The Revengers;Always the Third Doctor!;Jo Grant;Katy Manning;Jon Pertwee;UNIT;TARDIS;The Revengers Episode Three
The Revengers
Episode Three
Written by Jeri Massi
Dr. Breed met the Doctor as the timelord swept into the showering room at the forensics lab. Stripping off the elegant velvet jacket, UNIT's scientific advisor was terse and direct. "You got the blood analysis for mineral content?"
Breed, already clad in whites, nodded. "High selenium; much higher than normal. Possibly dangerous levels, in fact. Very rare."
"Not for a fitness fanatic. Selenium's all the rage now," Another voice said, quite calmly.
The Doctor looked up. "Are you having a party in here?" He slipped off his trousers and pulled on the papery lab trousers. A younger man came around the corner from the locker area.
"This is Professor Mark Lowry," Breed said. "Teaches organic chemistry down at university and serves as a consultant for some of the agricultural companies. Brilliant in toxicology."
Relenting of his annoyance, the Doctor shook hands with Lowry. "I must say, you seem quite young to be teaching university."
Lowry grinned cheerfully. He was homely and still had traces of acne around his nose and thick, heavy glasses. But the grasp of his hand was powerful, healthy, and warm. And as the Doctor returned to strapping his trouser cuffs closed, he noted that Lowry had massive shoulders, revealing an athletic side to the bookish nature.
"I am young, sir," Lowry told him. "Skipped a few grades in my time and had the unfortunate skill of surpassing some of my professors during my undergraduate days. They either had to expel me or promote me, and they decided on promotion."
The Doctor grinned. "Lucky for you, eh? Nothing a teacher likes less than a student who knows more."
"I think they wanted me where somebody could keep an eye on me."
"Mark here has been a regular boon to the agricultural interests," Breed added. "Set them on the right path with their research and development. But, uh, for our purposes he can save us a great deal of time in searching for toxins. He's an expert, and he's offered to help."
"Well, thank you very much, and so to the matters at hand," the Doctor said.
"The deceased was an avid athlete," Lowry told him. "Very good amateur boxer and a former power lifter. It sort of ended when he and his wife split up a few years ago. Didn't know what to do with himself. But it explains the selenium levels in his tissues."
"Eh?" the Doctor asked. He pulled on the white tunic and let Lowry tie it up in the back.
Breed spoke up. "Selenium's all the rage now, Doctor. Selenium supplements, selenium powders."
Lowry laughed. "Even selenium milkshakes."
"Toxicity with selenium is rare but possible," the Doctor began. He tied on his mask and then pulled on the gloves. With a nod at the two other scientists, he led the way into the theatre. "You're saying that even though he was not actively training, the deceased was keeping up with a nutrition program?"
Lowry nodded. The light reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. "Either from habit or perhaps with the idea that he would get back into it," he said.
The body had been laid out for them. The Doctor pulled the sheet back and picked up the stiff right hand. He examined the fingernails. "Brittleness," he announced. "I should have seen that right off."
"Typical of selenium toxicity," Breed added.
"Let's take a look at the gut," Lowry said. "If one of you gentlemen would have a go for me . . . . "
"Think you can stand it?" Breed asked cautiously.
"Not much choice, eh?"
Breed incised the abdomen and then the peritoneal lining.
"Skin is good," the Doctor observed. "No sign of toxic levels."
Breed's eyes crinkled as he frowned through the mask. The three of them were bent over the cadaver, intent. Breed fingered a length of the intestines. "No damage."
"Let's get a look at a sample of the bronchioles," Lowry said.
"Go ahead and remove the lungs intact, then" the Doctor added. "It looks to me like his selenium levels may have been high, but not toxic."
"It still may have been a factor," Breed said.
Lowry shook his head. "None I ever heard of. Let's get sections of the intestines as well. We can look for capillary rending to see if he was experiencing gastrointestinal trouble."
