Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page A

didn’t think they were around anymore.”
    â€œThey never went away.”
    â€œThey’re still in Mexico?”
    â€œNot Mexico—Mesoamerica.”
    â€œStrange how things keep repeating themselves here.”
    â€œMore than strange. Downright eerie.”
    A tap on her doorframe made her look up. A sixtyish woman stood there holding a folder. Highlighted hair in a short bob, face prematurely aged from sun exposure, she had a runner’s physique with thin, tanned arms poking out of a sleeveless blouse.
    Doctor Susan Henniger, Chief Medical Examiner for Suffolk County.
    â€œSorry to interrupt.”
    Deputy Lawson, ever the gentleman, leaped to his feet. He knew the CME—he seemed to know everyone—and they exchanged a few pleasantries.
    â€œI’m checking up on those two dead pot growers,” he told her, then popped his neck.
    Henniger flinched. Obviously she’d never heard him do that.
    â€œOh, um … yes.” She turned to Laura. “Were you able to establish a cause of death on the second?”
    â€œSame as the first, I’m afraid: extremely healthy and no detectable trauma.”
    The chief ME’s usually flat expression turned dour. “That’s not acceptable.”
    â€œI’m well aware of that. Let’s hope the myocardium slides shed some light.”
    â€œYes, let’s.”
    She’s ticked, Laura thought. She wants answers and I don’t have them.
    â€œIn the meantime, we have a new arrival. I know you’d rather not do children but we have no one else available.”
    Posting a child always got to Laura and she ducked it whenever possible.
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œEight. MVA.”
    She shuddered—just a little—as she took the folder. Marissa’s age. At least a car accident vic wouldn’t be an involved case. Head or visceral trauma. A quick in and out.
    Henniger added, “And besides, the mother asked for you.”
    â€œWhat? Really? Why?”
    â€œHaven’t the faintest. At least the cause of death on this one won’t stump you,” Henniger said pointedly, then turned and left.
    Laura peeked inside the folder. Tommy Cochran? Why did that name sound familiar?
    â€œA real sweetie, that one,” Phil remarked after Henniger was gone.
    â€œShe can’t help it. It’s not an easy job. Everyone wants a cause of death yesterday.”
    â€œOr the day before,” Phil said. “Gotta get moving. Tell you what. Do me a favor: Scan that photo and see if you can pinpoint the location of the plants.”
    Laura already knew it was taken on the Yucatán Peninsula, but she said nothing. Her office printer was a three-in-one, so she scanned the photo and returned it to Lawson.
    â€œGreat,” he said. “I’ll crop the girl out and see if one of the papers’ll run it. Maybe someone’ll recognize him. And can I get copies of those tat photos? And the 536 on his palm? And a little case summary if you’ve got one. I’ll need to show them to the gang task force. Maybe someone has seen something like them.”
    â€œSure. I’ll email them.”
    When he was gone, Laura returned to the folder on the young MVA vic. She read the name again.
    Tommy Cochran … slowly it came to her. She did know a Tommy Cochran. She checked the address. Mastic. Yes, that would be about right.
    When Marissa had first fallen ill, her initial diagnosis of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis was soon proved wrong, but not before Laura met Tommy and his mother through a rheumatologist. Tommy’s JRA had been well along by then.
    She read further.
    â€œâ€¦ struck by a truck while riding a bicycle…”
    Riding a bike? The Tommy Cochran she’d met couldn’t even walk.

 
    6
    â€œI left the house and the panacean in your hands,” Nelson said, pacing his office. It looked much like Pickens’s, only half the size. He fought to keep from