Blind Eye (11 page)

Rancho Bernardo, California

“S
top apologizing, Shawn,” Cynthia Adrian spoke into her cell phone. As she talked, she looked out at the familiar streets. They were only minutes from her house now. “I know how these things are. I'm not mad at you, at all. It wasn't like you were next door and decided not to come to my father's funeral. You're not even in the country.”

“I never realized you had to do everything on your own,” Shawn said from the other end. “Your mother's a beauty.”

“It's fine, love. Helen was being Helen. She was upset. If I'd left it to her, she probably wouldn't have even collected my father's body from the hospital.” Cynthia wasn't exaggerating. “Somehow I managed to survive the week. It's over. I'm home.”

She had arrived at the San Diego airport only a couple of hours earlier. There'd been a driver and a bouquet of flowers waiting for her, both from her fiancé, Shawn Dunlap, who was wrapping up a business deal in Botswana. Shawn had just left for the trip when she'd heard from the hospital about her father's death. Com
plications from the anesthetic after a routine colonoscopy. It wasn't right.

Cynthia motioned to the driver which driveway to pull into.

“I'll see you when you get back next week,” she told him.

“I hope you're going to take a couple of days off and not go back to work right away,” Shawn encouraged.

“I'll see how I feel Sunday night,” she said. She pointed to her condo unit. “Got to go. Love you.”

The driver had the luggage out and to the steps by the time Cynthia found her keys and wallet. The young man wouldn't even accept a tip, saying that all the arrangements had been taken care of by Mr. Dunlap. She told the driver that she could take care of things from here and sent him on his way.

Cynthia wished Shawn could have been in New Mexico, but she knew that was impossible. She knew what she was getting into when she'd accepted his proposal to marry next year. Shawn was a very successful attorney. But he was also a workaholic, similar in many ways to her father. Still, Cynthia had walked into this relationship with her eyes open. And she was certainly not her mother.

She'd asked one of the neighbor's teenagers to come over and check on the cat and bring in the mail while she was gone. The Newmans lived only two doors down, and they'd bought their place around the same time that she had bought hers.

As Cynthia opened her front door, the large pile of mail on an end table was the first thing that greeted her. There was also a package leaning against one leg of the table.

There was no sign of her cat.

“Shadow,” she called, making kissing noises. “I'm home, puss.”

Putting down the flowers, she went out and brought in her suitcase.

The thirteen-hundred-square-foot, three-story condo had been an early investment she'd made after landing her first real job out of college. Her parents had helped with the down payment and, after six years of living here, she was in the position where she'd make a pretty good profit when she sold it.

Shawn was after her to put the unit on the market and move in with him, but Cynthia wasn't ready. That wasn't because she was old-fashioned or because she had any doubts about her future with him. It was all about her independence.

She wasn't marrying to have someone else take care of her. She wanted a partner, someone with whom she could share her life. The real estate market wasn't the best right now, to say the least. In another year, the condo's value could only improve. Or at least, that's what she told herself. In the meantime, she enjoyed her own space.

“Shadow,” she called out again, kicking her shoes off.

Sometimes, the family who watched the cat took her over to their house. Cynthia figured that must be the case, for the black cat was more focused on anyone coming through the front door than most guard dogs.

She considered walking over right now and getting her pet. But she was too curious about the package even to take the luggage upstairs to her bedroom or check the phone messages.

Picking up the box, she looked at the sender's name. A gray cloud immediately spread a shadow over her spirit.

The package had been sent by her father the day before he'd gone in for his procedure. She shook the box. Nothing moved inside that would give her a clue. Cynthia sat down on the edge of the sofa and considered what might be in the box.

Her father's legal issues were certain to be taken care of by the attorneys. Cynthia wasn't exactly clueless about what had been happening to her parents' marriage the past few years. They had been spiraling downward toward divorce when he died. Her mother had been living outside of Houston for months. Fred had a girlfriend or two, and from what Cynthia heard, he wasn't altogether shy about showing them off. She tried to stay out of it. Out of both of her parents' lives.

Cynthia had heard Helen complaining this past week about how Fred had been threatening not to give her what was due to her in any divorce settlement. She had even implied that if there was any “funny business” in the will, she'd contest the estate settlement.

Cynthia didn't care about any of that. She was an only child, and as far as she was concerned, her mother could have it all. She relied on herself and her future with Shawn. Nothing else.

She ripped open the top of the box and peeked in. It was packed with what looked to be documents.