"There's no sign of infection, either." The Doctor straightened up. "Not a toxin and not an infection."
"We really haven't determined either yet. Bring that pan up for the lungs. This is going to take some work." And Breed set to work opening the chest cavity. "Well, he had blasted good bones, didn't he? I can't get them apart. Lowry, there are some power tools over there. Bring them, will you? Mind the cords."
The younger man went to get the cutting tools.
"It has to be toxicity," the Doctor said. "Else why wouldn't anybody else be infected? His brother shot him and got blood all over himself. And what about his former wife? Healthy, I assume?"
Breed nodded absently. He was intent on trying to get the chest cavity open and so made no answer.
Lowry was dubious. "I just don't know of any toxin that would cause the acute formation of brain lesions, Doctor," the young man said. He pulled up a wheeled tray of tools and pushed it gently to Breed. "If a toxin were that potent, then why would it stop at the brain? Why not eat through everything? Break down proteins where ever they happened to be? And there's no trace of any toxic substance in his organ and muscle tissues. It could be a slow acting infection." Then he hesitated. "Or perhaps a breakdown of his own immune system. You know, similar to Alzheimer's. Or even TB. That's an amyloid disease as well."
The Doctor was thoughtful. Breed switched on the cutting tool and for several moments was completely wrapped up in the precise job of getting his way through the ribs and sternum into the chest cavity. Lowry politely looked away. Breed shot a glance at the Doctor and offered half a grin before turning his eyes back to the body. The young toxicologist had been doing very well, but there was no doubt a horrific quality to this type of work.
But the Doctor was unsmiling. "You know," he said. "I have a young friend just getting into fitness training." Lowry suddenly brightened on this and turned interested eyes to the Doctor. "She was attacked by a man who was going through a steroid rage."
Breed switched off the power to the cutting tool. "Yes?"
"Well, all kinds of things are marketed to these fellows to boost their muscles," the Doctor said. "So, what if this dead chap took something deliberately.? He was still following a training diet, wasn't he? Maybe he was taking anabolic steroids."
"Or something being marketed as anabolic steroids," Breed added.
Lowry slowly nodded but raised the obvious objection. "We haven't found anything to indicate that."
"No, but the latest information on what's being sold might give us a starting place to look," the Doctor said.
Breed nodded. "It's the best lead we've got. I'll follow up on it to the police."
"No need of that," the Doctor said. "I'll follow up with Chief Inspector Jake and keep the Brigadier informed. We'll want to investigate."
"I'm a serious weightlifter," Lowry said. Breed was surprised. The bookish young man did not have the attitude of a body builder. But the Doctor was not surprised. He had already noted the broad shoulders and wide arms. "Dianabol is the steroid of choice," Lowry told them.
"Dianabol?" Breed asked.
Lowry shrugged. "Dianabol, Niverar, Durabolin. All the same thing, really." He shook his head. "But there's nothing like this in the history of its use."
"Looked into it, have you?" the Doctor asked.
"Certainly. I don't need a board of British physicians telling me what's safe and what isn't," Lowry said. "Effects of overuse of these drugs is similar to any hormone imbalance. Increased aggression, possible liver damage, development of breasts in men in extreme cases. Could be carcinogenic on the long term."
"Effect on protein synthesis?" the Doctor asked.
"Marked effect." He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "But never the formation of plaques. Dianabol causes a nitrogen imbalance and makes for unnatural protein synthesis. But the proteins themselves are sound. It's never been associated with amyloidosis, not even in extreme cases of overuse." He held up the pan as Breed removed the entire respiratory organ from the dead man's chest cavity. "If this man died from something he took in the gym, then he was either given a poison in disguise as a steroid, or he was given an experimental drug that we have never seen before," Lowry said. Arms full, Breed settled the red and black mass into the pan and nodded his thanks.
* * * *
"There you are! I was afraid you'd forgotten me!" And Jo gave him a quick hug before confidently leading him by the hand to their favorite table at the tea room. "I ordered you up a nice big sandwich," she said. "Instead of those little things that you don't like."
