Gaia and the Goliaths

Dedication

I salute all the world’s citizens, including the new pope, who have recognized that environmental issues are moral issues that go above and beyond business and politics as usual, and that we must save our Earth and its flora and fauna from the ravages of uncontrolled industrialization and commercialization, preserving it for future generations. And to the Nature Conservancy, Sierra Club, and Worldwide Fund for Nature (World Wildlife Fund), my favorite orgs—please keep up your good work.

The good man is the friend of all living things.—Gandhi

A true conservationist is a man who knows that the world is not given by his fathers, but borrowed from his children.—John James Audubon

I do not intend that our natural resources should be exploited by the few against the interests of the many.—Theodore Roosevelt

The earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of rubbish.—Pope Francis

Protecting our environment is not a radical idea; it is a moral responsibility.—Bernie Sanders

Chapter One

Dr. Guillermo Sanchez ran with EMTs as they guided the gurney through the halls on the way to one of Bellevue’s ORs. His job was to stabilize the shooting victim for the surgeon, but stabilize wasn’t the right word in this case. The young woman flat-lined twice before the surgeon arrived.

Wash up, Guillermo, said Dr. Wilson. I’m going to need your steady hands.

Guillermo Pedro Sanchez was ending his first year as ER intern. He had already informed Wilson where the gunshot wounds were. The most serious ones were around her left breast. Had they done damage to the heart? The flat-lining indicated that they had.

He was in the seventh hour of his first shift. Unruly black hair and a need for a shave combined with a blood-stained smock made him look like an old-fashioned Italian butcher from an old ethnic neighborhood of New York City, but he had grown up in a rich family in Marblehead, Massachusetts. A brother and sister had attended Harvard all the way through to MBAs and now worked in the corporate world. He was the youngest and had attended Tufts; he’d always wanted to work in an ER. Now he was an intern in one of the busiest.

They were soon embroiled in the operation. The abdominal cavity was filled with blood—a massive leak somewhere threatened this woman’s life.

Let’s do a transfusion, said Wilson, and patch tears if we can.

Is it her heart? said Sanchez.

I can’t see a damn thing. Suction!

They worked feverishly. Desperate minutes became intense hours.

***

Gaia Papadakis’s last memories were about a dark street near NYU. She had been a bit tipsy. After the protest march, they went to a bar to celebrate. No one was arrested during the protest, but all the same they made the news on all local TV channels.

People were now interested in global warming despite naysayers in big corporations and the nation’s capital. Many were also asking questions about oil spills, fracking, and pollution from power plants. Her group Clean World tried to guide and coordinate the dialog.

Many conservatives supported companies Clean World was protesting against, while progressives were more on the side of protersters when not beholden to corporate donors. Many energy companies were owned by one huge energy conglomerate, Wilson-Myers Energy Corporation. Emotions ran high during the protest, but she gave the cops more credit than some co-marchers—the former kept the march peaceful and seemed impartial about whom they hauled away when tempers flared and violence ensued.

She had recognized some opposition leaders and activists trying to appeal to spectators; they played on people’s fears, focusing on loss of livelihood if the conglomerate’s companies went under. She knew their argument was specious—she had written white papers that proved the conglomerate could, in a period of ten years or so, improve their environmental record without losing revenue. Other white papers showed what would happen to the Earth if conglomerates like Wilson-Myers didn’t change their polluting ways.

Most in the crowd, though, ignored the opposition and were friendly to protesters. She knew Wilson-Myers hated that and the progress environmentalists were making. The conglomerate was spending money right and left to stop them and writing most of it off to advertising. That same money, probably even less, could be used to change its bad environmental record. It was a question of priorities. Companies spent tons of money trying to educate the population—translation: attack science and deny global warming. And they had sycophants in Washington to push that agenda.

At the bar, they had toasted their better-than-average success with the protest. She left around 2 a.m. Her small apartment wasn’t far away, so she walked. She was city and street smart, but her shooter was more efficient than your average gang member or mugger. An SUV sped by and a shooter sprayed her body with an automatic weapon, leaving her sprawled on the sidewalk and her mind fading into darkness as she still wondered why.

