Ten-thirty. It was too late for coffee with the morning gang, but David decided to head for the cafeteria anyway. Better to be alone for a moment. Friday in tote, he strode his stride, now barreling along smoothly, now ducking at imaginary ceilings. The hospital quiet implored on property signs was pierced by the operators' curt, flat pages that sounded like Space Center announcements. In the hallways, he passed the usual inhabitants: doctors writing while they flitted by; nurses in pairs; technicians with lab trays of vacutubes and tourniquets. David recognized them all, but no one stopped to chat. It was as if they knew he was on a mission. And, their greetings were … well … different. Was it their polite nod? Did each feel suspect?
He fixed a coffee. The cashier said, "It's enough to give you the willies."
"What does?"
"C'mon, doc, them murders. You got the black case there. You got the weapon in it, right?"
"No, Sophie, no weapon, only my lunch." David gave her a dollar and didn't wait for change.
He grabbed a table off to the side and sat facing the wall, stirring his coffee in slow sync with the personalities drifting through his mind: Spritz, Tanarkle, even Marsha. And what of Coughlin across town? Venom, big time. Enough to go around for more than one murder.
Motive-wise, he had begun to combine the murders into one. Cortez had to go in order to kill Bugles in the outrageous fashion the murderer selected. But, why that way in the first place? David still hadn't taken a sip.
He returned to thoughts of Spritz and Tarnarkle and the necessity of questioning friends. Questions with an inference. But wait till the real stingers come-like, "Where were you at such-and-such a time?" It should get easier, right? Separation of friendship and criminal justice, pal.
He took his first sip of coffee and left. Ninety-five cents to stir, a nickle to drink.
Next, Foster. He took an elevator to the sixth floor and crossed over to the administrative wing.
"You know him," Foster's secretary, Doris, said, "he's all over the place. Especially the surgical wing. He's always there, it seems. Never in the cafeteria, though-I don't know why. He's brown-bagged it ever since I've been here."
Doris was one employee David had never dated. Fair, fat and forty-good candidate for gallstones, he mused.
She looked at the clock on the mahogany wall. "He should be back at eleven-thirty, Dr. Brooks."
David's phone tickled his hip.
"Are you in the building?" Belle asked.
"Yeah, I'm heading down. What's up?"
"Two things. First, I'm not sure whether to book calls. You're tied up for awhile, right?"
"Not completely. We'll talk about it. I'll be right there." He was about to replace the phone. "Wait," she said. "David, I just received the craziest call. This guy says, `Is your boss still on the case?' He sounded so creepy."
"What did you say?"
"I didn't know what to say but I blurted out something like, `I'm sorry, this is Dr. Brooks' medical office,' and he hung up."
"Did you recognize the voice."
"No. It was deep and kinda muffled."
"Definitely male?"
"Yes, unless she had a bad cold."
"See you in a minute."
The Hole was located off a corridor on the basement level next to an equipment room, not far from the old elevator. It was a tiny space with a door and had ratty walls, a ratty ceiling and a ratty cement floor. Hugging the top of the corridor, flaking cream pipes came at the door from both sides and snaked through its header to fan out above three furniture pieces and a cabinet inside. The pipes which David swore were sheathed in unreported asbestos, ran through two cellar-like windows on the outer wall, apparently into a rear corridor. He often wondered what in hell he was doing in such a rattrap. Some favor Foster's doing me. Rent-free, but sure as shooting, he's claiming a tax credit.
Once in a while, David could smell medicinal and detergent crosscurrents from the pharmacy and laundry on opposite ends of the corridor. And just as often, as he dashed from the Hole, he would freeze in his tracks to avert the daily caravan of laundry carts.
Belle sat on a tubular steel chair at a green metal desk. She appeared more flustered than she had sounded on the phone.
"Whew," she said, "that never happened during your missing persons cases."
"What never happened?"
"That voice."
"Forget it. He knows goddam well I'm still on the case."