"Feeling rather beefy, are you?" he asked her. "Going to get a real sandwich for yourself?"
"No, not at all. Len says that lifting weights is not masculine, so I'll be having tea sandwiches and cookies." She sat down across from him and smiled her bright and happy smile at him. "And I intend to drink the tea with my pinky out!"
"You," he said, "are feeling better." He had not noticed that she had been moping about the lab ever since their adventures at the naval base, but now her energy reminded him that she had indeed been overtired for several weeks.
"I love lifting weights!" she told him. She took up the tea pot and poured his tea.
"What did you do today?" he asked.
"Today we worked on squats and leg presses and hamstring curls and abs. I hurt here and here and here." She pointed to each of her shoulders at the back and then to her midsection."
"You worked on lower body, but your shoulders hurt?" he asked.
"Yes, because I have to put that bar across my traps to do the squats. Doctor, what exactly are traps?"
"The muscles that go across your uppermost back, Jo. They support your neck and align your spine near the top."
"Well, they hurt the most. And all they did was bear the bar. It's the legs did all the work." She popped three of the little bread triangles into her mouth in rapid succession: one, two three. She stopped, dismayed. "Am I eating too fast?"
"How much did you squat?"
"Sixty pounds! Isn't that quite a lot? It's nearly two thirds my own body weight! Len says that by next month I'll be squatting a hundred!"
"I think I'd like to meet this Len," he said. "You do go on about him."
"I don't mean to. After next week I'll mostly be working by myself," she told him. "He's still teaching me. But he does know an awful lot about my body."
He raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon!"
"I mean the human body!" And she giggled. "He's a perfect gentleman, Doctor! I'm as safe with him as I am with you!"
"That safe, eh?" He rested his chin on his hand and surveyed her. She was bright and cheerful and energetic. "Do you still miss the lab?"
"Yes!" Her voice was emphatic. "I wish I could help you on this case. Any more developments?"
"Well, we might be looking at experimental anabolic steroids," he told her. "But no, not really. It's exceptionally dreary spending the entire morning with a cadaver and two scientists. Especially when none of them can really provide any hard information."
"I say!" Jo exclaimed. "That man is coming over here. Do you know him?" She nodded at a young man in a shirt that was about half a size too tight for him, especially at the collar, and a very cheap suit with a tie that was about four years out of fashion.
The Doctor turned, but before he could answer, Mark Lowry was stepping up to him and thrusting out a hand.
"Well, hello again, Doctor!" he exclaimed as they shook hands. "I stumbled in here on the lookout for a decent bite to eat and thought I should say hello." He nodded affably at Jo. "But I see you are entertaining a guest---"
"Nonsense, nonsense, do sit down," the Doctor said. "This is my assistant, Miss Josephine Grant. Jo, this is Mark Lowry."
With the light reflecting off his thick glasses, Lowry nodded a bobbing sort of nod, a shy grin on his face. "How do you do, Miss Grant? It is delightful to meet you!"
He slid into a chair next to the Doctor and across from Jo and tugged at the tie at his throat. "Dashed nuisance wearing these things. I always get it too tight."
"Are you working on the case with the Doctor, Mr. Lowry?" Jo asked.
"Er, Jo, that's Doctor Lowry," the Doctor told her.
"Well, Professor actually sir. But please, just call me Mark. I always forget to answer to the other." And he gave a self conscious and shy laugh.
"And you must call me Jo," she said as the Doctor waved the tea lady over. "We were just talking about the case, Mark."
"Bit of a dead end at the moment," the young man said. He was apparently quite uncomfortable in the shirt and finally unbuttoned the cuffs.
