"But you said he'd never recover anyway," I argued.
Thorsen seemed to be considering that. "Yes," he said at last. "That's more apparent now than ever. He's beginning to suffer the usual complications of immobility. Probably won't last more than a few weeks anyway. But can't you get the dope you want from his brother?" he stalled while he weighed his ethics against the necessity of the moment.
"His brother," I told him, "is dead. Paper clips. Right through the heart."
"I see. Well, we could operate, but as I said, Calvin wouldn't survive for long. Maybe only hours or minutes. And maybe not even long enough to regain consciousness after we remove the clot."
I said, "I've left a crew at the Baxter house to tear it apart, board by board, until we find this so-called extractor that Leo hid. But even after we find it, we need Calvin to tell us how to make it work. There must be a part missing."
We had wandered into Calvin's room and were talking over his great, supine body, covered to the chin with a white sheet. The speck of scalp on his forehead had dried up and dropped off leaving only a faint white spot.
As I mentioned the missing part, his lips began moving and a grunt issued from his throat. "Listen," I said. "He hears me! He's trying to talk!"
"No, Lieutenant." Thorsen said, putting a hand to his eyes. "He's been grunting like that for days. The only word that ever comes out is his brother's name, Leo."
The name struck anger and frustration in me. "Leo," I half-shouted. "That stinking little—never even visited his brother!"
"Relax, Gene. That won't do any good. The man's dead," he reminded me.