"Then why call?"
"Intimidation, my Belle, intimidation. Goes with the territory." David felt a brief rush of pride at his sudden expertise in crisis management.
"So you're definitely in this thing? It's what you want?" Belle asked.
"It's what I want."
"I'm worried about you."
"I've had an interesting life."
"David, cut that out!"
An Emergency Room nurse for years, Annabelle Burns Osowicki agreed to be "borrowed" by David until "you get your newfangled practice off the ground." She had divorced after a year of marriage and lived with her eleven-year-old daughter. David had sworn her to secrecy about all phases of the investigation.
He had had his pick of the hospital's eligible women and often picked Belle until Kathy resurfaced for good. He never received a signal from Belle that she felt abandoned, probably because their talk had never reached a serious pitch. He guessed she had once kept her figure for him, but now, on the cusp of menopause, had begun to let straighten what was once curved and let curve what was once straight. Yet her hair still flamed, her smile was just as engaging, and she could still turn a head or two.
"Sorry. Look, this guy's not after me. There's something else bugging him. All this stuff about running me down and cryptic messages and now a follow-up phone call-is just bullshit. He's grandstanding. Or, better still: he knows I'm an amateur, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's doing this to send a message to the police."
"What kind of message?"
"That he's concerned about yours truly more than about them. He's sort of vouching for me. And if I'm that worrisome to the killer, the pros are more apt to relax and let me handle things."
Belle gave him the same look of admiration he had seen many times before. But not in the middle of a killing game.
"You know," she said, "you never explained why the cops are letting you take over, except for Kathy."
David sat on the other chair. "They say they're overworked. That's bull, too. They probably are-at least Kathy looks tired all the time-but that's not the reason. I think the real reason is that this isn't an ordinary case. Most murders don't happen on an operating room table, in full view of the whole damn hospital, for Christ's sake! So it's not your run-of-the-mill killing and isn't about to be cracked overnight. Next, what happens is they slowly begin to lose interest and allow themselves to get bogged down in their other garbage. They know all this. And now they have me."
"For sure," she said softly.
"Picture it, Belle: a gumshoe on the inside who can devote all his time to this one case. Knows the medical ropes. Is practically Kathy's husband. It's perfect for them and perfect for me."
"For you?"
"Yeah, I have their backups, all their forensic support. All I have to do is call. Plus, I'm in the big leagues now."
"Just don't strike out."
"Hey, very good."
David played with a small scar near the cleft in his chin. He called it his decision scar. "Okay," he said, "I've decided to cut into my schedule-maybe by half. Not yours, of course. You still run this … this hole. Take messages, explain my temporary… yeah, that's it… my temporary unavailability."
"I figured."
"Think the other docs will be upset?"
Belle snickered. "They-they hate making housecalls. So there'll just be less made for a while and more patients will wind up in the E.R. Even you sent them I, remember?"
"No, I didn't."
"I know; I was there."
"Well, that was only if my office was a zoo."
There offices aren't like zoos?"
"Well…"
"David, let's put it this way. They'll take whatever they can get whenever they can get it, so yes, they'll be mad at first but then they'll welcome you back with open arms."
"Good," he said, brightening. "Now, how many house calls for today?"
"Four, starting at one-thirty."
"Only four. How come?"
"I told you I wasn't sure about booking. So I got selective. Are you complaining?"
"No, not at all." He fingered his scar again.
"Now I think we'd better check on Ted Tanarkle's alibi. If I'm going to do this at all, I'm going to do it right. Give Boston Childrens' a call and make up some cockamamie story but find out if he was their speaker at Medical Grand Rounds yesterday. If so, ask from when to when."
"Done."
"And then, starting today, I'll keep making the house calls alone. You'll have enough to do fending off the angry jackals." He got up fast and reached over to kiss her forehead. "Thanks, doll, I'm off to see the boss. Incidentally, I'll be looking in on Bugles' autopsy at one."