"Jo, here, is just getting interested in weight training," the Doctor told him as the tea lady brought his sandwich and set a menu in Lowry's hands. The young professor instantly beamed an enthusiastic smile at Jo, all self consciousness forgotten. "Isn't that smashing?" he asked. "I do love the sport, Miss Grant. Er, Jo, I mean. If you're just starting out, you must consult me if you have any questions." He gave another slight laugh. "You couldn't possibly know less about it that I did when I started, and I'm sure you couldn't possibly make all the mistakes I've made as I've muddled though."
"I'm sure you've done very well," she said warmly.
"Oh yes, now," he told her. "But I was a bit slow getting out the gate." He glanced up at the tea lady. "Eh, the chicken salad looks very good, Miss. Whole wheat toast on the side. And an orange juice if you please." She walked away and he turned his attention back to Jo. "The real key is to never work out half heartedly. Give it all you've got when you're lifting weights, but then you must never only half rest, either. Take your scheduled days off and get a good eight hours of sleep a night. For the first six weeks, it's amazing the difference that just those changes can make."
"Yes, I've found that once humans get enthusiastic about things, it's hard to teach them moderation," the Doctor said. "But moderation is the key."
Lowry's eyes revealed some puzzlement at the word choice, but he nodded in agreement. For the next hour he and Jo conferred on protein synthesis, proper stretching, the right shoes to wear, and the benefits of the two day split versus circuit training. As they all stood to leave, he shook her hand very warmly. "I am familiar with Len's gym," he said. "An excellent place for novices. But really, you must join me some night at the university weight room. We have a little group who meets for special training sessions."
"Thank you," she said. "I'd like that. Perhaps when I'm more fit."
"Not at all. Just give me a ring whenever you'd like. We care far more about a proper attitude toward conditioning and training than years of experience. Your enthusiasm would be most welcome. Good day to you, and all the best." And he strode away. Only then did she notice that under the shiny, ill-pressed suit, his shoulders were broad and the expanse of his lats was wide. The trouser cuffs were just above his ankles, revealing a strip of pale flesh and then the socks, but there was no doubt that Lowry was an exceptionally fit man. Just not aware of how to dress well.
"Well," the Doctor said. She could see that he was trying to be pleased that she'd had an interesting lunch, but he was slightly unhappy about not having her to himself. The Doctor, as Jo had realized months ago, could be captivated by the happiness of others if that happiness included him. He liked happiness and optimism, and usually required pretty good doses of it to stay content during his exile. "How about a lift home, then?" he asked her.
She slipped her arm through his elbow. "Won't you get tired?" she asked. He glanced down at her, frowned at the poor joke, and then pinched her nose.
"Come on, you!" he exclaimed.
The February air was brisk, and he drove Bessy with the top down. She huddled into her anorak and heavy jacket and tried to remember if her flat was in any state of repair for company. She would certainly ask him in for coffee. But he called over the noise of traffic and rushing air to say, "I'll have to drop you off, Jo. I'd better get to some serious work on that fellow's tissue samples this afternoon."
But when they pulled up to the little block of flats that Jo sometimes called home when she could be spared from UNIT, they saw that a police car was parked in front. The Doctor pulled to a stop, his lined face filled with concern. She climbed out without his assistance, and he got out as well. A uniformed officer had obviously been knocking on the doors, and now he strode across the front patch of grass toward them.
"Miss Josephine Grant?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. The Doctor came up and stood beside her. He said nothing but looked intently at the young constable.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Grant," the young man said. "But we've been told that you were present at an altercation involving a Mister James Hughes on Tuesday of this week."
"A man named Jimmy attacked me, yes," she said.
"Mister Hughes has died as a result of injuries he sustained at that time," the young man said with labored formality. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about what, exactly, happened."
"Are you thinking that this poor girl was responsible for his death?" the Doctor demanded.
The constable turned perfectly bland eyes to the time lord. "No sir." He glanced at a tiny notebook in his hands. "We have questioned a Captain Mike Yates about the events of that morning, and he referred us to Miss Grant. We're trying to close the case."
"But how could he have died?" Jo asked. "The ambulance came right away. They stabilized him."
