by Elaine Viets
“That’s ridiculous. She belongs to the Petroleum Club. You had no business asking her questions about her husband’s so-called girlfriend. The man’s dead. What difference does it make? You have no business making that poor woman cry. I have assured Mrs. Brentmoor that you will not write anything derogatory about her husband. And you will not write another word for the Gazette until you write that woman an apology.”
“An apology!” I was outraged. “I have to apologize for doing my job?”
“You have to apologize if you want to keep your job,” Charlie said. “And I expect it on my desk today.”
On the way out of Charlie’s office I ran into Georgia standing in the hall, looking small and fierce. “I’ll see you in my office immediately,” she said, and I could see the smirking staff behind her.
“You’re in trouble big-time,” she said, when I got in her office and she shut the door. “The only way I can save you is to make it look like I’m chewing you out. Stephanie Brentmoor wants your head, and since she’s Charlie’s asshole society buddy, he just might hand it to her. This is no time for you to get on your high horse. What does he want you to do?”
“Write an apology! Or he’ll fire me. I can’t believe this. I’ll quit first before I kowtow to that face-lifted phony.”
“Shut up and count yourself lucky,” she said. “We’ve got an out on this one that can satisfy even your delicate conscience, and we’re going to take it. You’ll tell her that you are very sorry that you upset her.”
“I will not!” I said.
“You will too. Pick up your pen and start writing what I dictate. ‘Dear Mrs. Brentmoor, I am very sorry that you were upset …’ That way you’re not apologizing for anything you did. It’s the truth. She is upset and you’re sorry. You don’t have to say why you’re sorry—you’re sorry she’s landed you in the soup. She’ll consider it an apology. You’ll be off the hook.”
She was right, of course. I wrote the letter and gave it to Charlie, who read it as if he’d scored a deep moral victory. Evidently, its subtlety escaped him, too. Putting one over on Charlie should have made me happy, but I felt oddly cheated. It was no fun if he didn’t know he’d been had.
That was the old Georgia, ordering me around, scheming to beat Charlie. God, I was glad to see her again. Sometimes I was afraid that Georgia was gone for good. She came back when I needed her, but only briefly. Outwitting Charlie yesterday seemed to have used up all her energy. Georgia wasn’t feeling well today. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell. Her skin had that yellow, sagging look, and she had dark smudges under her eyes. She moved carefully, because her breasts hurt from the radiation. Her hair had fallen out right on schedule but she had to tell me the first time she wore her new wig. It looked so much like her own hair, I couldn’t tell.
Her moods swung from optimism (“A few more treatments, and this will be over.”) to despair (“I’m enduring all this pain and I’m going to die anyway. It’s cruel to make me suffer for nothing.”), sometimes in the same day. I was running out of ways to cheer her up. I felt worn and tired and angry at her because I couldn’t help her. Secretly, I had the same fears she did. But I never said them out loud. That would make them true.
Instead, I repeated what the chemo nurses told us: Her white blood cell count was good, her weight had stabilized, and her symptoms were fairly mild, considering. “Easy for you to say,” Georgia would growl on a good day, “you aren’t keeping barf bags in your desk.”
“Yeah, but think of all the exercise you’re getting, sprinting for the john,” I’d say.
Georgia was past the halfway point with her radiation treatment, and the struggle was starting to show. Going back to the murder scene for treatment was getting her down, too. I tried to get all her treatment at the highly efficient Barnes-Jewish Hospital, but her insurance company wouldn’t hear of it. She had to go back to Moorton. The radiation oncology department had reopened after a coat of paint and new carpeting in the waiting room. The back rooms had tile floors, and Georgia said they cleaned up fine. On hot afternoons, I swore I could smell the blood, but I never said anything to Georgia. It was hard enough for her to go back there. It took all her courage to open that department door the first time. It took all mine, too.
The hospital had a security guard right in the room, but I still jumped at every sound and looked up anxiously whenever the door opened. The department had a whole new staff now. The new receptionist, a thin woman with long gray hair, was nervous but extremely polite. The doctor and the radiation therapist were professional, sympathetic, and a little distant. Georgia said this was exactly what she wanted, but it was a hell of a way to change the staff.