"Don't forget your first call at one-thirty."
At the door, David heard the rush of laundry carts. He turned and said, "You're a pain in the ass."
The administrator of Hollings General for fifteen years, Alton Foster had protruding thin lips, a sallow complexion and a waddling gait. He reminded David of a bespectacled duck. A six-foot tall bespectacled duck. And the fact Foster liked yellow shirts-no matter the suit did little to erase the similarity. But he was no duck. More like a hyperactive rooster-the Road Runner-scooting around the hospital each day, observing and offering advice. Meddling, according to some department heads. Not at all the wimp Victor Spritz had labeled him. He had been enticed to come to Hollings by the then new Board Chairman and now brutally divested Charles Bugles. Although Foster's bottom-line wizardry had turned steadily increasing profits for Hollings, most observers considered his capstone achievement to be the fledgling organ transplant program. It took four years of hearings, lobbying and connivance to obtain a medical Certificate of Need, the state's validation of the program. And four years of exploiting Bugles' political connections.
"I still can't get over it, David," Foster said. He sat at his desk surrounded by rolls of architectural plans, opening a brown paper bag. The room-expansive, sterile and uninviting-appeared as though its complement of furnishings had never arrived. It contained a basic contemporary desk, swivel chair and blue pastel filing cabinet. Ten paces away was an arrangement of two black leather chairs astride a coffee table sporting the latest editions of Forbes, Business Week and the Journal of the American Hospital Association. Its hardwood floor was glossy and slippery, and haphazardly placed scatter rugs looked like welcome mats for stoops. The walls were composed of built-in cabinets sweeping down to a narrow counter which strangled the room on four sides. David saw no books anywhere and would have wagered the cabinets were empty. The air smelled of furniture polish and fish.
"Why in hell Nora packed two tunas, I have no idea. You want a sandwich?"
"No thanks," David replied. "I'll eat later but you go ahead. I'll get right to the point. I'm helping out the police in their investigation." He was instituting a different approach, one he was more comfortable with in dealing with friends, one that carried with it the stamp of legal authority.
Foster acted as if the words hadn't been processed.
"It's bad enough to lose a friend," he said, "but what a setback for us. For the whole hospital family. For the whole community. And for them." He pointed at photographs of major benefactors that paraded on the countertops encircling the room. "Did you catch the papers? They crucified us. And on top of that, the accreditation people have already phoned me. They're calling yesterday's surgery a `Sentinel Event,' and are threatening to close the hospital. They want us to reexamine all our protocols and procedures and to start emergency educational classes for everyone who works here. That was no Sentinel Event, for heaven's sake. That's not malpractice; that's murder by an imposter."
Offhand, David didn't know how to interpret the comments-he was never certain about most of Foster's comments-but, instinctively, he rolled his eyes, glad that Foster was busy peeling away a plastic wrap and hadn't noticed. His right hand was in command, David observed. He also observed an exit door off the rear wall.
"I didn't know that Cortez fellow," Foster said. "Sad. But, I've been insisting for years that our privileges for visiting professors should be tightened." He sighed and added, derisively, "But, oh no, the medical staff says that would be insulting. Too demeaning. As it is, these prima donnas can zip in, zip out, no one has to talk with them, check them out. Shit, it's a miracle a Good Humor man hasn't wandered in and treated a patient."
"Alton, listen." David flipped open his notepad and sat on a black leather sofa facing Foster. "Can you think of anyone wanting to do Charlie in like that?"
Foster bit into a sandwich. "Charlie was a fine man. His heart and soul were in this institution. Whoever was responsible really didn't know him." David didn't write anything down or bother to rephrase the question. He knew Foster was pulling a Sarah Bernhardt for it was common knowledge that, despite his brassiness, he had been Bugles' patsy, and Foster resented it. An hour earlier, Tanarkle had no hesitancy in saying as much.
