by Elaine Viets
“Francesca,” she whined, “you’ve caused nothing but trouble again. Charlie wants to see you in his office immediately.”
She waddled importantly through the newsroom. I trailed behind her, leaving wet footprints.
Charlie looked like a weasel in a striped suit. His eyes were redder than usual, giving him a feral expression. He said nothing for two full minutes, hoping to get me to talk first. When I didn’t, he handed me a copy of today’s feature section and said, “We’ve had complaints about your story, Francesca. You haven’t done your homework. You’ve written a piece glorifying a gang member.”
“Jamal is not a gang member,” I said.
“He is. Mrs. Glorietta Altec called this morning and told us. She also told all her friends and neighbors. The phone has been ringing all morning with readers complaining about that photo. How many calls have you received, Wendy?”
“Thirty-two,” she said, with satisfaction. She knew each one was a nail in my coffin. For good measure, she added, “They were very upset.”
“Does Mrs. Altec know Jamal?” I asked.
“Of course not!” Charlie said, sounding shocked. “She’s an account executive who lives in Webster Groves.”
I groaned. The only gangs Mrs. Altec was likely to encounter were Brady Bunch reruns.
“Then how does this woman in Webster Groves know that a city kid is a gang member?”
“She looked at his hands,” Charlie said.
“His hands?” Was there a ring or a tattoo or something? What was I missing? I looked at the photo, but only saw a bunch of teenage boys horsing around for the camera. It was a cute picture.
“He’s making secret gang signals with his hands,” Wendy said.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. “He’s a kid goofing off with his friends.”
“He is not,” she said. “He’s signaling the other gang members. He’s using the Gazette to conduct gang business.”
“How the hell would a woman in Webster Groves know about secret gang signals?” I said.
“She recognized them from the police department booklet, ‘Sixteen Signs of Gang Activity,’ ” Charlie said. “Also her husband Brandon volunteers for a program that teaches life skills to inner city youth.”
“And that makes him a gang expert?” I said.
“He is knowledgeable about those things,” Charlie said seriously. “It is imperative that we apologize to our readers as soon as possible. We should also do a follow-up article on how to spot gang signals.”
I could feel the fury rising in me. “And brand an innocent kid a gang member. Jamal is an A student. He has a steady job. If he could make five hundred dollars a week selling crack, why is he working for minimum wage washing dishes in a hot kitchen?”
“He’s fooled you,” Wendy said. “He’s a gangbanger in disguise.”
“The kid must be a master of disguise,” I said. “I’d never guess he was in a gang. His cover is perfect. Jamal is the only gang member in town with dishpan hands.”
“He doesn’t even have a Christian name,” Wendy burst out.
I began to have some idea what was wrong. “Let me see that picture again,” I said. I studied it for a moment.
“I know what’s wrong,” I said. “Jamal and all his friends are black. If those were a bunch of white kids horsing around in a photo, no one would look twice at their hands. But because they are black kids, they must be gang members. Instead of telling Mrs. Altec that Jamal is a model student, you agreed with her, and now you’re prepared to ruin that young man’s reputation. I hope you do print a story saying that Jamal is a gang member. Then the kid can sue you for damaging his good name. I can just imagine how a city jury will see this photo.”
The jury was likely to be mostly black, and they’d had a lifetime of Mrs. Altecs. They’d award him heavy damages at the Gazette’s expense. Jamal would never wash another dish.
Charlie looked like a trapped weasel now. His little red eyes shifted back and forth between me and Wendy. I checked the Bald-O-Meter on top of his head. It was hot pink. He was angry, but this time he couldn’t take it out on me, and he knew it.
“Go back to your desk, Francesca,” Charlie said, trying to recover his dignity. “Wendy and I would like to discuss this further.”
I knew the subject would be quickly dropped. I’d said the magic word: lawsuit. The Gazette was terrified of a jury of its peers. It would be composed of readers the staff had ignored, insulted, and transferred into phone hell.