The Doctor rested a hand across her shoulders. "We'll look into it," he said. "Come on." He addressed the young police officer. "I shall take Miss Grant with me to your headquarters. You may question her there if you like, but I want a full medical report on the man who died."
"That will be up to my superiors, sir."
"Well let's go find them, then!" He led Jo back to Bessy. She was glad for the heavy weight of his arm across her shoulders.
* * * *
Though realizing that the man who had attacked her had died and that she was somehow linked to his death had frightened Jo at first, she realized very quickly that the police were truly trying to close the case. She answered a few questions for a blond haired, uniformed policeman whose uniform, slightly more adorned, told her he was of higher rank than constable. But they were interrupted in the tiny office when a tall man with a sagging, wrinkled face and hawk-like nose entered the room. The Doctor came in after him and introduced him to Jo as Chief Inspector Jake.
"Is Mike Yates all right?" Jo asked right away.
Jake inclined his head slightly. "He is not suspected of wrongdoing, Miss," he assured her. "But we do have to make these things clear for public record.." He glanced at his watch and turned to the Doctor. "Breed is meeting us at the hospital. I'll see that Miss Grant is taken home."
"Let me go with you!" Jo exclaimed to the Doctor.
Jake was startled by this, but the Doctor said, "Miss Grant is my assistant at UNIT, Chief Inspector. She is supposed to be on a week's leave." But he gave in. "All right, Jo. Come along if you like."
At the hospital, Dr. Breed barely gave a nod to Jo and Inspector Jake. He met them outside the heavy, reinforced door to the small hospital morgue on the basement floor. "He's ready for transport. Should have seen this coming, with the report of the dementia."
"What was the cause of death?" the Doctor asked.
"He failed to get better," Breed said simply. "Suffered trauma to the head right enough, and the wound did not heal. Not at all."
"Is that typical of brain injuries?" Jake asked.
"No," Breed said. "It's not typical at all. I've never heard of it."
"Lesions?" the Doctor asked.
"No time for a decent appraisal, I'm afraid," Breed told him. "But it's suspicious enough to warrant an investigation. He shouldn't have died."
"You don't mean to say you think this case is related to John Wilson?" Jake asked. "That bloke with the spongy brain?"
"Two weight lifters, both male, both the same age, both suffering from dementia," Breed told him. "Except this man's dementia was intermittent, according to the report."
"Early stages, perhaps," the Doctor added.
The Doctor turned to Jo. "You'd best let Inspector Jake see you home," he said. "We're going to be tied up for who knows how long."
She nodded. But when Jake walked her out to his car, she gave him directions for Len's gym. The day was still fairly early, and she knew she could catch Len before the after-work crowd came in.
* * * *
It was not yet three o'clock, and so the Thursday afternoon crowd had not yet convened at the gym. A few very large men wearing nylon warm up jackets, zipped open, with no shirts underneath, and striped shorts were out on the floor. Jo had already learned to identify "hardcore" power lifters and body builders by the brightly colored clothing they wore on the floor, and the tight jeans, heavy rings, and military accessories they sported off the floor. They were unlike the more typical fitness fanatics and novices, but there were not many of them. And overall they seemed just as friendly as anybody else, except that they preferred each other's company.
They were clustered around the squat station, while one of their number, his face set with pain and his teeth clenched, lowered a bar that rested on his shoulders by bending at the knees and bringing his hips down in the classic squat. He had tight bandages swathed around his knees to protect them from the strain. Jo counted four of the 20 K plates on the left side of the bar, and four on the right. The man was squatting almost 400 pounds, if you counted that the bar itself was 20 K.
She waited in respectful silence. His peers encouraged him. Straining, he reached the low squat position, hesitated, and then pushed up, his teeth still clenched. He groaned and strained as he reached the sticking point, and they shouted at him, though one of their number got behind him to catch the bar if he should start to fall under it. But he let out a loud roar, blasted up the last several inches, and let his friends set the bar on the reinforced steel pegs. Several of them clapped, and they all turned to Jo.