"Now, just for the record," David said, "but, besides, I know they'll want me to ask-can you tell me where you were during the-ah-surgery?"
"Right here."
David cast a furtive glance toward the back door and made an entry in his notepad.
He continued: "One thing I've never been able to figure out. Coughlin across town-did it make any difference to him that EMS ran from here? I would have expected him to want it there at Bowie."
Foster placed the sandwich on its wrapper and met David's stare. "It's a loser, David. Not all cities do it like us. In some places, EMS ambulances are dispatched from a municipal building. But long ago, our hospitals together agreed to help out. Oh, we're reimbursed by the state but not nearly the full amount. And, in a spirit of cooperation-for public consumption, of course-the agreement calls for EMS cases to be taken to alternating hospitals unless the patient has a definite preference or time is of the essence. You know, like a car accident a block away from here-they wouldn't run a patient clear over to Bowie. So, both hospitals pretty much break even on the cases but we have to pay Spritz ourselves. Clever, that Coughlin."
"Why agree to a deal like that?"
"Public relations, I guess, but primarily to be considered a full-service provider. Every little bit counts, you know, when you're trying to start up a transplant center."
"But why fire Spritz?"
"Money again. Between you and me, David, I like Vic. On the erratic side, maybe, but professionally he never gave us any trouble. So even though Anderson EMS is a bit less expensive, I voted to retain Spritz. The other three voted to switch to Anderson."
"Did Spritz know the vote?"
"Of course. I had to break the news to him and I told him the truth-that personally, I supported him."
There was a knock on the door and Foster's secretary stepped inside.
"Excuse me, but I thought you ought to know before I went to lunch: Dr. Coughlin just called. He went on and on about consultations or commitments or something through Friday morning-I believe he used the word incommunicado-and that, if he didn't make Mr. Bugles' funeral in time, he'd make your house afterwards. He insisted I not put him through to you but to relay the message."
"Thanks, Doris." She left as Foster checked off a name from a list he had withdrawn from a desk drawer. Shaking his head, he said, "That's how the guy communicates with me-by message. It's a good thing we have others at the Joint Conference Committee meetings. But, fuck him."
David had never heard him use the phrase.
Foster continued, "If you hadn't dropped by, I'd have called. I contacted Bugles' family, such as it is: two sons. That wasn't easy. Which reminds me-there could be a lawsuit here. Brother! Anyway, in case you haven't heard, there are no calling hours and the funeral is on Friday morning. Afterward, we're having some people over to the house. I hope you and Kathy can join us."
"Yes, of course, we'll be there."
David got up to leave and Foster waddled behind him to the door. "By the way," he said, "one more housekeeping detail. We checked with Credentials to get Dr. Cortez's address in Chile. We've been in touch with the family. The medical examiner's finished with the body and after the autopsy, we're shipping it down there."
David thanked him for the meeting and stopped at the secretary's desk to ask for Cortez's address. He would wire flowers later. He felt put through a wringer but it had missed the sweat he wore under his collar. Housekeeping details?
Back at the Hole, he slouched into a chair and let his arms drop to the floor. He felt ensnared in more ways than one.
"What's wrong?" Belle said. "You're a bundle of sighs."
"I couldn't wait to get out of there."
"Where?"
"The cabinet room of our eminent administrator. The housekeeper." He sat up. "I'm telling you, Belle, the more I pry, the more I realize we've got a swamp of grudges around here. And I thought I knew the landscape pretty well. Uh-uh."
"You sure you want to go through with all this?"
"The plying and prowling? The snoops? More than ever. So if I complain now and then, disregard it."
The phone rang and Belle picked up. As she traded barbs with a receptionist, David abbreviated a few thoughts in his notepad and punched in Sparky's number on his cellular.
"Sparky? David. Too soon to call?"
"Not at all. I got the blood confirmations a while ago."
"And?"
"Just as we suspected. The stains on the floor were Bugles' and the one on the lab door was Cortez's." "The locker shelf?"
