Dark Matter

“Andrew Fielding is dead,” I said in a flat voice.

Rachel blinked. “Who’s Andrew Fielding?”

“He was a physicist.”

Her eyes widened. “Andrew Fielding the physicist is dead?”

It was a measure of Fielding’s reputation that a medical doctor who knew little about quantum physics would know his name. But it didn’t surprise me. There were six-year-olds who’d heard of “the White Rabbit.” The man who had largely unraveled the enigma of the dark matter in the universe stood second only to his friend Stephen Hawking in the astrophysical firmament.

“He died of a stroke,” I said. “Or so they say.”

“So who says?”

“People at work.”

“You work with Andrew Fielding?”

“I did. For the past two years.”

Rachel shook her head in amazement. “You don’t think he died of a stroke?”

“No.”

“Did you examine him?”

“A cursory exam. He collapsed in his office. Another doctor got to him before he died. That doctor said Fielding exhibited left-side paralysis and had a blown left pupil, but …”

“What?”

“I don’t believe him. Fielding died too quickly for a stroke. Within four or five minutes.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “That happens sometimes. Especially with a severe hemorrhage.”

“Yes, but it’s comparatively rare, and you don’t usually see a blown pupil.” That was true enough, but it wasn’t what I was thinking. I was thinking that Rachel was a psychiatrist, and as good as she was, she hadn’t spent sixteen years practicing internal medicine, as I had. You got a feeling about certain cases, certain people. A sixth sense. Fielding had not been my patient, but he’d told me a lot about his health in two years, and a massive hemorrhage didn’t feel right to me. “Look, I don’t know where his body is, and I don’t think there’s going to be an autopsy, so—”

“Why no autopsy?” Rachel broke in.

“Because I think he was murdered.”

“I thought you said he died in his office.”

“He did.”

“You think he was murdered at work? Workplace violence?”

She still didn’t get it. “I mean premeditated murder. Carefully thought out, expertly executed murder.”

“But … why would someone murder Andrew Fielding? He was an old man, wasn’t he?”

“He was sixty-three.” Recalling Fielding’s body on his office floor, mouth agape, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, I felt a sudden compulsion to tell Rachel everything. But one glance at the window killed the urge. A parabolic microphone could be trained on the glass.

“I can’t say anything beyond that. I’m sorry. You should go, Rachel.”

She took two steps toward me, her face set with purpose. “I’m not going anywhere yet. Look, if anyone died while not under a doctor’s supervision in this state, there has to be an autopsy. And especially in cases of possible foul play. It’s required by law.”

I laughed at her naiveté. “There won’t be an autopsy. Not a public one, anyway.”

“David—”

“I really can’t say more. I shouldn’t have said that much. I just wanted you to know … that it’s real.”

“Why can’t you say more?” She held up a small, graceful hand. “No, let me answer that. Because to tell me more would put me in danger. Right?”

“Yes.”

She rolled her eyes. “David, from the beginning you’ve made extraordinary demands about secrecy. And I’ve complied. I’ve told colleagues that the hours you spend in my office are research for your second book, rather than what they really are.”

“And you know I appreciate that. But if I’m right about Fielding, anything I tell you now could put your life at risk. Can’t you understand that?”

“No. I’ve never understood. What sort of work could possibly be so dangerous?”

I shook my head.

“This is like a bad joke.” She laughed strangely. “‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ It’s classic paranoid thinking.”

“Do you really believe I’m making all this up?”

Rachel answered with caution. “I believe that you believe everything you’ve told me.”

“So, I’m still delusional.”

“You’ve got to admit, you’ve been having disturbing hallucinations for some time now. Some of the recent ones are classic religious delusions.”

“But most not,” I reminded her. “And I’m an atheist. Is that classic?”

“No, I concede that. But you’ve also refused to get a workup for your narcolepsy. Or epilepsy. Or even to get your blood sugar checked, for that matter.”

I’ve been worked up by the foremost neurologist in the world. “That’s being investigated at work.”

“By Andrew Fielding? He wasn’t an M.D., was he?”

I decided to go one step further. “I’m being treated by Ravi Nara.”

Her mouth fell open. “Ravi Nara? As in the Nobel Prize for medicine?”

“That’s him,” I said with distaste.

“You work with Ravi Nara?”