After today’s radiation treatment, we had one more stop to make, a quick trip to chemo to straighten out some paperwork. She had a long day coming up later this week, radiation and chemo both. I hoped she’d be feeling better than she was now. A sickly older woman came to the reception desk while we sat in the waiting room. She was a regular, the woman in the white turban I’d seen in the radiation oncology department the day before the murders. Today was not a good day for Mrs. Turban. Her eyes were vague and she looked shaky and confused. “It’s not there,” she told the receptionist. “The cab’s not there.”
“It is there,” the chemo receptionist said, firmly. “I just called it for you. The cab is waiting by the front entrance. It’s the second time it’s come back for you. It won’t come a third time.”
“I looked and I didn’t see it,” Mrs. Turban insisted, but she was so sick she could hardly focus on anything.
“Okay, I’ll take you there,” the receptionist said, and called, “Rebecca, watch the phones for a minute, will you? I’ll be right back.” Then she gently took Mrs. Turban by the arm and steered her out the door.
“Wow, that was nice,” I said. I wondered how these women could be so kind after all they saw. They were nicer than the oncology doctors I’d encountered, yet they spent more time with cancer patients. Maybe it was because nurses made a lot less money. Maybe their profession attracted fewer greedheads.
“They’re so sweet here,” Georgia said. “If the Doc in the Box killer hurt my chemo nurses I don’t think I could bear it.” She began to cry, then wiped her eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I patted her hand and promised myself to keep looking for the murderer, and not just because I wanted the story.
CHAPTER 7
My resolution to solve the murders made no difference to the killer. There was another Doc in the Box murder the next day.
The third killing was puzzling. This victim was an internist in private practice. His office was on Chippewa in south St. Louis, miles from the hospital and the Doc in the Box building. Tina gave me the details when she came back to the office. This murder must have been a harrowing story to cover. Tina normally looked like Whitney Houston with a notebook. But now her cocoa-brown suit was wrinkled and one stocking was laddered. “Lord, what a scene,” she said. “You never saw such crying and carrying on: patients, nurses, even the mailman was in tears.”
“They were genuinely sorry he was dead?” I said.
“Definitely. Big difference from the others. Dr. Dell Jolley was well-liked.”
“That was his name—Dr. Jolley?”
“Yep. Big old Santa Claus of a fellow. All he needed was a white beard. His patients were crazy about him, his nurse broke down and cried, and his wife of forty years had to be sedated from shock. I hope I don’t have to go through too many more of those scenes for a while.”
“That’s a switch,” I said. “Folks practically cheered when the other people were shot. That’s what was so weird about these murders. Usually, when some nut walks into a building and starts shooting, he takes out a bunch of nice harmless people. It’s such a waste. I’ve always wanted to give the killer a list of people who should be shot.”
“Francesca!” Tina said, sounding genuinely shocked.
“Well, it’s true. If I ga
ve him a list of Gazette editors to kill, he’d be performing a public service. Up until Dr. Jolley, this killer seemed to shoot people who deserved it.”
“You are too much,” she said, but I thought she meant that literally. She started reading her notes, possibly to change the subject.
“Police say the shooter hid in Jolley’s private office and shot the doctor when he went back to his desk at lunchtime to return phone calls.”
“Another noon shooting,” I said. “That’s three. But why would he kill the first receptionist and not the others?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “No one knows how the shooter got past the receptionist, either. The door to the examination area opened with a buzz lock, but the receptionist says she let in only patients with scheduled appointments. This was a busy day for the doctor, but the patients were all regulars. There is a back exit, and that door has an alarm, but it’s not turned on until after hours, so it’s possible someone slipped in that way.”
“Do the police still suspect the killer was a disgruntled patient?”
“Yeah. But I’m not sure why. This doctor seemed popular with his patients.”
“So who wanted Dr. Jolley dead?”
