The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [35]
“No harm. Ben, go back into the breakfast room now with your mother.”
“But I want—”
“No arguments.”
“Ben.” Avril’s voice was a murmur, but it worked. Ben’s head drooped again as he dragged his feet out of the room.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Avril said, curved her lips in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, then retreated.
“We’re keeping the children home for a few days,” Icove explained. “The media doesn’t always respect grief, or innocence.”
“He’s a great-looking kid, Dr. Icove,” Peabody put in. “He favors your wife.”
“Yes, he does. Both our children favor Avril.” His smile warmed, became genuine. “Fortunate DNA. What do you need to know?”
“We have some questions regarding some information accessed from discs recovered from your father’s home office.”
“Oh?”
“The data they’re on was coded.”
There was a change—just a flicker—when puzzlement became shock, a shock masked by mild interest. “Medical notes often seem like code to the layman.”
“True enough. Even when the text was accessed, the contents are puzzling. Your father appears to have taken notes on the treatment of some fifty patients, female patients from their late teens to early twenties.”
Icove’s expression remained neutral. “Yes?”
“What do you know about those patients, those . . . treatments, Dr. Icove?”
“I couldn’t say.” He spread his hands. “Certainly not without reading the notes. I wasn’t privy to all my father’s cases.”
“These strike me as a special project, and one he took some care to keep secure. My impression was his field of interest was reconstructive surgery and sculpting.”
“Yes. For more than fifty years, my father dedicated his skills to that field, and led the way to—”
“I’m aware of his accomplishments.” Deliberately, Eve hardened her voice. “I’m asking about his interests, and his work, outside of that field, the field he’s publically known for. I’m asking about his sidelines, Dr. Icove. Those that involve testing and training young women.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Eve took out the hard copies, passed them to him. “These give a glimmer?”
He cleared his throat, read through them. “I’m afraid not. You say you found these on disc in his home office?”
“That’s right.”
“Possibly copies from a colleague.” He lifted his head, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Eve’s. “There’s nothing on here to indicate to me that these are my father’s notes. They’re very incomplete. Case studies of some sort, of course. And honestly, I fail to see what these might have to do with your investigation.”
“I determine what has to do with my investigation. What I found on discs in your father’s possession deals with more than fifty unidentified young women who were subjected to tests and evaluations, some surgeries, over a course of years. Who are they, Dr. Icove? Where are they?”
“I don’t care for your tone, Lieutenant.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I assume these women were part of a voluntary test group which interested my father. If you knew anything about reconstructive surgery, or sculpting, you’d be aware that the body isn’t merely the box that holds the prize. When the body is seriously injured, it affects the brain, the emotions. The human condition must be treated as a whole. A patient who loses an arm in an accident loses more than a limb, and must be treated for that loss, must be treated and trained to adjust to it and live a contented and productive life. Quite possibly my father was interested in this particular case study as a means to observe individuals, over the course of a span of years, who were being tested and evaluated on every level.”
“If this study took place in the Center, you’d be aware of it?”
“I’m sure that I would.”
“You and your father were close,” Peabody said.
“We were.”
“It seems if he was interested enough in a project like this one, enough to keep records in his home office, he would have discussed it with you at some point. Father to son, colleague to colleague.”
Icove