“Cocaine-related deaths are often a result of cardiac arrest or seizures followed by respiratory arrest,” Tyrell pointed out. “So Alpha could’ve crashed from misadventure.”
“Indeed, but then why the crack den?” Fry asked. “In addition, Alpha shows external signs of recent medical procedures. Placing patients on saline drips is a common practice in order to rehydrate them and replace lost vitamins. Either way, checking in for medical help doesn’t fit the profile of someone contemplating suicide.”
Fry moved across to a metal trolley, upon which lay a file. He picked it up as Tyrell cast his eyes across the bodies.
“What would you estimate his age as?” he asked the doctor.
“Not less than thirty. Dental work and mild erosive damage to enamel suggest an age closer to forty.”
“Not like a homeless person to have access to good dental practice,” Lopez said.
“That’s not what bothers me the most,” Fry said, propping his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose. “Rigor mortis does not give a reliable indication of death; however, livor mortis can and it tells me that Alpha did not die where he was found. The accumulation of red blood cells in the lower extremities suggests that he was lying on his back when he died.”
“So he was moved after death?” Lopez said.
Fry shrugged noncommitally.
“You’re the detectives, I’ll leave that to you. What I can tell you is that he suffered. His blood and lungs contain excessive levels of hydrogen sulphide, which is the compound that sent my colleague into hospital.”
Dr. Fry moved across to the corpses, his eyes scanning them with intense curiosity as though he could speak to them with the power of thought alone.
“Alpha’s body also shows signs of intense hypothermia.”
“You mean the discoloration on the fingers and toes?” Lopez asked. “Frostbite?”
“Yes,” Fry said. “Some of the tissues near the surface of the skin show signs of trauma consistent with sustained low body temperatures.”
“Maybe he was refrigerated to alter the apparent time of death?” Lopez suggested.
“That might make some sense.” Fry nodded. “Homicide victims are sometimes chilled by the killer in order to provide a plausible time alibi. What’s unique is that hydrogen sulphide has been shown to induce a state of hypothermic suspended animation in some mammals.”
Tyrell’s mind began working overtime. “Suspended animation?”
“Hydrogen sulphide binds to cytochrome oxidase and thereby prevents oxygen from binding,” Fry explained, “which results in a dramatic slowdown of metabolism. Most animals and humans naturally produce some hydrogen sulphide in their body, but not at the levels I’ve encountered here.”
Lopez stared at Fry.
“Why would somebody want to slow down his metabolism?”
“Like I said, you’re the detectives,” Fry replied. “But this man cannot have ingested such high levels of hydrogen sulphide in a natural environment: it’s a broad-spectrum poison, meaning that it can affect several different systems in the body. Its toxicity is comparable with that of hydrogen cyanide, forming a bond with iron in the mitochondrial cytochrome enzymes, thereby stopping cellular respiration.”
“You got any other evidence of this?” Tyrell asked.
“Other than the victim’s blood turning purple in color?” Fry asked. “The treatment for exposure can involve immediate inhalation of amyl nitrite or pure oxygen, injections of sodium nitrite or administration of bronchodilators. I found excess sodium nitrate in Alpha’s blood pathology.”
“So he was poisoned and then revived?” Tyrell asked, struggling to connect the disparate pieces of information.
“Apparently so,” Fry agreed, obviously enjoying the mystery. “In addition, at his lower extremeties we have evidence of the extraction of reproductive materials from the testes.”
Tyrell felt a momentary spasm of disgust shiver through his own family jewels, and didn’t bother moving round the gurney as the doctor continued.
“But what is most astounding about Alpha is that his blood contains a genetic signature that I have not been able to identify.”
“Genetic signature?” Lopez said. “You mean blood group?”
“I mean signature,” Fry said to her over the top of his spectacles. “But as you’ve mentioned it, Alpha bears the rare O-negative blood group that is the mark of the universal donor. Only seven percent of human beings possess this blood group and its origin is completely unknown, the purest human blood on Earth.”
“You mean that his blood has been altered in some way?” Tyrell asked.
Fry nodded. “Transfused. The blood now in Alpha’s body is not his own, and I’ve been unable to determine its origin. I’ll need to run more tests.”
“Dr. Fry,” Tyrell said, “what’s your assessment of what happened to him?”
Fry exhaled a lengthy breath.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before. He must have undergone an ordeal