“Answer that question,” Tina said, turning back to her computer keyboard, “and you’ll have a prizewinning story.”
I wanted that prize. I wanted it like a lover. Or in place of the lover I’d lost. This would truly be a consolation prize. If I won a major award, I’d have respect and freedom. But I wouldn’t win anything sitting here. I wracked my brains trying to think who I knew who’d know Dr. Jolley. Probably not Valerie. Chemo nurses usually dealt with oncologists, not internists. But St. Louis was the world’s biggest small town. There had to be someone. Then I thought of the person. It was so obvious. My neighbor, Janet Smith. She knew everyone on the South Side. She’d know Dr. Jolley. I called her and got lucky. She was home.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice sounded a little off, like she had a cold. “You must have read my mind. I’ve been thinking about calling you. I saw this sign at the supermarket at Hampton Village. It said, ‘WIN A RIDE IN A POLICE CAR!’ I thought that sounded kind of neat, so I went over for a closer look. ‘Shoplift here and you win a ride,’ it said. It was an antishoplifting ad. Don’t you love it?”
That’s what kept my column going—people like Janet. Sometimes I got a column. Other times, I just got a laugh. Either way, I was grateful.
“Suits our neighborhood better than a sanctimonious lecture,” I said. “Now I’ve got a question for you. Did you know Dr. Jolley?”
“Know him?” she said. “He’s been my GP for over twenty years. I heard on the news that he got shot. I’ve been crying ever since.” That explained her voice. She didn’t have a cold. She’d been weeping for Dr. Jolley, like all his other patients.
“How would you describe him?”
“A real old-fashioned family doctor. Kinda short, with a stethoscope sticking out of his pocket. He always wore a long white coat, the way doctors did when we were kids. It crackled with starch and had his name embroidered in blue over the pocket. He had this little squinty twinkle in his eye that made you feel good. He’s the type of doctor who always touches your hand, or pats your shoulder, even when he’s bawling you out for not losing a million pounds.”
I noticed she kept switching tenses, the way you do when you’ve just learned someone has died.
“So he was a good doctor?” I said.
“He had the nicest smile.” I heard the hesitation.
“Janet, I’m not going to blacken his reputation in the Gazette. I’m just trying to get a feel for what the man was like. You had some reservations about him, didn’t you?”
“Not about him,” she waffled. “Not as a person. He was always there for me. But sometimes he doesn’t—didn’t—hear everything I was saying. It led to mistakes. He prescribed a medication that reacted badly with something else I was taking. I blamed myself for not making it clearer to him, but I didn’t used to have to do that. Dr. Jolley was getting old and he didn’t always pay attention like he should. I loved him, I really did. But I was starting to think I needed a younger doctor. I just didn’t know how to break the news to him.
“Now,” she said with a sigh, “I guess I won’t have to.”
Dr. Jolley wasn’t cruel or arrogant like the other shooting victims. But he made a dumb mistake with Janet. I wondered if it meant anything. Even the best doctors, like the best reporters, made mistakes. Would his waiting room be so crowded if he slipped up too often? It was information to file away, like the shoplifting sign Janet saw at the supermarket. Maybe I could use it later.
That night, I went for a walk in my neighborhood. There was a new Thai takeout place on South Grand, which used to be a Vietnamese carryout, and before that a hot wing joint. The walls were still painted yellow from the wing days. Some Thailand travel posters had been added. The menu was a single stained sheet of white paper with the dishes neatly typed. I ordered SPICIE PEANUT NOODLE (Mild or Hot). “I’d like it hot,” I said.
The tiny Asian woman behind the counter said in halting English, “Hot for you, or hot for me?”
I ordered hot for sissy Americans, and it still stripped my sinuses and made my mouth feel like it had been rubbed in ground glass and chili peppers.
“Hot for you, or hot for me?” Now there was an interesting distinction. That meal was probably mild by Thai standards. I was a foot taller than the Asian woman, but I was brought low by a couple of peppers. Twelve inches taller … I would be tall to her. Well, I’d be tall to most people. But would Stephanie be tall to her? Would a man of five-nine be tall to her? He’d be short for me. “Tall for you, or tall for me?” I wondered.