"Have you seen Len?" she asked.
"He got word earlier that his cousin died," one of them said.
"I know. That's what I've got to see him about," she said.
"You were the one Jimmy went after, wasn't you?" another asked. "He just snapped, Miss. He wasn't really like that."
"Well, he attacked Len first, then me," she said. "Look, is he here? Have you seen him?"
But just then Len himself came from the back room where the towels were laundered. He saw Jo and for a moment the eyes in his lined face lighted up, and then became sober.
"Hello then, Jo. What brings you here?" he asked. He was carrying a pile of white folded towels. She ran to him. "It's about Jimmy," she said. "First, well, I'm sorry, Len. I'm sorry he died."
Len nodded briefly. "Aye, well, these things happen don't they? He never did come around, poor old sod." He led the way to the front office. "But, I mean, it's not your fault or the young man's fault. Jimmy did what he did, and I am thankful nobody else was hurt."
"But Len, the police are thinking that Jimmy took some sort of steroid," she said. "That he took something that made him go crazy like that."
He shook his head. They reached the front desk and he set the towels down. "Jo, there's no steroid that does that," he said. "I grant you they can be dangerous, and they have side effects, but not pure, wild insanity like that." He settled himself onto the desk and folded his heavy arms. "And the doctors then. They told me he never even started healing from the fall he took. Well that's not steroids that do that."
"Look, there was another athlete," she told him. "A man named John Wilson---"
His eyes sparked with recognition. "Johnny?" he asked. "I haven't seen him for years. Right smart boxer when he trained regular."
"He's dead, too!" she told him. She looked up and realized that one of the skimpily clad men from the squat machine was standing plainly within earshot, a few feet from the door. The others were still at the squat station but were watching their fellow.
"Did you need something?" Len asked him.
The man did not reply. Jo suddenly realized how extraordinarily big the man was, bigger than Len himself across the chest, shoulders, and biceps. In fact, he was almost monstrous. "It's nothing Len," he said, and he walked away slowly to his mates.
She turned back to Len. "If you know people who are selling steroids or taking steroids, you've got to go to the police!" she exclaimed. "John Wilson was suffering from a terrible brain disease. Something ate through parts of his brain. And now they think that your cousin had the same thing wrong with him."
He stood up and was suddenly dismissive, though not impolite. "What steroid does that, Jo?" he asked her. "You name the drug that they found in their systems, and I'll go straight to the police."
"But that's the problem, don't you see?" she asked. "The scientists and doctors don't know what they're looking for. You've got to go and tell them who is selling drugs to these men. So the police can question them!"
He shook his head. "It's not steroids. It's not any other tissue enhancer."
"Len--"
"Jo, stop!" he exclaimed. He lowered his voice. "You'd better leave," he said. He took her by the shoulders. "What you say to me is one thing, and you're free to have your own opinion. But don't come in here shouting about going to the police. There are things that I can't control in my own gym." He let her go. She realized that the knot of men out on the floor was still watching them.
"Are you afraid of your own customers?" she asked.
His eyes searched hers. "Not so afraid that I wouldn't go to the police if I needed to," he said. "But what you're describing is not on the market. It's liver damage from anabolic steroids, and even then serious damage comes only from high doses. What you're describing sounds like something that was designed to be a poison."
She hesitated, swayed by his words in spite of herself. "Go on," he said quietly. "You'd better go, Jo. Come back when the morning people are here. I'll see you soon."
* * * *
On Friday afternoon, the Doctor picked up Jo in Bessy and drove her out of London to a pleasant neighborhood pub.
"Tired of tea?" she asked as they went up the flagstone walk and gladly entered the warm interior. It was another chilly day, and the long drive in Bessy had chilled her and raised her appetite.
"Oh, a bit, a bit," he said, and then he admitted. "Besides, I didn't want any uninvited guests following me to lunch. Now that Professor Lowry knows our haunts, it is time to change them."