***

We’re in trouble, said Wilson, glancing at monitors. We need to give her an artificial heart, but there’s no time!

No repair’s possible? said Sanchez.

Let’s try to pull her through, said Wilson. We’re heading for a train wreck here! Full replacement, ladies and gentlemen!

More hours of painstaking, mind numbing surgery. Another cardiac surgeon joined Wilson, and another intern arrived to help Sanchez clamp, suck out fluids, sew stitches, and keep an eye on instruments, although OR nurses also helped in that too. The team grew; it was a team effort. Wilson was the quarterback marching his offense down the field with time running out.

After nine hours of surgery, they had the victim on an artificial heart. That would only be the start of her odyssey. She would now go on a list of patients who needed a heart transplant. That was another race against time.

Good work, Wilson told Sanchez as they were cleaning up. You have a fast and sure suture technique. Maybe you should change to surgery. By the way, I’m sorry I ignored your questions in there. I’m afraid I become less professorial when I’m saving someone’s life.

No need to apologize, said Sanchez. They were stupid questions. Her heart was beyond repair. What chance does she have now?

Wilson glanced at him, raising a bushy eyebrow. Don’t become emotionally involved, Guillermo. You need to maintain a professional detachment. There’s only a ten percent chance she’ll make it. She’s likely to throw a clot, for example, considering circumstances. And we might not find a donor in time.

It seems so unfair. What is she, mid-twenties?

If she’s more than thirty, I’d be surprised. She pissed someone off enough she might as well have been a grunt in the Middle East invading a terrorist camp without a gun or body armor. Yeah, it’s unfair. You can be a recluse most of your life but still have a truck mow you down crossing a street in Manhattan. What about a surgery internship, if I can change the subject?

I can help more in the ER. Sanchez smiled. I’ll have lots of practice in Manhattan.

Are you just afraid of overspecialization? You’d be an ER surgeon soon enough. You can help sicker people as a cardiac surgeon on ER call.

I’ll think about it. But you can’t determine my skills just from one session. I didn’t do very much.

Often enough you provided a skilled third pair of hands when I needed them. Wilson looked around and lowered his voice. That other intern was all thumbs. Between you and me, he’s not going to last long in this intense environment. He raised his hands and flexed his fingers, watching water drip off. I’ll take these any day over a robot’s.

Sanchez thought that was a bit egotistical but said nothing.

***

You’re too young to be a doctor, Gaia Papadakis said, her voice a raspy whisper. Sanchez had just removed the tube from her throat.

You’re awake. You’ve been through a lot. He took her pulse again the old-fashioned way. A bit weak. His thick eyebrows arched. How do you feel?

I feel like I was run over by a subway train.

Something comparable on the street and right here in the ER. You’re lucky to be alive. You were in good shape, though, and that helped.

I work out when I can. Gym and jogging. Do you work out?

When I can. Don’t talk too much. He showed her the call button. If you have a problem, use that. Someone will come running. Don’t be timid with the morphine pump either. Control your pain. He waved toward the door. I have some other patients to see. It was a busy night in the ER apparently.

What happened?

Other than your being shot, I don’t know. About that: when you’re up to it, NYPD will want to interview you. Don’t worry about it, though. They have to go through me first.

Nice smile, she thought. God, he’s young and handsome. Where’s he been all my life? He had beautiful curly locks like her Zorba. She wanted Alessandro by her side holding her hand now that the doctor had reminded her of him.

Did you participate in my surgery? He nodded. Say, can you hand me my purse? I’d like to check my smart phone. He handed her the purse, watched her rummage around, but turned to the PA system’s speaker over the door when his name was called.

I have to go. She nodded, flashing a tired smile.

She watched him leave, deciding it might be worth being shot in order to meet him. Sorry, Alessandro, you’re thousands of miles away.

