Human Remains Read online

  Susan sighed and glanced back at Tom. "Dr. Zinser and Dr. Hay might find it very crowded in the conference room."

  I was halfway in. I knew it. Sometimes, it's easier to charm the gatekeeper's gatekeeper. I smiled sweetly and let Susan return to Tom's side to do her magic. She returned, shaking her head, and said, "He said you could bring the Timbits. It's a tradition for students to take turns bringing the food to lab meetings."

  Timbits are doughnut holes, cheap and ubiquitous food in the ER. "Should I get a box of fifty?"

  "Maybe, to be safe," she said, and I rushed back out the door to the elevators. I'd have to phone Susan to let me in without a badge, but that and Timbits were a small price to pay. I should have brought some on the first day as a pre-emptive "thank you for having me." Shoot. I'm really bad at stuff like that.

  Twenty minutes later, Susan got first crack at the box of Timbits. She bent over, wincing a little. Ouch. I never want to get old. I noticed that she chose the glazed strawberry cake ones that are one of my favourites. The jelly ones can get messy, and the chocolates don't actually taste like chocolate.

  Susan guided me into a conference room on the left where maybe a dozen people milled around, holding cups of coffee and looking serious. Most of them were my age, or within a decade, so the older ones stuck out. Tom, with his white hair. A sixty-ish-year-old Chinese man wearing a shiny grey suit, whose eyes immediately went to the box of Timbits before he shook his head, dismissing them. A slim white lady, of about the same vintage, in a white pants suit, classy and intimidating, with sharp brown eyes. When she saw me, she frowned, Timbits notwithstanding.

  Susan murmured, "Dr. Judith Hay is the head of virology. I'll introduce you."

  We made our way toward the pantsuited Dr. Hay. I could hear Susan breathing heavily beside me, and I slowed down my walk for her. We weaved through the crowd as Dr. Hay watched us, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Like Tom, her hair was pure white, but hers was cut into a severe bob. In contrast to her white separates, she was wearing well-polished black shoes with a low heel. I moved to shake her hand, belatedly remembering the box in my hands, which I set on the oval faux-mahogany table, along with a small pile of paper napkins.

  Dr. Hay shook my hand firmly, but she was studying my face and listening to my name. She said, "Doctor Sze." She pronounced it like the letter C, which was close enough. "You were the one who found him."

  "I did," I said, fighting the urge to cross my arms behind my back.

  She tilted her head. Unlike Tom, her knee jerk response wasn't to banish me. She thought I was an interesting specimen. "We'll have to talk," she said. "Thank you, Susan."

  Dr. Hay shoved the box of Timbits toward the centre of the table and clapped her hands. "Is everybody present? It's eleven o'clock."

  There weren't enough seats, so I stood against a wall while most of the people got a chair at the table, Tom and the older Chinese man among them. A few more sank into the chairs against the wall, including the half-Asian woman, who got a chair that was too close to the screen. The Strumbellas guy got a better chair, off to her left.

  Dr. Hay raised her voice. "This was supposed to be a lab meeting, but today we'll hold a memorial. As most of you know, we lost one of our members most tragically yesterday."

  She touched the laptop next to her, and the projector sprang to life, showing a picture of a handsome young man, probably in his late twenties like me, although sometimes it's hard to tell with black skin. As one of my black friends put it, "Black don't crack and Asian don't raisin."

  Lawrence's hair was cropped close to the skull. He had direct brown eyes, espresso skin, a broad nose, and an elegant neck. He wasn't smiling, but he was handsome in a "can't touch this" sort of a way, which is like Kryptonite to some women. Even I found it hard to look away from his picture.

  "Dr. Lawrence Acayo was born in Uganda. He had obtained his undergraduate degree from Oxford and a Ph.D. from Stanford University. He had begun post-doctoral work at Sunshine University in Miami before we recruited him. You may be familiar with his research with Dr. Kanade involving the pathologic avian H5N1 influenza viruses."

  Hang on. "Pathologic" meant deadly. And "avian" meant bird. Dr. Acayo was working on bird flu? I didn't know that. Of course, I didn't know who he was until this morning.

