Fit to die, p.1
Fit to Die, page 1
PRAISE FOR DANIEL KALLA
THE DARKNESS IN THE LIGHT
“Trust Daniel Kalla to come up with the perfect post-COVID thriller.”
The Globe and Mail
“Emergency room physician Daniel Kalla is one of Canada’s best-selling and most impressive writers, and his latest novel, The Darkness in the Light, demonstrates why.”
Zoomer
“Kalla’s Alaskan whodunit delights…. Just remember that Vancouver E.R. doctor Daniel Kalla not only writes superb medical thrillers with a pronounced social edge—his books are also terrific murder mysteries.”
Winnipeg Free Press
“A very good read, and very timely.”
CBC’s The Next Chapter
“The Darkness in the Light is a gripping, heartbreaking, and enthralling suspense so vividly immersive that I was hooked from the first page. With crisp, powerful writing and two extremely compelling voices, Kalla draws you in to the remote, intriguing world of the Arctic and the tragic, inexplicable suicide clusters that have ravaged a small, tight-knit town. Kalla is a clever master of surprise, dropping subtle clues and expertly changing course, so you can’t possibly look away until the mystery is solved. It’s an absolute must-read from a remarkable talent.”
SAMANTHA M. BAILEY, USA Today and #1 nationally bestselling author of Woman on the Edge
“Kalla is unparalleled in his ability to create compelling characters that embody societal trauma and medical complexities. The Darkness in the Light explores rural northern health care, the unrelenting pressure of depression and pharmaceutical treatments with great care. Both heartbreaking and brave, this is a boldly written story that fans will love and new readers will devour.”
AMBER COWIE, author of Last One Alive
LOST IMMUNITY
“Kalla ratchets up the suspense as a cover-up is exposed… a truly scary scenario from a writer who knows his medical thriller lingo down to the final line.”
The Globe and Mail
“Kalla… has a knack for writing eerily prescient thrillers.”
CBC Books
“Always there to hold up a mirror to society—his last book, The Last High, took on the opioid crisis—Kalla’s new Lost Immunity book sits smack dab in the middle of what the world has been going through for the last year.”
Vancouver Sun
THE LAST HIGH
“Kalla has long had his stethoscope on the heartbeat of his times…. In his latest, the focus is on Vancouver’s opioid crisis…. A lively story.”
Toronto Star
“Kalla is terrific at building suspense as the case progresses, uncovering a web of dealers, sellers, and users.”
The Globe and Mail
“If you want an engrossing, edge-of-your-seat thriller that combines good detective work, corruption, savage criminal practices, a dark, seamy portrait of a large Canadian city, and a hard-hitting lesson on the medical and emotional effects of opioid drugs, then The Last High certainly fills that prescription.”
Montreal Times
“A thrilling, front-line drama about the opioid crisis.”
KATHY REICHS
“A riveting thriller… This important, must-read book is not only well-researched and entirely realistic, it gives a human face to a devastating epidemic.”
ROBYN HARDING, internationally bestselling author of The Arrangement and The Party
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In memory of my mom and her special soul
CHAPTER 1
“Someone killed him,” the woman murmurs.
Her cheeks are splotched. Her pupils huge. And her outstretched finger trembles, pointing to the corpse near her feet.
How else is a mother supposed to respond? Detective Cari Garcia wonders with a sympathetic nod as she glances around the tidy bedroom, its walls lined by framed black-and-white posters of marathon runners and races. A pair of crime technicians in white bunny suits survey the scene, acting as usual as if they’re the only living souls present. The victim lies on his back with his right leg flopped out to the side, bent at the knee, and a pool of vomit puddled under his chin, which accounts for the faint sour odor drifting to Cari’s nostrils.
Cari had been on her way to dinner when the captain phoned with his urgent request. It was almost a relief to be called out to a case. She had only agreed to go on the date to appease her best friend, Benny, who insisted Cari had been “on the bench” too long since Mattias.
Cari looks back over to the mother, whose whole body is now shaking.
“I see how it looks.” Her finger has turned on Cari. “Just another teen suicide. Or maybe an accidental OD. Another addict who fooled his parents. No fucking way! I know my Owen.” Her voice cracks and her chin drops, fractionally. “Never, never, never…”
“We don’t make any assumptions from the outset,” Cari says.
“Somebody must have killed my son!”
Cari has witnessed the same response too many times in her career. The outrage. The shock. The denial. But not in this setting. Not with the victim still splayed on the floor of his own bedroom. The uniforms would never have allowed the mother to stay in the room while two crime scene techs scoured the scene, were she not one of California’s most influential state senators—a fixture on the local news—and, according to some pundits, the front-runner to succeed the current governor.
“We’re going to find out what happened to Owen. I promise you, Senator Galloway.” Cari has to stop herself. It’s not the time or place to pose the usual questions: Did her son have mental health issues? Were there substance use concerns? Had his mood changed of late? Was there a recent breakup or any other crisis in his life?