As I left, I noticed I’d left a little puddle where my skirt dripped on Charlie’s carpet. My shoes still squished out wet footprints. I’d dry out eventually. Charlie and Wendy would always be all wet.
CHAPTER 12
Eleven forty-three.
I wondered if another doctor was dead.
Seventeen more minutes and I’d know for sure.
The Doc in the Box killer liked to murder at noontime. Tachman was the earliest. He died around eleven-fifty. Brentmoor was the latest. He was shot at twelve-fifteen. That meant today’s doctor had maybe half an hour at most. Then he would die.
Eleven forty-seven.
Maybe more than one doctor would die. The killer wiped out the whole radiation oncology department.
Eleven forty-nine.
He’d killed three people the first time. The whole staff was there but the waiting room was empty. Almost empty. For some reason, he overlooked Georgia. Maybe my theory was right—he was killing out of revenge. He had no quarrel with her, and she never saw him, so he let her live. Now he only killed doctors, one at a time. Time.
Eleven fifty-two.
I watched the red second hand make another sweep around the newsroom clock. The black minute hand moved forward one more notch.
Eleven fifty-three.
It reminded me of the lecture we got in second grade from Sister Mary Delphina. She had our class watch the minute hand make a full sixty-second sweep, then said, “You are now one minute closer to your death.” She touched off an epidemic of nightmares and bed-wetting with that one sentence. I never looked at a clock face the same way again.
Eleven fifty-nine.
Did the murdered doctors know why they died? Did they recognize their killer? In the last moment of their lives, did they know their carelessness and greed had condemned someone to a slow, painful death? Did they feel a twinge of remorse in their final terror? Or did they die knowing they were innocent—and their killer was wrong?
I wondered which fate was worse.
Twelve-oh-four.
The doctor would be dead by now. Maybe. In a few more minutes, we’d hear the activity on the newsroom scanner, the urgent calls for ambulances, the coded phrases that said this was a major emergency.
Twelve-thirteen.
Two more minutes. That was the outer limit of his killing time. Killing time. That’s what I was doing. I was killing time. He was killing doctors.
Twelve-fifteen. It was over. I’d know soon if another doctor was dead. Were other doctors in the city looking at their clocks like I was? Avoiding their offices until after the noon hour? I doubted it. There were the usual outcries about the killings, demands for more police protection and security, talk about gun control. But so far as I could tell hanging around the hospital, the doctors seemed to think these shootings happened to other people. No one would kill them. They were safe in their invincible arrogance.
At twelve-thirty I began to relax. At one o’clock, I felt much better. I was fairly sure no doctors had died today. By one-thirty in the afternoon, I knew the city’s doctors were safe for another day. I would have heard about any murder by now at the Gazette. There were no reports of shootings. I checked with the newsroom clerk monitoring the scanners once more to make sure. Nothing. I had at least twenty-four hours before the Doc in the Box killer murdered again. I had a chance to save the next victim. Under that noble monument of a phrase crawled the greedy worm of ambition. Save the victim—who was I kidding? I was doing this for mys
elf. I wanted to win a major prize. I wanted better assignments, and if I bought them at the risk of a human life, so be it.
Katie thought the killer would go after surgeons next. Bill the bus mechanic and Cal’s dying wife both had the same surgeon, Dr. Boltz. Harry’s son had been operated on by a different surgeon, Dr. Harpar. Three patients, two doctors.
I figured the best thing for me to do was hang around the most likely doctor’s waiting room and try to spot the killer. If I saw him, there would be plenty of security in the doctors’ building. Many doctors’ offices, especially if the physicians had privileges at Moorton, had beefed up their security. I’d simply inform an armed guard, who’d have the guy quietly removed. I’d let the pros with the guns handle the tough stuff. I wasn’t about to tackle a gun-toting killer when all I had was pepper spray.
But I couldn’t be in both places at once tomorrow. Which doctor would he kill? I felt like I was playing a bizarre game of Russian roulette. Maybe Cutup Katie could help me choose the best one. I called her at the morgue.
“Had lunch yet?” I said.