Hours later in midafternoon, she woke from a deep sleep feeling panic. She knew something was wrong. She took her last gasp as she fought her descent into sweet oblivion.

Chapter Two

Tell me again why they assigned us this case, I said. I sat on my desk’s edge, leafing through the file. Paperless office? Yeah, right! Might find the forensics report on my PDA AKA NYPD-reg smart phone, but not much more this soon. This woman was shot near NYU. Why isn’t she someone else’s problem?

Name’s Castilblanco. NYPD Homicide. My stoic Asian partner, Detective Dao-Ming Chen, first answered with a frown. Then: Read the note and weep.

The note was to us. Not too legible, but I made out what the boss’s scribbles said.

‘Given the new departmental policy of evenly distributing workload when possible, I’m giving this to you two. Do the best you can.’ That’s a bit insulting, don’t you think?

The ‘best you can’ part, I suppose, said Chen. Only the slight upturn of her mouth’s corners indicated she thought my reaction was amusing. She was the perfect subject for some Chinese Leonardo’s painting of an Asian Mona Lisa. That’ll teach us to clear cases so efficiently.

Nothing like irony. She had it down to a fine art. I can clear this one efficiently too, I said, if I can hand it off to the proper precinct. This was a professional hit. Smells like a mob hit. What do we know about the victim?

It’s all there, but I’ll save you the reading. She is—was—an environmental activist. Pretty good too, in my modest opinion. Their latest march was against Wilson-Myers Energy Corporation.

Hmm. The EPA hasn’t had much luck against them. Too bad. They have a poor rep.

Precisely.

I’m surprised at you, Chen, I said. Aren’t you always Captain Corporate America?

She frowned. Frowns always came easier than smiles for her. I can be for less government and supportive of business interests and still not tolerate polluting scumbags. If Eric and I have children, I want them to have a safer world. Papadakis’ group focused on showing polluters how to make things better.

The bastards first have to be convinced they’re polluting. They usually turn a deaf ear. Complex problem. Emotional too, I imagine. Let me guess: there was a protest march the day this woman was killed?

That’s a big mental leap. You said yourself it smells like mob.

Maybe a mob hitman doing a job for someone else? Finished leafing through the papers. Geez, she went through all that surgery and still died. What a waste of a young life.

If you’re through complaining, tell me how we should attack this.

I shrugged. She was right. Thought a moment. First, we should interrogate her fellow activists to see if someone besides the obvious elephant in the room had it in for Papadakis. Someone should also review CSU forensics, for what they’re worth. I don’t suppose the hospital worried about keeping the rounds they found during surgery?

They did. Likely an AR-15, if not an M-16. Pretty chewed up. Lots of firepower. I’m surprised she didn’t die right on the sidewalk.

The intent, I’m sure. Did the vic make a statement before she died?

We, meaning NYPD, didn’t have a chance to question her.

Did any docs or RNs overhear anything? Confidences? Dying wishes?

We should check on that.

I sighed. Let’s get to work then.

***

Chen and I split up. She went after Papadakis’s activists. I went after hospital staff. I soon eliminated OR personnel except for one ER intern who was on an early lunchbreak. Post-surgery, the vic had first been in ICU and then in a private room for critical patients, all supervised by that same intern. Talked to nurses, leaving the intern for later, and met Chen for lunch at a deli I knew near Grammercy.

She listened to my results, all the while sucking on a dill. Tried to ignore possible associations with her significant other, Eric Kulmala, being out of town on an ATF case. She was probably oblivious to the sexy pout she was displaying. Or, maybe she wanted to generate a comment from me, in which case I passed. Most times Chen doesn’t like to be treated like a sex object, but she can flaunt it when she feels like it. Looking like a retired runway model helped with that. Complex woman, my partner, but smart as hell.

Finally, when I finished my summary, she took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and said, The missing intern won’t likely add anything. I guess I was more successful.

She explained. She had met with several people who worked with the environmental group Clean World. The boss, a man named Jerry Thompson, was helpful.