She was surprised. "You don't mean to say you think he followed you yesterday?" she asked.
He swept off his cape and hung it up on a coat stand. "I do," he said. Gallantly, he took her jacket. "Don't know what he wanted, but once he met you it's a sure thing I would never shake him. Besides, I'm tired of tea. I'd like a good dark beer with my sandwich." He pronounced it "beah," and said it with evident anticipation. He showed her to a table.
The pub was half empty, for it was after one. She was ready for something heartier than tea sandwiches. She was given ham, a slab of cheese, and fried bread. The Doctor had beef and potatoes and a bottle of Guiness.
"A very healthy lunch!" he announced as he glanced at her overflowing plate. "I am proud of you! Eat up!"
"I still think you're imagining things about Mark," she told him.
He sawed happily into his meat. "Jo, you have to be one of the most naïve young ladies I have ever met. It's obvious that Lowry followed me to lunch, and it's obvious that you took him by surprise, and it's obvious that he's quite smitten with you." He thrust a piece of beef into his mouth, chewed, closed his eyes with happiness, and then abruptly glared at her as he remembered that he was in the middle of giving her a lecture. He took a drink of beer. "Ah! That's good. I do hate to say it, but Lowry is obviously one of those brilliant fellows who has a hard time catching on to the normal conventions of society. Yes, he would keep following me to lunch to get a chance to see you, and yes he would keep doing it with great single mindedness."
"So you worked with him this morning?" she asked.
"I did. He's a brilliant chap; just brilliant." This was a rare proclamation from the Doctor about anybody. She raised her eyebrows and dug into her own food.
"He found traces of a synthetic glycoprotein in the second man's liver. Might possibly be a lead." He took another drink of his beer. "But Lowry doesn't think so."
"What's a glycoprotein?" she asked.
"Well, in this case it appears to be a mimicking drug that imitates the function of a hormone formed by the kidneys that stimulates the formation of red blood cells," he told her. "James Hughes was taking something to increase his red blood cell production. That, in turn, would have increased protein synthesis---if it didn't kill him first. He was certainly a hard abuser of growth enhancing drugs."
"Would that drug have been a steroid that's commonly used?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Doesn't fit the profile of Dianabol or Durabolin," he said. "It's something else entirely. In fact, I'm wondering if it's not an experimental drug used for anemia treatment." He sipped his beer. "But Lowry insists that the dementia is an infectious disease. Still, the mimicking drug that Hughes used was certainly affecting protein synthesis. If we find that Wilson used the same drug, we'll have found a definite link."
"Did James Hughes have those same lesions?" she asked. "And the plaques?"
"Oh, yes." He nodded. "More confined to the cerebral cortex. Not nearly as pervasive. But they were the cause of death. Uh, indirectly."
"How?" she asked.
"Interfered with the regulation of healing," he said. "Essentially, Hughes' brain forgot how to tell his immune system how to go about rebuilding wounded tissue and fighting infection. His confusion was not as apparent as Wilson's, but it went far deeper, below cognitive levels. The plaques attacked the parts of his brain that regulated his health."
"So when do the police start rounding up steroid dealers?"
"We had nothing to go on until I isolated the glycoprotein in Hughes' liver," he said. "But now that we've identified a substance, we've left word for Inspector Jake. I expect the round ups will start by Monday. I think he'll want to make a grand sweep all at once so that nobody gets away. Likely can't do it on the weekend."
"So you've solved it!" she exclaimed.
He shook his head. "Not really. I haven't shown that the drug Hughes was taking caused the protein breakdown that created the plaques. Essentially, all I've done is shown that the dead man has an experimental drug in his body somehow related to protein synthesis. I'm betting that it's a contributor to the amyloidosis." He inclined his head slightly. "Lowry says I'm wrong. He insists that this is an infectious disease, a sort of tuberculosis of the brain."
