Doc in the Box

by Elaine Viets

  I’d spoken on the phone with his receptionist, Sandy, who’d transferred my call to his assistant, Kristine, who brushed me off when I told her Boltz’s life might be in danger. “We will inform security,” she said coldly.

  “You might want to check your records for disgruntled patients and their families. Pay special attention to anyone who threatened to sue Dr. Boltz, or anyone who claimed their wife’s or son’s death was Dr. Boltz’s fault.” That was as close as I could go. I couldn’t name Bill, Cal, or Harry, or it would be slander.

  My delicate hints were wasted. Kristine went from cold to downright frosty. “Dr. Boltz is a highly skilled surgeon who has never been sued,” she said. “His patients and their families are very satisfied. Moorton Hospital has excellent security, which has recently been increased. We have received an alert from the St. Louis Police Department. Dr. Boltz does not need help from a … newspaper columnist.” She said the word “columnist” as if my profession was something disgusting. Maybe she was right. Then Kristine said Dr. Boltz would consider legal action if he were exposed to “unwarranted media attention.” She implied that I was doing this for the publicity. Maybe I should just let him get shot. Some people are mighty hard to save.

  But Katie said he was a gifted surgeon. I couldn’t let him die, no matter how unpleasant he was. His death would be a terrible waste. There was a real possibility that Boltz was on the Doc in the Box death list, and if so, time was running out for the good doctor. Well, I’d warned him. It was the best I could do.

  The next morning dawned dark and humid, another dismal day of rain. I packed up my pepper spray, umbrella, and laptop and prepared to spend the morning at Dr. Harpar’s office on Woods Mill Road. The office was a forty-minute drive from downtown on a good day, and this was not a good day. A relentless rain stripped flowers off stems, turned puddles into lakes, and morning traffic slowdowns into angry, horn-honking snarls. It took over an hour to reach Harpar’s ugly, expensive office building. The dash through the downpour on the parking lot left me thoroughly soaked. I shook out my wet umbrella, dropped the pepper spray in my pocket, and looked for a place to settle in for the morning. It was nine-oh-three. I had no idea what Harpar looked like, but at nine-ten a fortyish white-coated doctor with beautifully graying dark hair entered through a side door. He looked like an actor playing a doctor. I could almost hear him saying, “Nine out of ten doctors recommend …” I hoped this guy was Harpar. He was definitely worth saving.

  Harpar was in practice with two other colorectal surgeons, Drs. Cobbleman and Harg. Their waiting room was painted a dreary powder blue. Rows of square, stiff chairs were upholstered in the same fabric. The walls were decorated with generic boat paintings. I wondered where doctors got all this mediocre art. Was there a Warehouse of Waiting Room Paintings? I could almost hear the salesman: “We have some nice flowers here, doctor, nothing too Georgia O’Keeffe, if you know what I mean. Then there’s your sailing ships. Ships probably aren’t suitable for waiting rooms with pregnant women, but they convey a very manly, very in-charge feel for a surgeon. Nice investments, too.”

  Most of the patients this morning were small, frail, and elderly. They didn’t look anything like the descriptions of Harry, Bill, or Cal, our three potential Doc in the Box killers, and I was grateful for that. I was looking for three men who were absolutely average: average height, average looks, average age between thirty and fifty. Weight a little on the lean side. Try picking those faces out of a crowd. All I had to go on was that Bill the bus mechanic had curly dark hair and long eyelashes. Cal the pawnbroker had thick blond hair, and Harry looked like a graying South Sider with steely eyes. But by the time I saw those eyes or Bill’s long girlish eyelashes, it would be too late.

  Just in case they recognized me from my picture in the paper, I’d crammed all my hair under a scarf turban. That might look strange in most offices, but it helped me blend into a place that catered to cancer patients. In a turban, I was a new woman—one I didn’t much like the looks of. Usually, my round German face was slimmed by long straight hair. The unflattering turban made my face look like a potato. Ah, well, I didn’t want to be recognized. My best friend wouldn’t know me in this getup.

  The Rockford Files was on the wall-mounted TV. The Rockford Files was always on in a waiting room somewhere. James Garner would live forever in doctors’ offices. I took a seat with my back to the television, so I could watch the nurses calling patients in for their appointments, and started typing on my laptop. The morning crawled painfully forward, like a wounded animal. Rain pounded the windows. Scores of wet patients arrived and departed, but none of them looked even vaguely like Harry, Bill, or Cal. Harry was the one I was really watching for, since this was his son’s doctor, but I kept an eye out for the other two, just in case. You never knew how St. Louisans were connected.

  Two nurses were calling patients’ names. One was a brunette, petite and serious. Her name tag said Kim. The other was a lanky blonde named Lucy who liked to joke with people. It was a little after eleven when I heard the blond Lucy say to a man, “No, no, you have Kim and me mixed up. It’s because we look so much alike. I’m Dr. Cobbleman’s nurse. Kim works for Dr. Harg.”