Looks like Don Quijote, by the way. They’re all tilting at windmills.

Or wanting to replace oil, nuclear, and coal with them, I said with a smile.

She ignored my counter to her quip, as usual. They all want us to find her killer or killers, but he had the big picture about his group’s activities in the tristate area and around the country and their connections to other organizations like Greenpeace and various PIRGs. Stretched my gray matter to remember what PIRG meant—Public Interest Research Group. Needed to look them up because it sounded like something I should belong to. That was the start of a rant. He claimed government, conservative groups, and corporate security people infiltrate these activist groups.

Why? Just to know what they’re going to do before they do it?

Don’t criticize the messenger. It was a vocal example of activist paranoia. You know how these people are.

These people? I thought you sympathized with their goals.

Maybe Clean World is clean, if you pardon the pun, but some of these groups have radicalized to what people call eco-terrorism. Extremes are always bad in my opinion.

Guess I’ll give you a pass on that one. This Thompson guy have any specifics? Any ideas about who might want to kill Papadakis? How about what she was working on?

He said she’d been out-of-town for the last three weeks. They hadn’t talked since she was back. She appeared at the protest and celebration afterwards.

We need to know why she was out of town. Might be relevant. Where was the celebration? Chen looked at her PDA, told me, and I entered the datum into mine. You can check out people at the bar this afternoon, but right now let’s take a look at the apartment. I’m guessing it’s near the bar.

***

We’ll need some time, I told Papadakis’s landlord. Handed booties and rubber gloves to Chen. Started putting on my own.

Are you CSIs? said the old woman.

We might bring them in later. We’ll give a quick once-over, if you don’t mind.

I’ve never had so much excitement, said the dowager. Too bad about Gaia. She was a nice, wholesome girl.

No male friends? I said.

I’d expect her to have some. She always looked cute and perky. Had long legs like a Rockette. But she never brought anyone back here as far as I know. I would have heard. Besides, as you can see, it’s small. A bit crowded for two persons, especially if….

I waited for her to finish the sentence, but she only smiled.

Have you been inside since you heard your tenant died? said Chen.

She was leaning against the door jamb, struggling with one bootie, and almost lost her balance. I steadied her.

Heavens no, said the building’s super, likely wondering what was wrong with my partner. I sure was. I expect her relatives to come for her things. I hope that’s soon. The landlord will want to rent.

I nodded. Not happening soon. This is a homicide investigation. We’ll slap yellow tape and seal on when we leave. Saw her frown. Didn’t care. You don’t have to stay, ma’am, but, if you do, please watch from the hall. We don’t want to add anything that would corrupt the crime scene. Smiled as she watched us. She was harmless, so I didn’t disparage her excitement. Check the bathroom, I said to Chen. I’ll hit the kitchen. Then we’ll do the sleeping area.

Like most studios, there was one room with a galley kitchen and sleeping area and a bathroom with sink, toilet, and shower. A small sofa backed onto a window that would give good light in the morning, although it overlooked an alley. Can’t imagine living in such a place now, but, if you were young and just needed a place to crash some nights, it could work. A bit expensive now for students, though. Living in Manhattan was expensive, period.

As I’d expected, the trashcan under the sink was filled with take-out cartons and the small fridge nearly empty except for a quart of milk going sour, two diet sodas, and three beers. Cabinets contained two of those cereal variety packs, one opened, and a jar of instant coffee. There was no dishwasher.

I went to the sleeping area. Met Chen coming from the bathroom. She waved a box of condoms. There might be a boyfriend.

I shrugged. Maybe. Who knows these days? I have nieces in middle school who are fooling around—eleven or twelve, looking like seventeen or eighteen. Sign of the times and not my place to criticize. Went to the nightstand. Check the bureau, will you? Chen found folded clothes, but not many. Must be a closet somewhere. Found a junk drawer with an old cellphone, iPod, ticket stubs, some CDs, and one of those gizmos runners use to calculate distance covered, estimate calories, and