  "He was also extremely proud to be part of Dr. Kanade's team as they generated new viruses combining the H5 haemagglutinin gene with the pandemic 2009 H1N1 influenza virus's remaining genes."

  My brain fuzzed out as soon as she said haemagglutinin, but I did remember that outbreak of "swine flu." Six people died in the Ottawa area, including a brilliant chemistry professor.

  My neck prickled. Dr. Acayo wasn't a random Ph.D. He was someone who'd researched deadly viruses. Coincidence, or something that had caused his death?

  I didn't get up and yell about it, because not only was that deeply uncool, but everyone else was nodding like this was par. Yeah, yeah, killer viruses, whatevs. One of the guys started rummaging in the Timbit box.

  My heart rate slowed down a tad while I surveyed their faces. There's a study showing that most of us respond to a situation based on other people's reactions. In that study, they simulated smoke, and if you were alone, you would report a potential fire, but if other people in the room seemed calm, you would subconsciously assume it was okay, even if the smoke was so hazy that you couldn't make out their faces. By the same token, if this group thought killer viruses were normal, I couldn't help thinking I should chill out.

  Dr. Hay was still talking. "Lawrence arrived in September. He said he wasn't looking forward to his first Canadian winter."

  Everyone laughed politely. I remembered the sheen of his jacket.

  He hadn't had a chance to wear it much before he'd died.

  "In the spirit of diversity, Ottawa University chose Dr. Acayo as part of their Students of the World campaign. They made the following video and said we could play it in his honour."

  I had to smile when she cued up the cheesy music and intro, but I sobered when Lawrence looked at the camera and said, "Coming to Ottawa University is a dream come true."

  It was the first time I'd seen him alive and moving. He was better-looking than in his picture. He was one of those people who wasn't only the sum of his facial features. His animation, his personality and intelligence, made me sit up straighter, especially when he cracked a smile.

  A male narrator intoned, "Ottawa University is thrilled to welcome Lawrence to our virology lab, headed by Dr. Judith Hay," while the video showed Lawrence suited up in the lab with safety glasses and a lab coat, using a pipette, which is sort of like a fancy needleless syringe used to measure liquid precisely and transport it within the lab.

  Then the video switched to Lawrence accepting an award from an older white guy wearing ceremonial robes, probably Lawrence's Ph.D. graduation.

  Now Lawrence stared at the camera directly. "When I was a little boy in Kampala, I dreamed about doing this kind of research while making a safe home for my family."

  I sat up straighter. He had a family? Did he mean his family of origin, or—

  Nope. The camera cut to a black woman with a good-sized 'fro, a look I love. She beamed at the camera and said, "We love Canada. It's so safe."

  I flinched. That's the stereotype. But it wasn't safe for Lawrence. Did she regret coming here? What was happening to her? Even if she wanted to work here, she might not have the right visa, and now her husband was dead.

  I heard a murmur from the doorway and turned. People were whispering and glancing at a figure less than fifteen feet away. Two people got up and blocked my view, but I glimpsed a black woman advancing slowly but purposefully toward us.

  Chapter 9

  The woman didn't look like an obvious threat, but Susan was hurrying toward her, trying to catch her arm and slow her down.

  The audience glanced at the scene behind us rather than at the video.

  Dr. Hay's phone buzzed. She reached for it to read
a text. Her shoulders stiffened. She swivelled around in her chair and stood up.

  I edged toward the back of the room. Toward the door. True, it meant I was moving closer to the intruder, but I was also three steps closer to freedom. A crucial difference when you've been trapped with a lunatic before.

  Someone stopped the video. Another turned on the lights.

  The intruder woman reared back on her heels at the fluorescent beam, but she leaned forward again, glaring at the entire room from the doorway. I was close enough that I could see the sheen of sweat on her face, and I thought, Angry. No, that word wasn't strong enough.

  She was clearly Lawrence's wife. Her onscreen face was frozen with her eyes closed, but the resemblance to the live woman was unmistakable: round face even rounder in real life, big, beautiful eyes, chocolate skin (lighter than Lawrence's, but not an extreme difference, if you care about that kind of stuff). She was wearing a long, loose midnight blue dress that covered her arms and trailed the ground, but her salt-stained black boots poked out the bottom, which gave me a jolt of recognition.