* * * *
When Jo arrived home late in the afternoon, she found a white chit of paper affixed to her door with a bit of sticking plaster. She took it down and read it.
Jo
Came by to see if you would like to visit our private training circle.
Sorry I missed you. Don't mean to be a pest.
Lowry
Thoughtfully, she came into her small flat and reflected on this new development. She'd been through this before, and it was sort of an ongoing thing with Mike Yates. Meet somebody, be reminded that there was more to life than the Doctor and UNIT, become attracted, even attached, only to realize that she was not ready to leave her mentor for something and somebody else. It annoyed Mike, but he was usually patient with it. But it led to hurt feelings and disappointment in others, when she was aware of it.
Whatever the Doctor was growing in her mind and heart was something that was remaking her, and she knew it. She was not the same person who had so blithely signed on to UNIT eighteen months ago to see adventure. And the Doctor was not the same cold, distant, and impatient sovereign of the science lab who had once tried to dismiss her or at least get her out of his way. In a sense, though she would never say such a thing out loud, she was remaking him as well. But she didn't even know how she was doing it. Only that she could, and that she had.
And now this note, from another young man. He was a good catch, her mother would say; a fine young man, her father would declare. The Doctor himself had called him brilliant, and Jo had rather liked Mark's completely open friendliness and utter lack of taste in clothes. His number was scrawled on the bottom of the note. She hesitated. Then she sat down and thought about it, still looking at the note. But in the end she folded up the bit of paper and reluctantly dropped it into the dust can. And shortly thereafter she took the dust can out to empty it, safely removing the note from encroaching on her thoughts.
* * * *
The gym was nearly deserted at mid-morning on a Saturday. Most of the members did a two day split, working out on Monday and Tuesday, resting on Wednesday, and then repeating the split on Thursday and Friday, with the weekend off.
But Jo was still new to this and deeply interested in it, so she put in an appearance on Saturday morning to go through the upper body workout that Len had arranged for her. He did most of his cleaning on Saturday, and when she came in, she saw that the broom and mop had been crossed in the open doorway to the women's room, indicating that he was inside.
She poked her head inside. "Len?" she called. He came around from the single rack of six lockers that adorned the women's room.
"Come to work out?" he asked, smiling.
She wisely did not bring up the taboo subject from the day before. "Should I wait for you?" she asked.
"Eh, give me five or ten minutes," he told her. "Go ahead and warm up, but don't put any plates on the bars until I come out to spot you."
She nodded. "Right!"
A few of the hardcore men were at the leg press station. She skipped rope two hundred times, and then went to the bench press. Her best bench press yet had been only 55 pounds, so she was careful in lifting the 44 pound bar from the rack. But her grip was stronger and more assured now. Maintaining good form, she pushed up and brought it back five times, letting her muscles warm up. Len had said she used her arms too much, and she focused her attention on her pectoral muscles.
Suddenly, a huge hand came over the top of her head and got hold of the bar, but not the way a spotter would grab it. In fact, it pushed down on the bar.
She gasped as one of the heavily muscled men suddenly leaned into her view and pushed the bar down onto her chest just above her breasts. She pushed up against it with all her strength, but she was no match for him. She realized that two more men had appeared, one on either side of her at the ends of the bar.
"I read about a poor bloke who put too much weight on the bar," he said to her.
"Let me up!" she exclaimed. "You're hurting me!"
She was pushing up for all she was worth, but he pushed the bar hard into her. Her lungs burned. Her chest felt ready to collapse.
"Too much weight and it came right down onto his throat. Killed him. Ruptured the trachea." He nodded to his friends, and they slipped 20 K plates onto either end of the bar. It raised the weight of the bar to 132 lbs., far more than she could lift off of herself.
He released the bar and stood up, but the extra weight kept her pinned. Her arms burned as she desperately tried to push it off of herself. "You think about that before you start trying to police what other people do," he said. He and his friends walked away.
Episode Four is now online.