A nurse in Dr. Brentmoor’s office had seen a man, or maybe a tall woman, leaving the scene of the shooting. What was tall for her? I’m sure she told the police, but I didn’t know.
I stopped by the Wellhaven Medical Arts Building that morning and asked for the nurse. She worked for one of Brentmoor’s partners now. She wasn’t quite as short as the Asian woman, but if she was five-five she was pushing it. Her name was Karen and she said she’d talk to me because she was a big fan of my column.
“I’ve got your column about diets on my refrigerator,” Karen said.
“The place of honor in any house,” I said.
“I’ve already told this to the police,” she said, looking worried. “I really didn’t see much. It was more like an impression of a person running, if you know what I mean. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. I think the person was wearing a baseball cap, but I don’t know if they had short hair, or long hair shoved under the cap. I guess I’m pretty useless.”
“No, no, not at all,” I said. “I’m mostly trying to get an idea of how tall this person was.”
“I’m no good at guessing heights,” Karen said, despairingly.
“Where would the person be on me?” I said.
Without hesitation, Karen reached up and touched the middle of my ear. About five-nine. Tall for you. Short for me. Exactly right for Stephanie Brentmoor.
• • •
I had another idea. Dr. Jolley may have been making mistakes with other patients besides Janet Smith. If so, there was someone who would know about doctors’ mistakes, my pathologist friend, Cutup Katie. She worked at the city medical examiner’s office. She saw a lot of doctors’ errors—on a slab at the morgue. I left my number on her beeper and she called right back. I knew she recognized my number, because she started in without any preamble: “If you’re asking about the Doc in the Box murders, I can’t talk right now. Call me tomorrow.” Before I could say anything, she hung up.
That was Katie. She didn’t mince words. I checked the newsroom clock. It was almost time to leave for Georgia’s double-barreled day at the hospital. Chemo and radiation. As I packed up my portable computer and the notes for the column I was working on, I thought what a drag this was getting to be, then felt ashamed. If I was tired
of hospitals, how did Georgia feel?
She was in a funny, optimistic mood today. She breezed through the radiation treatment and seemed cheerful about her chemotherapy, even though she’d be hooked up to an IV drip for a couple of hours. She didn’t even complain about the long wait. The chemo waiting room was just as down-at-heels as the old radiation oncology waiting room, but it didn’t seem that way. The chemo folks did their best, adding live plants, cartoons ripped from magazines, and baskets of hard candy. Hard candy kills the terrible sulphur and bleach chemical taste some chemo patients get.
Every chair was filled. I glanced around at the crowd. If they weren’t in the chemo waiting room, I’d never guess some of them had cancer. Like that thirtyish man sitting across from me. He was bald as an egg, and wearing a Cardinals baseball cap. If I saw him on the street, I’d figure he was in style—lots of young guys shaved their heads these days, and thanks to Mark McGwire half the city wore Cardinals caps. On second thought, he was a bit too skinny to be healthy. But the tall, broad-shouldered woman next to him looked fashionably thin. The cancer diet. How effective. She reached to pick up her briefcase and I saw a bicep bulge. Did she work out? The only way I could tell she was a chemo patient was that her eyelashes were missing and she’d carefully drawn on dark eyebrows. I suspected her curly dark hair was a wig, but it was hard to tell. Women’s wigs were so much better than men’s. No wonder the skinny guy with the Cardinals cap decided to stay bald.
There was no doubt the woman in the next seat was sick. She looked wasted and old beyond her years. Her head was wrapped in a bright blue print scarf that seemed to drain all the color from her sallow face. I wondered how old she really was—forty? sixty? I couldn’t tell if the handsome, healthy blond man pushing her wheelchair was her son or her husband, but he seemed to care about her very much. Next to them was a couple who seemed to be father and daughter. They had the same nose and chin. I couldn’t figure out which one was the patient. They both seemed sickly. My robust good health seemed almost shameful beside them.