“Haven’t had a chance to get away. I’ve got work piled everywhere.” I hoped she was talking about paperwork. “We’ll have to make it quick, though. I have to get back. Unless you want to eat here.” I could almost hear her grin. Katie knew I dreaded the morgue, and did everything to avoid it.
“How about if I take you to lunch on my magnificent Gazette expense account?” I said.
“A lunch those cheapskates will pay for? Where are we going? McDonald’s?”
“I was thinking of some place right on the Mississippi River. Unpretentious, but with a spectacular view.”
“Sounds good to me,” Katie said.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
She was waiting outside the building, a thin, wiry figure in a tailored navy suit. The rain had stopped, but the saunalike atmosphere and roiling gray clouds promised more later. Even the normally chipper Katie looked a little frizzed and soggy from the recent downpours. She climbed quickly into my car and said, “Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise,” I said as we headed toward the Riverfront. I found a parking spot on the cobblestone levee, almost under the Gateway Arch. The Mississippi River looked like a churning sea of mud, but the water was still low enough I could park on the levee. Sometimes after a hard rain, the furious brown river rose so fast it engulfed the cars parked there.
Katie surveyed the brightly colored riverboats bobbing at anchor. Some were excursion boats, others were for gambling. “So where are we eating? A spectacular view doesn’t usually go along with anything in the Gazette budget.” Then she saw the boat at the far end.
“Oh, shit, you’ve suckered me, haven’t you?”
“I’ve delivered as promised. An unpretentious spot on the river, terrific view, fast service, and prices even the Gazette won’t balk at. Besides, this place is unique.”
“It’s a fucking McDonald’s,” she said.
“It’s a floating McDonald’s,” I said, laughing. It was a barge topped with an imitation Victorian riverboat, like a white cardboard pastry. The size of its golden arches was mandated by law so they wouldn’t outshine our own six-hundred-and-thirty-foot silver Arch. The rain had kept the tourist crowds down, and we quickly got our food and ate at a table on deck. I not only paid, I dried the seats with a hunk of paper napkins.
“Listen, I’ll take you somewhere decent next time,” I said. “I promise. I just couldn’t resist.”
“You’ll sacrifice anything for a joke,” Katie grumbled. “Even my stomach.”
“In that case, why is Miss I’ll Have a Salad Instead of Fries eating a Big Mac?”
“Everything in moderation. Even virtue,” Katie said. I eyed her Big Mac and extra-large fries enviously. My plain burger and side salad looked sadly skimpy. But I had other things to worry about besides food.
“I’ve done some checking,” I said. “All three of the candidates you picked look good for the murder. I checked them out, then ran their names through the newspaper files. Nothing bad on any of them. The bus mechanic wasn’t in the paper at all. Cal the pawnshop owner was quoted in a Gazette story, but it was a friendly feature about yuppies using pawnshops after the stock market went belly up. Cal told the interviewer that they were pawning five-hundred-dollar Dunhill briefcases and laptop computers. The ex-cop got a commendation for bravery fifteen years ago, when he was still on the force. That’s all. I can’t eliminate any of them. They’re all equally good suspects. They have two surgeons between them. You still believe the surgeon is the next target?”
“I do. But I’m not making any guarantees,” Katie said. “I just think he’s the most likely target.” She looked worried and earnest, even with a tiny fleck of special sauce on her lip.
“Let’s say you’re right. When do you think he’s going to kill again? He’s taken between two and five days between murders. There were no murders today, so he’s not speeding up. Tomorrow is the fourth day after the Tachman killing. If he’s still operating on the same schedule, he’ll kill again either tomorrow or the next day. Does that make sense to you?”
“It does,” she said. “But he may decide to wait longer for some reason we don’t know. Then again, he may stop completely. If he’s killing for revenge, maybe he’s already nailed everyone he thinks deserved to die. If he’s a terminal cancer patient, he may be too sick to continue.”
“And if he has a dying wife, he may be spending all his time at her bedside,” I said. “Cal’s wife is in a coma and not expected to live. He could be waiting until she dies for the final revenge.”
“There you go,” she said. “That’s another reason.”