  Susan reached the doorway a minute later, mouthing her apologies, although we were all watching Mrs. Acayo, who said, in a loud, rolling, musical voice, "Thank you."

  No one replied. Why was she thanking us, when she was clearly one step away from going postal?

  "Thank you, Dr. Hay, for inviting me to this tribute you set up for my husband. Of course, I didn't receive the invitation until only forty minutes ago."

  Dr. Hay walked across the room and reached for Mrs. Acayo's shoulder, although her hand fell away before she made contact. "I apologize for that. We decided to turn this lab meeting into a tribute, as you say, but it took a while for my assistant to find your contact information. Would you like to join us?" She gestured toward her own seat, her red nails catching the light, and Tom, the pothead guy, and half a dozen other people immediately stood up to offer her theirs. Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor in a blunt chorus.

  Mrs. Acayo surveyed the room, studying our faces. She paused on mine, startling me. I was a no-name lab temporary worker standing against a wall. Why would I interest her?

  Her eyes narrowed, gauging my reaction, and I remembered how transparent I'd felt in front of the police officers. I would have to learn how to mask my feelings if I was going to survive.

  I took a deeeeeeeeeep breath, squared my shoulders, and tried to look sympathetic, respectful, and like I had nothing to hide.

  Mrs. Acayo inspected me for another beat before she analyzed the next face. And the next.

  Some people's hands twitched as she scrutinized us. Pothead and DemiAsian exchanged a quick side glance. Mrs. Acayo was making us all uncomfortable, but you can't stop a widow from doing whatever she wants the day after her husband dies.

  Tom gestured at his chair again, but Mrs. Acayo tromped toward Dr. Hay's and held on both chair arms as she sank into it, her breath escaping in a soft sigh.

  Tom offered his chair to Dr. Hay, which made me like the guy. Still, I felt a bit uncomfortable when he migrated toward the back wall to stand closer to me.

  I sidled over to make room for him. Tom smiled at me. I tried to smile back.

  Mrs. Acayo reached for Dr. Hay's Mac laptop, which gave us another collective shudder—thou shalt not touch thy neighbour's computer without permission—and pressed play on the video.

  Mrs. Acayo's onscreen image opened her eyes and smiled before it/she said, "I heard you can go skating on the river. Lawrence and I can't wait."

  I bit the inside of my lip, where I thought no one could see. Of course Lawrence could and did wait. Forever. Lawrence would never lace up a pair of skates and glide on the iced-over Ottawa River, and even if Mrs. Acayo made it there, she wouldn't be holding hands with her dead husband, unless we were speaking figuratively.

  While the closing credits sang a chorus for Ottawa University and diversity, Mrs. Acayo shut off the video and plunked back into her seat. Her spine slumped before she yanked herself upright.

  Dr. Hay did her best to pat her on the shoulder. "Would you— would you like a Timbit?"

  Someone laughed and tried to stifle it, but Dr. Hay glared around the room so ferociously that we all fell silent.

  Tom cleared his throat. "Refreshments would be a good idea.

  Perhaps some coffee?"

  DemiAsian rose to pour a cup for Mrs. Acayo. A short, Middle Eastern- looking guy laid a napkin out for her. The older Asian man opened the Timbit box and placed it in front of her without actually forcing her to take one. I stood by the wall, waiting for it to be over, until Mrs. Acayo said, "I don't understand what happened."

  "It does seem to be a mystery," said Dr. Hay, who looked like she'd rather be researching frog spawn.

  "He was supposed to come home. He was working here. He texted me to say he'd be late. He never came home." The hurt in her voice transfixed us. DemiAsian stood by her side, not wanting to interrupt by setting the cup of coffee down.

  "I made supper for him. He loves to eat, even though he's so skinny. He told me he could buy some Creole food on his way home. I said, 'Don't be silly. I make food that is better and more healthy and cheaper. Just come on home.'" She pushed against the table. Her voice rose plaintively on the last word.

  I was calculating. If she was making supper for Lawrence, she probably expected him home anywhere from five to eight p.m. It was possible that they dined late, but probably not around 9:45, which was when we found his body.

  How long had he been missing?