“Great,” she muttered, pulling everything out.

Two large manila envelopes and a smaller white business envelope, held together by a large elastic band, dropped onto her lap. A folded note was on top.

Pulling off the elastic band, she opened the note and read her father's distinctive scrawl:

No greetings. No endearments. No closings. This was her father. Worried about dying when he was just going in for a routine test he'd put off for years.

He would have been just fifty-nine this week.

She shook her head in disappointment. She loved him very much. She already missed him terribly. But there were more than a few things she hoped she and Shawn would do differently once they had their own children.

She laid the note aside and opened the small white envelope first. In it, she found another folded note and a safe-deposit key. The note contained only the safe-deposit box number and the bank's name and address in Santa Fe.

Cynthia stared at the key and frowned. She hoped her father didn't plan on pitting her against her mother. Helen had a lot of problems, most of them stemming from being an alcoholic, but she was still Cynthia's mother.

She put the key back in the envelope and laid it on the folded note beside her. She'd simply send it to her father's attorney.

Cynthia opened the first of the large manila envelopes. “This isn't much better.”

Inside, there was a thick, folded blue document. “Of course,” she murmured. “Your will.”

Taking one look at the date, Cynthia knew she wasn't ready to see more of it now. The will had been revised the week before her father had gone in for his colonoscopy.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

She was suddenly very weary. She slipped the will back into the envelope and dropped it onto the pile beside her. Maybe tomorrow she could read it and try to figure out the logic in what he was doing.

She looked at the last envelope, wondering what more he could be putting on her. This one appeared to be packed with more papers. Cynthia thought about not opening it.

“Okay, Dad,” she said finally with a sigh. “What other surprises do you have for me?”

She tore open the flap of the last envelope and pulled out the stack of paper. A large black clip held together what had to be two hundred pages.

No explanatory note. She fanned through them.

The packet seemed to consist of technical documents, information about testing and test sites. The first dozen pages were an extensive report on a nuclear test facility in New Mexico. Some of the pages were stamped as classified.

Naturally, he would send backup data about projects he had in the works. Her father was an engineer by education and training. He always said he was the “belt and suspenders” type. Detail-oriented to the last. He believed Cynthia was cut from the same cloth and had pushed her to get her engineering degree, too. She'd gotten the degree but had never worked in the field; she'd been working in management from day one.

She put the bundle beside her, too, making a mental note to call Nellie Johnson, her father's assistant, on Monday to see what she wanted done with the stuff. Certainly, she had no use for information about any research projects.

With a sigh, Cynthia got up and slipped her shoes back on. Standing by the small mirror inside the front door, she pulled her blond hair back into a short ponytail and fastened it with a black elastic from her pocket. As she scrutinized her face, she realized she looked as tired as she felt.

She would look at the will tomorrow, she thought. What she really wanted right now was to go and get her cat back from the neighbors.

Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility
Connecticut

I
n the thirty-five years that he'd been practicing law, Juan Viera could count on one hand the number of days that he had worked on a Saturday. The decision to maintain a five-day workweek had been a conscious one. He'd had many offers to work for prestigious law firms in Manhattan, as well as opportunities to participate in state politics, but he'd turned his back on it all.

Attorney Viera liked his profession, but he also had a life that included his wife and grandchildren and golf and travel. It was a life that he enjoyed very much.

Of course, the business with the patient at the Waterbury facility could have waited until Monday. Dr. Baer had been the one who'd called him, and the physician had given him the option of putting off the meeting until whenever was convenient for him. Viera had decided to call the facility first, though, and speak directly with the researchers who were doing the testing.

The contact name he'd been given was Dr. Sid Conway, and the young man had answered right away. The excitement of finding Jane Doe's name had been palpable in the young man's voice. The people at the
facility clearly were more than doing their job. Viera appreciated the effort. Because of that, he made this exception of his Saturday rule. He could do his part, too.

He'd agreed to meet with Dr. Baer and a person named Mark Shaw at the facility this afternoon. Shaw was coming up from Pennsylvania. The other staff who were involved with the testing he'd approved yesterday would be on hand, as well. The earliest Mark Shaw could get to Connecticut, however, was six o'clock, so Viera had put in a call to the Waterbury PD. They were sending one of the detectives with the old files from the case to the meeting.

This was a very sensitive situation. Attorney Viera wanted to have as many facts as possible before he contacted the patient's next of kin. He could imagine the shock. For six years, these people must have been living with the worst-case scenario. The young woman had been completely off the radar. Now, once he contacted them, there would be thousands of questions. He needed to be prepared.