“The one I can’t figure out is the ex-cop. Harry’s boss says he’s unreachable. There’s no phone in his cabin. So is Harry waiting for something in particular, or just sitting in the woods, drinking himself to death? Maybe there’s some anniversary or something that’s important to him. When did his son die, Katie?”
“I don’t know. I can check. But if I have to get that information from the medical records Nazi, you really owe me.”
“Another lunch,” I said. “One that’s not on the expense account.”
“Deal,” she said.
“Which of the two doctors do you think he’ll go after?”
“I’d say Harpar,” Katie said. “Maybe. If you think the person is murdering because of medical mistakes, then Harpar is more likely to be the surgeon who’d screw up. If you want a doc who’ll tick off someone by saying the wrong thing, Boltz is your man.”
“What would you do now if you were in my shoes?” I asked.
“Go to the police with what you know. Have them put extra security on both surgeons.”
“Wouldn’t work,” I said. “I’d sound like a complete nut. Anyway, how could I tell them where I came up with my information? And who would believe me? Mayhew is always telling me to stay out of police business. He’d just lecture me on my half-baked theories. You remember how he carried on last time. I couldn’t find him now, anyway. Marlene says he hasn’t been in Uncle Bob’s in days. He’s working long hours on these Doc in the Box murders, and it’s getting to him. Last time I saw him, he looked like death warmed over.”
Katie dredged a french fry thoughtfully through some ketchup. “Well, in that case, I’d hang around one doctor’s office and warn the other.”
“All day?”
“At least until twelve-thirty. There haven’t been any shootings later than that. You can bring your laptop and write.”
“But what if nothing happens tomorrow? This could go on for weeks,” I whined.
“It could,” Katie said, “but I don’t think it will. They’ve increased security at all the Moorton Hospital buildings, and that’s where Boltz has his office. He’s probably the safer of the two. I’m sure the police have figured out the same pattern you have and warned them. Harpar has an office in some ritzy section of West County, so
he’s not going to alarm his rich patients with too many rent-a-cops and security cameras. He’d be more at risk. I’d hang out at Harpar’s office for a few days, and warn Boltz with a phone call. It’s all you can do.”
The river seemed to be rising while we talked, and I wondered if it was time to move my car. We watched a big sycamore tree with a scrap of pink cloth caught in its roots rush by. Then the rain started again, big fat drops. We dropped our trash in a can and ran for the car.
An hour later, Katie called me at work. “You hit it right,” she said. “The ex-cop’s son died a year ago Saturday. If the grieving father is going to do anything, my guess is it will be in the next two days.”
What about the grieving husband? I checked the hospital to see how Faye Smithman was doing. The person in patient information said, “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Smithman is no longer at the hospital.”
No longer at the hospital? What did that mean? Did Faye recover enough to go home? Was she transferred to a hospice? Or was she dead? I hated to call her home, so I called the pawnshop instead. I got this recording: “We are closed until Monday due to a death in the family. Thanks to all our friends and customers for their sympathy and understanding.”
Faye was dead. Cal the pawnbroker and Harry the ex-cop both had serious reasons to want revenge. Cal’s grief was new and raw. Harry was facing the first anniversary of the death of his only son. And what about Bill? How much time did this terminal patient have left? Was it too late for him to get revenge?
I called Dr. Boltz’s office to warn him. His staff treated me like a cross between a blackmailer and a candidate for a jacket with wraparound sleeves. I wished I hadn’t used my real name when I made the call.
Dr. Boltz’s first name was Theodore, and even his own mother never called him Ted. I’d never met the man, but Valerie had pointed him out to me in the halls at Moorton. He looked like a prototype for a human being, with his long head, large nose, big ears, thin arms and legs. Nothing was quite in proportion, as if he were made from spare parts. His hands, though, were superb: slender and sensitive. Hands like that might give a woman interesting thoughts about Dr. Boltz. Until she saw the sneer on his face. Boltz regarded ordinary humans as inferiors. Ordinary humans preferred to deal with him only under full anesthesia.