Without any visible signs of trauma, murder is already near the bottom of Cari’s list. Statistically speaking, fentanyl or some other opioid would be at the top. Suicide, a close second. Granted, there are a few anomalies, like the lack of any visible drug paraphernalia or pill bottles. Perhaps even natural causes? The boy is rail-thin. Regardless, the LAPD’s Robbery and Homicide Division would not normally have been called to a scene as tragically familiar as this one.
The finger stills and the senator’s hand drops to her side. The voice is calmer. The visage of the seasoned politician re-emerges. “What’s next, Detective Garcia?”
“We’ll start with the forensic evidence we find here.” Cari waves toward the nearest crime scene tech, who is examining the pinkish rug where Owen lies.
Cari can tell by the way the tech avoids direct contact with the body that he’s uncomfortable with the mother’s presence. She steps out into the hallway and, without looking back, senses the senator’s hesitance to leave her son’s side. Cari cannot begin to imagine her torrent of emotions. And, as usual, she refuses to try. “Don’t catch feelings. Feelings are the investigator’s kryptonite,” her old Detective Training Unit instructor used to drill into them. “They will blind you.”
The senator finally joins Cari in the hallway, which is mercifully out of the sight line of her son’s body.
“It could be homicide.” Cari spreads her hands. “No question. Owen might’ve been drugged or poisoned. But the autopsy—and especially the toxicology screen—will be essential in establishing what happened to him. And how.”
The senator eyes her steadily. Her voice is eerily calm now, almost affable. “I get it, Detective Garcia. Anything to appease the grieving mother. You’ll go through the motions. The toxicology will find fentanyl or something even worse. And you’ll file your report. It will all be very professional and respectful. Maybe you’ll call it an accidental overdose to protect the family’s reputation.” She goes quiet and the thrum of the air conditioner fills the void. “But someone did this to my Owen. And I expect you to find out who.”
CHAPTER 2
Storage. Julie Rees knows it’s ridiculous, but she can’t stop focusing on it. Standing in front of the spacious walk-in closet, she’s reminded how it was the one feature that tipped her into buying the two-bedroom condo. Even more so than the sleek new concrete-and-glass design or the handy location in the heart of downtown Vancouver or even its enviable view—whenever the stubborn November clouds decide to part—of the North Shore mountains with a glimpse of ocean between.
But Detective Anson Chen does love his clothes. Will there be space for all his dress shirts, suits, and jackets once he moves in? Not to mention his extensive collection of Italian shoes and boots along with all his name-brand activewear.
“It’s like you’re running a Hugo Boss outlet out of your closet,” Julie told Anson the night before as they cuddled in his bed.
“More like Armani or Balenciaga.” He kissed her neck. “Boss just doesn’t sit right across my shoulders.”
“Why do I suddenly hear Carly Simon playing in my head?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m so vain.” He sat up in the bed. “This really about closet space, Julie?”
She considers the question again now as she eyes a row of dresses and skirts. But Julie doesn’t feel as if she’s getting cold feet. And she finds Anson’s meticulous attention to his attire—a hint of insecurity behind his otherwise impenetrably self-assured persona—kind of endearing. She is secre
Julie is relieved when her mobile phone chimes and pulls her out of her First World conundrum. The day has been so quiet she almost forgot she’s still on call for Poison Control. She hurries back to the kitchen and sweeps the ringing phone off the island counter. “Dr. Rees,” she says.
“Julie, luv!” the man chirps in a singsong Yorkshire lilt.
“Hiya, Glen.” She perks up, hearing the voice of one of her favorite nurses. “How are you?”
“Oh, just about five more pounds and ten extra blood pressure points away from a stroke, but otherwise tip-top. And you? How’s that handsome detective of yours?”
“Get this, Glen.” She can’t help herself from sharing. “He’s moving in with me.”
“Oh, so many congrats! Stan will be thrilled. You know, we’re going on twenty-eight years tomorrow ourselves? Of course, I never asked him to move in. He came over one night and just never left.”
“Ha! You used that same line at your twenty-fifth anniversary bash.”
“Can’t repeat the truth enough, luv,” Glen says. “Listen, I’ve got a doozy of a call on the other line. A real pickle.”
“Tell me.”
“An ER doc from your own backyard. Dr. Veljkovic.”
“Goran?” Julie is surprised her friend and mentor—who’s old school to the core—would even consult Poison Control. He possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of medicine, and what he doesn’t know, he prefers to look up himself. “What’s he got?”
“A thirty-six-year-old male bodybuilder with recurrent seizures. Possibly related to a new supplement the man has been taking. Oh, and apparently, his temperature is through the roof.”
Julie’s neck tightens as she thinks of her own similar case from the previous month. And how poorly it turned out. “Patch him through, Glen. Please.”
A few seconds later, she hears the familiar deep voice with its slight Slavic clip. “Julija!” he says, pronouncing it as usual in the Croatian style, where each j sounds like a y. “Just the very person I sought.”
“Hi, Gor,” she says, all businesslike. “What’s going on?”