He arrived at the facility half an hour before the scheduled meeting time. The receptionist at the front desk directed him to the conference room, but he asked to see the patient first. After making a call, she told him the nurse in charge would be down in a moment to escort him to the room.

Viera had been assigned as conservator by the state one other time in his career. That had been a case involving a minor with a terminal disease and unfit parents. Viera had visited the young boy a number of times over the years before he'd passed away at the age of sixteen. In this case, he'd only seen this young woman twice during the six years…once at the beginning and another time, two years later, when he'd made
a surprise stop at this facility to check on the care the patient was receiving. Everything had been fine.

He looked around the lobby. The place had changed since his last visit. A pang of guilt nagged at him that perhaps he should have come and checked on her more often. But the periodic reports appeared to be complete and satisfactory, the facility was reputable, the physicians in charge kept him in the loop when there were changes, and the fact that she was an MCS patient made his own laissez-faire attitude more excusable in his mind.

“Attorney Viera.”

He turned to the double doors leading into the facility. A woman in her forties, dressed in a sweatshirt and khakis, greeted him. She was not wearing a name tag.

She extended her hand. “Jennifer Sullivan.”

“Yes, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, shaking her hand. “I've heard a great deal about you.”

She gave him a curious glance. “You have?”

He nodded. “From Dr. Parker and Dr. Baer. You appear to be JD's leading advocate.”

“Her name is Amelia Kagan,” she told him.

He nodded, not bothering to argue the point that it was still premature to call her by that name. They needed something more concrete as far as identity.

“You want to see her?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” He nodded again. “I'm early for the meeting, so there should be time.”

She motioned for him to come with her. “Dr. Baer is already here, and the neurologist from UCONN, Dr. Conway, has been here all day. His research is what helped us to come up with the phone number.”

“Yes, I spoke to him on the phone.”

The administrator in charge of the facility wasn't here today, but Attorney Viera had spoken to her on the phone this afternoon. He had been told that Jennifer Sullivan was qualified to provide him with any kind of information he needed from the patient's files.

“We're waiting for someone from the police department, and for Mark Shaw,” she added.

“You spoke to him on the phone.”

“I talked to him several times. Hope that was okay.”

The attorney shrugged. “I can't see why not.”

There were many times when Viera knew it was important to be a stickler about following procedure, but this was not one of those times. In this case, it was obvious the nurse and everyone else involved had only the patient's best interests in mind.

The hallways were quiet, with the exception of the aides who were delivering trays of food to some of the rooms. The wing of the facility where JD's room was located, however, lacked that little bit of distraction.

Jennifer knocked on the open door before they walked in.

Attorney Viera's gaze first fell on the patient. She seemed thinner than he remembered, much more fragile. She was lying on the hospital bed with a safety strap around her middle. Her eyes were closed. She was facing away from where two physicians were standing before a group of computers. He tried to imagine how someone related to this young woman would feel, seeing her like this. Six years was a long time.

“Attorney Viera,” the older of the two men said politely, stepping toward him. “We've been speaking on the phone.”

“Dr. Baer,” he said, shaking the man's hand. He'd done a bit of research on Baer after he had been made
the visiting physician for this facility. Of German and Persian descent, the man had impressive credentials right down the line.

Introductions were made to the younger doctor. Viera was glad that he'd looked over the curriculum vitae that had come with Sid Conway's research documentation papers. It was surprising to see someone so young in such a critical position. Conway was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but the expression on his angular, handsome face was all business. About medium height, lean yet muscular, the young man had a head of curly brown hair that was in desperate need of cutting. There was a deep shadow on his face that said it might have been at least a couple of days since the last time he'd shaved. He looked pretty casual for a neurologist, the attorney thought.

Viera had to remind himself that it was Saturday, though, and he himself was only wearing a polo shirt and sport jacket. When they'd spoken earlier on the phone, Viera had gotten a clear sense of the neurologist's confidence in his own abilities. He'd come across as a man who knew his business.

“You must be excited to see your project producing practical results so soon after getting started,” he told Conway.

“I am, but I'm glad we're getting this chance to speak face-to-face at this point,” the young man told him. His voice was anxious. “Do you know how quickly Amelia's family will be contacted?”

“It all depends,” Viera answered noncommittally. “Why do you ask?”

“I believe what we were able to capture is only the beginning. She has a lot more to tell us. And, given the circumstances of her accident, I think it would be beneficial to continue with the study.”