  Were the police interviewing Mrs. Acayo? I've heard they always ask the partner first, and she did seem a little off, although grief can make you deranged. I should know.

  "My friends want me to stay home and drink tea." As if that were a cue, DemiAsian placed the coffee in front of Mrs. Acayo and stepped backward. Mrs. Acayo gave her a level look that was neither thankful nor accusing. More assessing.

  DemiAsian blushed. She was paler-skinned than me, so the vasodilation was more obvious. I noticed her slightly sharp nose, another inheritance from her white side, before she crossed her arms over her most impressive asset, her D-cups. (I had to guess at the measurements, but they were certainly at least four times my size.)

  Mrs. Acayo shook her head and turned back to Dr. Hay, sagging into her seat again. "I can't stay home. I want to help."

  Of course her husband was beyond help, but I sympathized. When I wasn't completely drained and numb with shock/grief/PTSD, I got these weird bursts of energy. Agitation, my therapist, Denis, called it. I tried to explain to Denis that I was always like that, that was how I got through med school, but mostly, he told me to breeeeeeeeeathe, which sounds even funnier with a French accent.

  Tom said, "Maybe you could meet some friends. Or there might be a bereavement organization through the hospital or university."

  Dr. Hay stood up. "Excellent idea. I'll contact them immediately." She cut out of the room so swiftly that I felt the breeze on my skin. She did not make eye contact with me or anyone else.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to another. Presumably Ottawa did have some sort of bereavement program, but how fast could they get here? In the meantime, were we all going to sit here with Mrs. Acayo? It was only 11:22, but felt like aeons.

  "Perhaps," Tom said slowly, "one of our members could stay with you and make you feel more at ease."

  I stopped shifting. There was only one superfluous person at his lab. The one who'd already been told she should go off and get her passes instead of working.

  I understood his logic. There was no point in keeping two entire labs stuck in a meeting room. Better to have one person play babysitter.

  Did he know I was the one who'd found Lawrence? Only if Susan had passed him the memo.

  First Tom looked at DemiAsian, who shook her head minutely. Pothead coughed; he didn't look too nurturing.

  Next was a white guy with what I call Jesus hair, long and wavy and brown and past his shoulders, as well as eyes set a
little far apart and a slightly blank expression. He didn't seem to recognize what Tom was asking for.

  The Chinese man who looked to be in his sixties pushed his glasses up his nose. His grey suit had an unfashionable sheen to it, but that and his neatly-knotted red tie seemed to declare a lack of interest even before he gave a short but definitive head-shake.

  The short, handsome, Middle Eastern-looking man stood up. He wore a kind smile, and I liked the way his purple tie contrasted with his black suit. "I can help. My name is Dr. Samir Al-Sani. I work at Dr. Zinser's laboratory, next door to Dr. Hay."

  Mrs. Acayo grabbed the table so hard that her fingertips blanched. "Who are you?"

  "I'm Dr. Al-Sani. Samir," he repeated, but he was glancing at Tom, uncertain. "I'm a post-doctoral fellow and recent recipient of the Banting and Best Postdoctoral Fellowship for my work on Lymphangioleiomyomatosis."

  I wanted to laugh. Poor guy. Even with a widow, he had to trot out his academic credentials. But I'd stayed silent long enough. I might be the only person in the room who knew what it felt like to have death stalk people on either side of me.

  I crossed the floor to Mrs. Acayo's right side, the side with the cooling coffee. I took my time and made noise so that she could hear me coming.

  She turned slightly toward me, her hands falling off the table and into her lap.

  I said, "We're very sorry for your loss. My name is Hope Sze."

  Her eyes homed in on me. She slowly observed the landscape of my face, noting my brow, my eyes, my lips, my chin. I wasn't sure what she was searching for, but I let her examine me in silence. I had nothing to hide.

  At last, when her eyes returned to mine, I said, "I started working at the lab today, so I hadn't met your husband here"—I stumbled a little on the last word. I hadn't met him alive and in the lab, was what I meant— "but that was a lovely video you did with him. I bet you would have liked to skate on the canal together."

  She opened her mouth. I braced for her first words, like, I know who you are. Why didn't you save my husband's life?