Julie Winsome, M.D., Medical Detective: Science Fiction Mysteries Volume One

By Priscilla Lowell and Jeff Porter

If readers have enjoyed Dr. Julie Winsome and government agent Jeff Barton's travels and experiences in Volume I of the series: "Julie Winsome, M.D. , Medical Detective," science fiction mysteries, they will be glad to know six more chronicles will follow. Volume 2 and 3 are on the horizon.

As the series continue, Dr. Winsome, goes to work once again to help solve medical mysteries in a future time. The world calls her to a myriad of different locals. From a preserved, historic Washington, D.C. to the transformed ultimate cities; Chicago and Miami then on to the dazzling hilly paradise confines of the island of Molokai, and beyond.

Dr. Julie Winsome, M.D. former astronaut and forensic author, goes where her talents and expertise are needed. Will you follow where her ventures lead her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543411256

Priscilla Lowell

Priscilla Lowell's writing career titles include; Associate Editor, contributing editor, interviewer, and film and theatre reviewer, for numerous newspapers and magazines. Celebrity, political and author interviews were a specialty. She also critiqued pre-release films at the Motion Picture Association, The American Film Institute as well as stage plays at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre and the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. Her interviews have appeared in, "Leatherneck" (Marine Corps) magazine. Early on, a book of her poetry and photographs; "A Journey Through West Wales" was published. The three book series: "Julie Winsome, M.D. Medcial Detective," science fiction mysteries, are a dramatic departure from the writer's previous work. As the author said:..."Finishing the Julie Winsome, M.D. stories, is a dream realized for me. Her adventures needed to be told. My hope is that readers want to know more about what Julie and Jeff do in the future."

Book preview

Murder at Katya’s Camp

Chapter I

A few states in America, like New Hampshire, were a haven of bygone simplicity and Old World nontech calm, rare in the New Universe Age. This was especially true of the small towns like Goffstown. It was the kind of uncomplicated place where parents didn’t worry about a small boy rowing a boat alone at a deserted lake at dusk in autumn.

Row, row, row yer boat, gent-lee … the boy sang in a loud voice. He was a normally shy child who was only singing this song so confidently now because he was bolstering his courage and, rowing slowly into the shore of Lake Uncanoonuc. The cool New Hampshire fall air echoed the last blurted strains as the child jumped out of the rowboat and into the shallow, rocky water near the lake edge.

Life is but a dream—ahhh! the boy screeched and dropped the boat end with a watery thud. What he had seen hanging out of a shored rowboat next to him was terrifying. The thin white hand draped over the side of the boat was that of an elderly woman. It took several more minutes before the boy had the nerve to peer into the boat again. The gray-haired woman had a look of surprise on her face.

One hour later, the boy’s mother called the local police. It had taken her a while to extract the story clearly from her hysterical son, who bicycled home from the lake in a soft rain.

Chapter II

Detective Paul Polaski took another long drag on his cigarette before snuffing it out in one squashing push into the side of a clear glass ashtray. He had been called back from a vacation in Canada on this one. Dr. James Vilani, the coroner, had urgently requested him to appear here at his office to discuss the case of Dr. Katya Bruel, who was found dead in her small boat at Lake Uncanoonuc.

Vilani began, At first I thought it was the simple death of an elderly woman. You know, a stroke or heart attack. But it’s just not shaping up that way. He stopped, pushing his closed ballpoint pen end over end long enough to look the detective in the eye before continuing, It wasn’t a case of sudden death, though. I think it’s a lot more complicated than that.

The detective turned back from the large window where he had been watching fat squirrels scampering up a tree. You mean, you suspect foul play in the old woman’s death?

Yes, I do … but it’s hard to imagine who’d want to harm a person like Dr. Bruel.

You knew her then? the detective asked.

No, not really, just by reputation. She was an anthropologist and had several books published. She was a scholarly type, quiet, and with few friends. Distant relatives sometimes visited her from Germany. The detective was fascinated with this unexpected source of information in the coroner. He wanted to hear more.

Go on, Dr. Vilani, please.

There’s not much more to tell. I mean, I don’t know much more about her, except that she bought that place—her camp, as she called it. I understand that she kept the place for a summer cottage until about five years ago when she had it fixed up for year-round use.

She was sort of a recluse scholar then, said Polaski, absentmindedly lighting up another cigarette.

Those things are bad for you, you know. Vilani motioned toward the smoking tobacco in the lawman’s hand.

I know. Now would you continue about the old woman, and what you’ve found?

Of course. The woman seems to have suffered several flat blows to the head and neck.

Polaski looked up. You mean like one inflicted by a club?

A club maybe, but I don’t think so, something flat and heavy, like the side of a large hammer, used with colossal force.

Could she have fallen out of the boat and somehow have swum back to it and rowed into shore before collapsing?

The coroner informed him, That might have been the case, except for one thing, Detective Polaski—she couldn’t have gone far with the serious neck injury.

What’s that? the detective said, searching for another cigarette.

She’s got a broken neck.

Polaski exhaled sharply, making a long column of fog-colored smoke spread out in front of him. I think we need some extra help with this case, Vilani.