“This patient, he will not stop seizing. We’ve loaded him with benzodiazepines and Dilantin. But nada. No response. And he’s an ox, Julija. At least two-fifty. Maybe two-sixty. No doubt steroids. But he’s been taking something else, too. Some pills a friend gave him. Oh, and his fever!”
“I was just going to ask—”
“It’s over forty-one degrees Celsius! That’s a hundred and six Fahrenheit, if you’re averse to metric. He’s delirious now but between convulsions he told us he took five capsules instead of the one he was instructed to.”
“Did he tell you which capsules, Gor?”
“He has no idea. Why would you bother asking your friend silly questions like what poison he is feeding you?” Goran snorts. “I’m thinking maybe it’s an anticholinergic poisoning? Or a serotonin syndrome?”
Julie knows these are two of the most common types of overdoses that can cause fevers, seizures, and delirium, but she recognizes these symptoms as something else. “You’ve got to get his temperature down, Gor. Whatever it takes. Flush him with cold IV fluids. Ice packs to his armpits and groin. Soak him in freezing water and blast him with a fan. It’s vital! Oh, and load him up with dantrolene.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve already ordered it.”
“And you can’t fill him with enough benzos.”
Goran’s voice is suddenly soft. “What are you not telling me, Julija?”
“Those pills he was given.” She takes a slow breath. “I had a case just like it last month. A DNP overdose.”
“DNP? What is that?”
“2,4-Dinitrophenol.”
“Never heard of such a thing.”
“That’s because it was never meant to be ingested. It’s an explosive, Gor.”
“Explosive? As in munitions?” His voice breaks. “What kind of madness…?”
“I’ll be there in ten!” Julie says and disconnects without waiting for a reply.
CHAPTER 3
Over forty-five million Insta followers. Lorraine Flynn—known by most of the world as simply “Rain”—can’t believe it herself. Five years ago, she would have been thrilled to hit ten thousand. Aside from the few dogged haters, Rain basks in the online love. It immerses her. Inspires her. Lifts her up. Her music is more visceral because of it, and her acting more intimate.
Most of the time, it makes up for how much she disgusts herself.
Rain raises her foot to step forward but freezes. She has already peed twice in the past hour. She hasn’t touched a bite of food or a drop of liquid in almost fourteen hours. It’s the perfect moment to get on the scale. But her stomach still rumbles, and despite how empty it is, she swears she’s going to throw up as her big toe inches toward the scale.
There’s only one way to do it. Fast. Like diving into a frigid lake!
Rain hops onto the scale with both feet. But her breath catches. And, almost involuntarily, her eyelids slam shut. Only after she steadies her breathing does she tilt her chin down and open her eyes. How bad can it be?
“96.4” the blue numbers glow.
The elation overwhelms her. More so than if she had found another ten million Insta followers. She prayed she would be under triple digits, but this is three pounds lighter than she dared to hope.
Rain has always been very public with her fans about her mental health struggles, especially her body image issues. She still can’t shake the painful memories of all the low points—the lowest of all being the night of her fifteenth birthday when she felt so fat and ashamed that she had no choice but to swallow every pill she could find in her parents’ medicine cabinet.
The whole world knows how much better Rain is doing since her troubled teen years. Dr. Markstrom reminds her of it almost every day. What a model she is for other kids out there who struggle with the same issues.
And Rain is happy to help. To show them what can be overcome.
She feels too contented to step off the scale. So instead, she stretches out a hand and pinches the bottle off the counter between her fingers. She taps out a single red-and-black capsule into her palm.
CHAPTER 4
Julie flies through the front door of St. Michael’s ER and past the triage desk with a quick wave to the nurse behind it. There is the expected lengthy lineup of people waiting to register, including four sets of paramedics flanking patients on gurneys, one of whom is writhing in pain and another who appears to be unconscious. Two more nurses have already come out to the waiting room to assess both patients.
As Julie rushes down the hallway toward the resuscitation room, she picks up on the beeps, whirs, and voices of purposeful commotion even before she steps foot inside the expansive room. Only the first bay is occupied, but a flurry of activity encircles the hulking man on the stretcher. With an oxygen mask covering his face, he sits propped up as he picks at the air in front of him, exposing a rippled and veiny arm and shoulder.
The radiology tech beside him struggles to lean the goliath forward so that he can slide a chest X-ray plate behind the patient’s back. One of the bedside nurses helps from the opposite side of the stretcher, and together they wedge the plate behind the man.
Julie has always considered Goran Veljkovic to be a bear of man in terms of size and hairiness. But even the sixtyish, Croatian ER physician looks small beside his patient.
As soon as Goran spots Julie in the doorway, he pads over to her. “While they take the X-ray…” His gloved hand encircles her upper arm and gently leads her out of the room. Once they’re standing in the corridor, he flashes a tired grin. “You didn’t have to come, Julija. You could’ve saved the gas or electricity or rainwater… or whatever it is that powers that fancy new car of yours…”
“I wanted to.”
