Eddie himself had pinned down the manufacturer of the bone graft Lowe had received. “The graft itself was made by OrthoMedica,” he said, “but OrthoMedica made it from bone they bought from a supplier—a tissue bank.” He named the four tissue banks OrthoMedica regularly bought cadaver tissue from. I’d never heard of the first three he mentioned—Gift of Life, BioLogic, and Donor Medical Services. But I’d damn sure heard of the fourth one: Tissue Sciences and Services, Incorporated. Given the bad blood between Ray Sinclair and Glen Faust, I was surprised to hear that Tissue Sciences did business with OrthoMedica. But just as blood was thicker than water, perhaps money was thicker than blood—even bad blood.
After Eddie hung up, I called the FBI to relay his findings to Rankin. If Tissue Sciences was the source of the bacteria-laden bone, it was possible that the company’s penchant for playing fast and loose included other crimes besides black-market body buying. I didn’t know what federal statutes—if any—governed how a tissue bank was required to process or sterilize cadaver tissue, but if anybody was in a position to find out quickly, it was surely Rankin. Rankin promised to look into it. “By the way,” he added, “we arrested Sinclair. Last night. I thought you’d want to know.” He was right. I began to see light at the end of the tunnel.
I’d just finished talking with Rankin when Peggy transferred another call to me. “Hello,” came a hesitant female voice. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Brockton.”
“This is Dr. Brockton. How can I help you?”
“My name is Laura Telford,” she said. “I’m calling because my father recently signed a form to donate his body to the Body Farm, and I need to talk to you about it.”
Occasionally—not often, but once every few years—I’d get a phone call or a visit from a donor’s family member who was upset by the idea of Mom or Dad or a brother or sister rotting on the ground. Our one-paragraph donation form was legally valid—in a court battle over a body, we’d probably win, if the form was properly signed and witnessed—but at what price, in terms of a family member’s peace of mind or goodwill? No, I’d long since decided I would never get into a tug-of-war about a donor’s body.
“I won’t try to change your mind, Laura,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to answer any questions I can. I’d encourage you to talk with your father about it again. Let him know you feel uncomfortable about the idea. Maybe one of you will change the other one’s mind.”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable or that we disagree,” she answered. “He thinks it’s important, and so do I. I took your intro anthropology class back when I was a UT student. I even went out to the Body Farm on the spring-cleanup day. I got ten points of extra credit for picking up bones and slimy body bags. I believe in the work you do.”
I was puzzled about why she was calling. “Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “I hope we won’t be seeing your dad for a while yet.”
“Actually, I’m afraid you’ll be seeing him really soon,” she replied. “He’s dying of heart failure. His heart stopped yesterday, and they managed to get it going again, but they say it could stop again at any moment. If it stops again, that’s probably the end for him.”
“I’m so sorry, Laura.”
She paused to blow her nose. “But it helps to think his body could do some good after death.”
“If it comes to the Body Farm, it certainly will,” I promised. “Did you say your last name’s Telford?
That’s not ringing a bell. How long ago did he send in the donation form?”
“He handed it to you. Last week. My father’s Ernest Miller. Sorry, I should have told you that sooner. I changed my name when I got married. You spoke to Daddy in his hospital room, and he signed the form right then.”
“Of course,” I said. “He mentioned you. He said you’d be here soon. I believe he said you live in Kentucky?”
“Yes, at Fort Campbell. I’d hoped to come right after Daddy was admitted, but my husband’s stationed in Iraq and he can’t get home until next week. My dad has really spiraled down fast, so I figured I should call you as soon as possible. I need to talk to you about a change to his donation paperwork.”
“Of course,” I said, “but I’m a little confused. I thought you said you were comfortable with the idea that he’d come to the Body Farm.”
“I am.”
“Then what’s the change you’d like to discuss with me?”
“Organ donation,” she said, and I felt my breath catch at the sound of the words. “He and I talked about it on the phone Saturday, the day before his heart stopped. He told me about your friend, Dr. Garcia. About how he needs a pair of hands.”
The hairs on my arms and my neck were standing up. “Are you saying your dad changed his mind? That he signed the organ-donor consent form?”
“No, he didn’t,” she said, and I felt something in me collapse.