around in her direction. To emphasize her determination, Susan clasped her two hands together, the fingers interlocking, and brought them up swiftly, hitting the man’s forearms. The surprisingly fast blow knocked both the receiver and the dime from his grasp. With her hands still clasped, Susan brought them down so that the heels of her hands hit the man on the forehead and the bridge of his nose. It sent the surprised individual stumbling backward into the edge of a booth. Almost in slow motion, he sank to a sitting position, his feet outstretched. The suddenness and the fury of the attack had left him momentarily dumbfounded, and he didn’t move.

Susan quickly replaced the receiver on the phone, holding onto it, closing her eyes tightly, hoping it would ring. It did. It was Stark. Susan tried to contain herself in the surroundings, but the words bubbled out of her.

“Dr. Stark, this is Susan Wheeler. I have the answers ... all of them.

It’s unbelievable, really it is.”

“Calm down, Susan. What do you mean you have all the answers?”

Stark’s voice was reassuring and calm.

“I have a motive; I have both the method and a motive.”

“Susan, you’re talking in riddles.”

“The coma patients. They’re not accidental complications. They’re planned. When I was doing the chart extractions, I found out that all the victims had been tissue-typed.”

Susan paused, remembering how Bellows had talked her out of attaching any significance to the tissue-typing,

“Go on, Susan,” said Dr. Stark.

“Well, I didn’t give it any significance. But I do now. Now that I’ve been to the Jefferson Institute.”

Saying the name made Susan look around the diner suspiciously. Now most of the eyes in the place were directed at her. But no one moved.

Susan withdrew into the alcove by the restrooms, cupping her hand over the receiver.

“I know it will sound incredible, but the Jefferson Institute is a clearinghouse for black-market transplant organs. Somehow these people get orders for organs with a specific tissue type. Then whoever runs the show reaches around in the hospitals here in Boston till they find patients with the proper type. If it’s a surgical patient, they merely add a little carbon monoxide to his anesthesia. If it’s a medical patient he—or she—gets a shot of succinylcholine in his I.V. The victim’s upper brain is destroyed. He’s a living corpse, but his organs are alive and warm and happy until they can be taken out by the butchers at the Institute.”

“Susan, that’s an incredible story,” said Stark. He sounded stunned. “Do you think you can prove this?”

“That’s one of the problems. If there is a big fuss—say the police were brought to Jefferson Institute for a look-see—they probably have a contingency plan to cover up. The place masquerades as an intensive-care hospital. Besides, both, carbon monoxide and the succinylcholine are metabolized quickly in the victim’s bodies, leaving no trace whatsoever.

The only way to break up the organization behind these crimes is for someone like yourself to convince the authorities to make a real surprise raid on the place.”

“That might be an idea, Susan,” said Stark. “But I’d have to hear the particulars that brought you to your fantastic conclusions. Are you in any danger now? I can come and pick you up.”

“No, I’m all right,” said Susan, glancing into the diner. “It would be easier if I met you somewhere. I can catch a cab.”

“Fine. Meet me at my office in the Memorial. I’ll leave immediately.”

“I’ll be there.” Susan was about to hang up.

“Susan, one more thing. If what you say is true, then secrecy is tremendously important. Don’t say anything to anybody until we’ve talked.”

“Agreed. See you in a few minutes.”

Replacing the receiver, Susan looked up a cab company. She used her last dime to order a cab. She gave the name Shirley Walton. They said it would take ten minutes.

Dr. Harold Stark lived in Weston, along with nine-tenths of Boston’s other doctors. He had a sprawling Tudor house which also boasted a Victorian library. After speaking with Susan, he replaced the receiver on the phone on top of his desk. Then he pulled open the right-hand drawer and extracted a second phone, a phone carefully maintained and checked electronically for any additional resistance or interference. It could not be tapped without Stark’s knowledge. He dialed quickly, watching the tiny oscilloscope in the drawer. It functioned normally.

In the control room of the Jefferson Institute a manicured man, slight of build, reached for the ringing red telephone.