I’ve got an idea, the coroner said quickly, pulling a book from his shelf. I heard this woman speak at a medical convention last month. Vilani tapped the spine of the book. She’s a freelance medical detective. The best, I hear.

All right, all right, Coroner Vilani. But who’s going to pay for her transportation and expenses? We’re on a budget, you know.

The coroner put the book back safely on its place over his desk and turned back to Polaski. How much can an Ultra-Train ticket from Boston and a short stay at the Inn cost? He grinned.

The detective threw his shabby brown wool overcoat on and headed for the door. How do I get myself into these things? he muttered in a weary tone as he pushed the swinging doors out and left.

Vilani walked across the room to his tele-message machine and dialed up the information number for Boston, Massachusetts. Dr. J. Winsome’s tele-message numbers appeared on the screen, and Vilani made a note of them in an old-fashioned card file. He found it hard to let go of some archaic habits.

After several no-answer signals appeared on the screen, he pushed the urgent all-message code into the machine and signed off. He was relieved that he had done his best. Dr. Winsome would be located by the tele-message machine by morning.

Good night, light, he said to activate the shut-off mechanism in his office.

Outside of his office building, a bolt of lightning cracked across the sky in gold, like a child’s scribbled drawing. Vilani spoke to his car, and the door opened. He spoke again, and the motor started.

Home, James, he said straight-faced. His subtle sense of the absurd was evident, even in this code word designed to activate the automatic pilot so that his car would take him home while he read some reports undisturbed on the magna highway.

Chapter III

Julie Winsome woke to the dull, fuzzy click of the urgent low-toned alarm of her tele-message machine. The telephone-answering machine with a TV screen recorded the caller’s messages on film. The machine was also used as a radio, television, alarm clock, and home computer. Exhausted from a long night on call at a local hospital, Dr. Winsome did not push the Retrieve button immediately on the message center machine.

A rotund calico cat named Emily stretched a long, languid stretch, extending only her orange-and-white-splattered front paws out ahead. Carefully she flexed her nails into and out of the thick gold rug. Her noisy yawn was followed by a short feminine meow.

Emmy, Dr. Winsome called from across the room. Emmy, you up yet? she called again. But the cat was gone from her floor-based orange velvet cushion. She surprised her owner with a sudden heavy jump up onto her blanketed stomach. There you are. Good morning, sweets. Julie switched on the remote control button marked Replay and then replaced the cigarette box–sized control mechanism back on the round ecru glass table by her bed.

The tall, balding, and somewhat harried image of Dr. Vilani, the Manchester coroner, in his rumpled white lab coat, blipped to clearness on the miniscreen.

Dr. Winsome, this is Jim Vilani from Manchester, New Hampshire. We met last month at the Detroit convention. We have a difficult case here at Goffstown involving the death of an elderly woman. Detective Polaski of the Manchester Police agreed we could use some help. We’d like your comments on this one if you could find the time to come up here. The number here is NH-469. Oh, and by the way, I’ve enjoyed your books, and I thought your talk on forensics at the Michigan convention was outstanding. He made a crinkled half smile, and then Dr. Vilani faded to a gray shadow and disappeared with a fast, troubled pop.

Em, I’ve got to get a new tele-video machine. This one has had it, Julie said while scratching the head of the purring feline. The cat let out two loud sleepy squeaks and ran into the small kitchen. Are you trying to tell me something? Julie said. I do remember Vilani. He liked my speech. Now how could I forget someone who liked my speech at the Detroit convention? It’s good to have fans, Emily, but there is the obligation to help them out. Now I’ve got to get up to Manchester and cancel my appointments here. Emily nudged her metal food dish until it made a sharp noise on the floor.

OK, all right, Julie said to the cat, throwing on a white terry robe as she did so. Just let me call the good country doctor, would you? She pulled on some hot-pink knee socks, which had been lying on the wooden floor.

Twenty minutes later, Vilani was called. The Ultra-Train tickets had been reserved, along with the Inn reservation, and Julie was sitting with a cup of coffee in her hand, reading Regardes. Emmy, for her part, was polishing off the last of a meal of tuna fish. A cunning smile seemed to overtake her furry face.

Dr. Winsome suddenly jumped and spilled her coffee on the white robe. Emily! she shouted. It’s 10:00 a.m., I’ve got exactly one-half hour to make the New Hampshire Ultra-Train. Gads.

Quickly Dr. Winsome dialed into the tele-message machine the numbers of her office and the message that she was called out of town unexpectedly. Her secretary must cancel all appointments for the next several days and plan to visit Emily daily too. Then she packed her small leather case with what she would need for the stay in New Hampshire. She pushed the automatic feeding station button in the kitchen, and clean dishes, food, and water appeared on the floor for Emily. The cat growled at this immaculate display of modern animal care.

Don’t worry, at 6:00 a.m., you’ll get canned food dispensed too. This seemed to placate the cat as she sauntered into her cushion for another day of sleep.

Bye, love, Julie called to the cat as the shrill horn of the Quix Aid cab blasted from a sky-floating platform visible from Julie’s condominium living room window to announce its arrival.

Chapter IV

The porter