"One spot was Bugles'. The smudge was all Cortez. And I couldn't lift a print anywhere-nothing on the locker or stool or walls except the attendant's. His were all over the place. I had him drop by for prints and they match."
"Maybe I should question him."
"I wouldn't bother. Mousy old guy, about five feet tall, all hunched over. Hope you don't mind, but I asked him if he saw anything unusual yesterday. He answered in the negative but said he leaves at two everyday. He mostly cleans and opens lockers for the morning docs who misplace their keys."
"Did your contact in Tokyo call back?"
"Yes. I went over the x-rays with him and he's certain there were no prints from Cortez's skin. But, David, listen to this. I described the pearl-handled dagger to him. He said if the pearl is real, the dagger could be an original from centuries ago when the samurai of his country had a foothold. They were very militaristic and he said they always carried swords and many of them, daggers. They carried them in pairs because they believed a single dagger gave protection but matched daggers also gave mystical powers. And he talked about Japan's great history of pearl production. So that fits."
"And if he's right, there's another dagger around somewhere?"
"Sounds like it."
David was taking notes and asked for a moment to catch up. Then, "What about the rock?"
"It's common sedimentary found anywhere around here. No prints. The writing on the tape came from a lead pencil, probably number two."
"It's ordinary adhesive tape, right?"
"Right. Nylon. From any doctor's office or hospital."
"So nothing spectacular there. What about the printing? Could you tell if he was right or left-handed by the way he printed?"
"Not at all. And I don't think the way the strips were laid really pinpoints it either. I got to thinking about it, in fact tried both ways. I'd say it favored a lefty a tiny speck-but no more than that, in my opinion."
"I tend to agree but if I were totally certain, I'd stop checking wrists. Maybe I will anyway."
"What?"
"Nothing important. Sparky, I want to thank …"
"One last thing. Two, really. About the tape. Stuck beneath one of the strips was a thin strand of fiber. It checked out to be cotton."
"Any dye?"
"No."
"Can you save it for me, or, at least, if I can hit upon where it came from, can you see if there's a match?" "Sure, but once again, it's always difficult to say positively."
"What's the other thing?"
"Well, I don't know if it means anything. The tape is old."
"Old?"
"Yes, frayed, faded-you know, yellow."
"Come to think of it, I remember that," David said. "You think it's important?"
"I'm not sure."
"We'll see. Anyway, Spark, good job. And, thanks a lot. I'll be in touch." David returned the phone to the case on his belt. Suddenly, he dwelled on daggers, museums and pawn shops.
Belle had finished her phone conversation. "Lots to dissect?" she asked.
"What? Oh, yeah, there is. Did you get ahold of Boston Childrens'?"
"Yes, Tanarkle was there all right. They thought he was great. Inspiring. Grand Rounds were held from nine to eleven. No one seems to know whether he stayed for lunch."
"That means he could have made it back in time."
Belle squinted and he waited for her to comment. "I find it hard to imagine his giving an inspiring presentation, then racing back here and committing those hideous things," she said.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he said. "Now, next. Can you go back to having lunch with that gossip crew of yours from the E.R.?"
"Sure, and they're not gossipers. They just happen to know the pulse of the hospital."
"Okay, have it your way: keep it medical. And keep your ears peeled. See what you can find out."
"They're always peeled."
"I mean, even try to lead the conversation. But be subtle. Think along the line of, `Do any of you have any dirt on Spritz or Tanarkle or Foster'?"
"Oh, that's real subtle."
"I don't mean come right out and ask them. If they're talking about those guys, milk it along. Belle, you're a pain in the ass." He knew she smiled inside.
"You already said that today. Are they your suspects?"
"And Coughlin." David's. voice took on a deeper texture. "Of course, everyone's a suspect until proven otherwise."
"Well, I'll be darned," she said, fondling an amber locket that hung from her neck.
"What?"
"You're becoming a pro."