Viera considered the neurologist's words. Dr. Baer had been forthright telling the conservator about the objections to the study by family members of other patients at the health center. He'd been thorough in explaining the pros and cons of what could be discovered and of the limited control they had over the type of information the patient would give them.

Before signing the documents giving Conway authorization for testing, Viera had asked Baer's opinion on JD's prognosis as to recovery. The physician had told him that his best estimate was that she had less than a five-percent chance of progressing beyond her current state, and that was being optimistic.

“I'll tell you this,” Viera told Conway. “You already have my authorization with regard to her being a subject in your study. We still don't have any definitive, admissible proof that she is Amelia Kagan. You can continue with the study until we have court authorization to transfer decisions about this young woman's care to her next of kin.”

Sid Conway seemed visibly relieved.

“So what's next in your testing? What's your schedule?” Viera asked.

“I work with two other resident neurologists at the UCONN Health Center, and so far we plan to have a set of readings done every morning for a week, starting Monday,” Conway explained. “Meanwhile, I intend to be here as much as I can over the weekend, as the patient has had a number of episodes of agitation this past week. I hope to be able to capture a reading if that occurs again.”

Jennifer Sullivan said something under her breath to Conway that Viera didn't quite get. But it was obvious it had something to do with spending too much time there.

“Is this schedule of testing okay with you?” Viera asked Baer.

“Absolutely.”

A nurse poked her head into the room. “There's a Mr. Shaw in the lobby.”

Attorney Viera glanced at his watch. The man was fifteen minutes early.

“You mentioned that he's never met this young woman?” he asked Jennifer Sullivan.

“That's correct. He's an acquaintance of the twin sister,” she said. “I'm sorry. He
was
an acquaintance of Marion Kagan.”

If JD was in fact Amelia Kagan, the twin sister to the dead scientist, Viera dreaded the conversation he was going to have with the parents. After losing one daughter, the condition of the other one simply meant more bad news on top of all they were undoubtedly trying to deal with already.

“How about if we ask Mr. Shaw to take a look at the patient in person?” he asked.

“I'll go and bring him in,” Mrs. Sullivan offered, heading for the door.

Viera turned his gaze toward the bed.

“She's awake,” he said, shocked.

“Yes, so she is,” Baer said quietly.

“She looks like she's aware of what's going on,” the attorney said. The two times he'd seen her, she'd been asleep. “Does she understand us? Hear us? Does she know what's going on around her?” Viera felt like a fool, asking the questions. He should know all of this. “Sorry…it's strange to actually see her awake,” he continued before either doctor could make any explanations. “I didn't expect this. I mean, she
is
considered to be in a minimally conscious state, no?”

“That's no problem, Mr. Viera,” Baer replied. “You're correct. Her condition is MCS, but that classification covers a rather broad range of clinical features, and those features can change for each individual patient, for better or worse, over the course of time.”

“I guess I half expected her to be…well, comatose.” Viera, realizing he was whispering, recovered his composure. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been caught so off guard.

“That would put her in a different medical classification,” Baer replied. “If she were classified as being in a coma, her condition would entail a lack of consciousness, her motor functions would be reflex action only, and she would demonstrate no auditory, visual or emotional functioning. And, of course, she wouldn't be able to communicate.”

“But that's clearly not her condition,” the attorney said, remembering that this would be part of the explanation he had to make to her family when he spoke to them later.

“Not now,” Baer responded. “She was in a coma for a time after the accident, but that condition changed before she was transferred here.”

“So, being in a minimally conscious state, she has different…what did you call them? Clinical features?”

“That's correct.” Baer looked at Amelia. “MCS patients can appear to be awake. At different times, they might demonstrate the ability to reach for an object or even hold an object that requires making accommodations for its size or shape. Like Amelia, they might localize a sound's origin, show sustained visual location or even follow an object with their eyes.”

Viera thought he should be taking notes. At one time or the other he'd heard all of this, but it hadn't sunk in until now.

“Also, there might be gesturing or verbalization that is intelligible. An MCS patient might even smile or cry appropriately in response to stimuli.”

“She can do all that?” Viera asked, happy for this information.

“No, she can't. Not all of that. And not all the time,” the doctor replied. “These features constitute a range of functions that MCS patients
might
demonstrate, depending on their condition and their recovery. One patient might be able to hold an object one day, but be unable to sustain visual pursuit. And that can change the next day.”