The Cure

In the morgue, the doctors are talking to the detective who came in to close the case. “Lieutenant Johnson, we have an interesting case here,” Sandra Arnold said. “Your guys last night said that this prostitute has a long record has been on the street since she was about sixteen.” Johnson replied, “Yep. I arrested her over ten years ago the first time and a few since then. She is a regular. What are you going to tell me, she is riddled with AIDS, syphilis and had a cold? Hell, by now she should have been dead 5 years.” Sandra continued, “That’s the interesting thing. She doesn’t appear to have any illness. Look at her.” She pulled back the sheet to show a fine specimen of a 30 year-old, well-conditioned and healthy native African woman. “She should show some signs of some disease by now.” “Well, I guess she just kept herself in shape. I don’t see anything unordinary. We have her as a drug overdose. Her ‘john’ is unknown and the room was in her name. Treat her as an indigent and send her body for cremation.” “But, what about her relatives?” Sandra asked. “She has none. Believe me Doctor,” Johnson said, “we know Mandisa. She has no one and no one cares about her. We - the social workers - have done everything to get her a job and to straighten her out. Something was wrong with her and we had no way to find any relatives. She told us once that all of her relatives died in Angola. Just send her to the furnace, I have paperwork to do.” Doctor Arnold nodded yes and Lt. Johnson left. But, before turning her over to the technicians, Sandra took some blood - just three tubes. She wanted to send them for tests. This beautiful young woman had to be disease-ridden and was not. “How could she appear so healthy after 16 years on the street?”