  I felt a rising stab of panic. Which one worked for Dr. Harpar? Wasn’t this his office? I closed my laptop, went to the receptionist’s window, and rang the bell. I glanced down at the sign-in sheets. There were long lists of names for Cobbleman and Harg, but nothing for Harpar. Now I was really worried. The receptionist slid back the window and I said, “Excuse me, when will Dr. Harpar be in?”

  She looked at me, surprised. “I’m sorry, didn’t we call you? Dr. Harpar won’t be here this week.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “The doctor is in St. John at an important medical conference.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. Social workers and librarians had their conferences in Omaha. Doctors went to expensive Caribbean islands.

  The receptionist seemed to sense my hostility. “We informed all his regular patients,” she said. “Are you a patient of Dr. Harpar’s?”

  “Uh, no,” I said.

  “Then why are you asking?” she said, her eyes turning narrow and hard. “What are you doing in this office?”

  “I’m … I’m in sales.”

  “The doctor does not see salespeople during office hours,” she snapped, and shut the window.

  I should have checked. I was careless. The killer was smart and careful. He would have checked Harpar’s schedule and known he wasn’t in town. He would wait until next week to kill him.

  Unless he was after Boltz.

  Boltz, the doctor who always said the wrong thing. Suppose he insulted the murderer? Didn’t the Doc in the Box killer wipe out the entire radiation oncology department, a place known for its rudeness and insensitivity?

  I grabbed my laptop and umbrella and left. The elevator was slow. I pressed the button twice, then decided not to wait. I ran down three flights of stairs and splashed through parking lot puddles until I found my car. The rain had stopped and the sun was coming out. It was eleven-fifteen. The killer would strike sometime in the next hour. I’d spent the morning in the wrong surgeon’s office and now I had little chance of making Boltz’s office before it was too late. Boltz was all the way downtown in the Doc in the Box building—where Brentmoor had been shot. The killer knew the building well. He could slip in and out easily. I had to get there, and get there in a hurry.

  This was why I drove a Jaguar. I roared out of the doctors’ lot, pedal to the metal, tires screeching. Ralph cornered beautifully. We were at the Highway 40 exit in five minutes. I plugged in my radar detector as I kept the accelerator down. It wouldn’t catch every kind of radar, but this was one time a ticket was worth the risk. Ralph was fast and smooth. I was doing ninety, slowing only for an occasional lake-sized puddle, when I saw the jam at the massive I-270 interchange. Rows of brake lights were coming on as cars slowed to a crawl. Damn. The slowdown seemed to go on for miles, in all lan
es. Police lights were strobing, sirens were singing. I slowed reluctantly.

  As I got closer, I saw the cause: a three-car accident. One car had spun totally around and faced the other direction. Another was crumpled like a used Kleenex. The third was shoved off on the side of the road. A fire truck was parked next to it. An ambulance was pulling up beside it. Police had stopped all eastbound traffic so the other two stricken cars could be moved off the highway. It seemed to take forever for the tow trucks to get through the traffic and then move them. One lane opened at eleven thirty-three. I inched along past the accident scene. It was eleven forty-one when I was back on the open highway again, cruising at a sedate eighty. There was another slowdown at Brentwood and 40. I thought about getting off and taking Manchester Road, but the jam broke up suddenly and I had smooth sailing until I got off at Vandeventer.

  Eleven forty-four.

  Almost there. Almost there. A few more blocks and I was almost there. Then, right before Lindell, almost in sight of Moorton Hospital, there was another huge jam, and more flashing police lights. I saw two big metal beasts from the seventies, hoods open like gaping mouths, radiators steaming. They’d collided head-on and were blocking the intersection. Greenish fluid leaked from them like lizard blood. How was I supposed to get by this mess? Traffic was backed up in all directions. It would take more time, and I didn’t have it. It was eleven forty-seven.

  I pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street, and half a dozen horns honked in protest. Then I hit the accelerator, cut off a cyclist, made useless mental apologies to him, and turned into the alley that ran parallel with the street. As I swung in, Ralph nearly clipped a Dumpster that was pulled too far out in the alley. He definitely hit an old tire and sent it rolling and bumping over the broken brick and blacktop surface. He squashed trash bags and scared a prowling cat. The cat jumped into a thicket of climber roses and a dog barked. I kept going, way too fast, splashing through puddles and avoiding an abandoned mattress and hoping no cars were coming from the other direction. How long was this alley?

  Eleven-fifty.

  Then, dead ahead, I saw it. Moorton Hospital. Thank god. I’d made it. It was seven minutes before noon. I might not be too late. Please, god, let me get there before the killer. I made a right turn out of the alley, and headed for the parking garage. Another half a block to go. If I could make a left into the parking garage, I would be there. I’d park in the first available spot, doctors’ parking be damned, take the stairs, and be in the Doc in the Box building.

  Just as I pulled onto the street, I heard the first siren. I checked the rearview mirror and saw a police car behind me, lights flashing. I pulled over to the curb to let him pass. It was eleven fifty-five.

  A mother with a baby stroller heard the siren, too, and rushed out into the street, right in front of the speeding police car. The WALK light was on, and she was determined to cross, car or no car. The cop flashed his headlights, but she didn’t slow down. She was using her baby’s stroller like a cowcatcher on an old-fashioned locomotive, pushing her way across the street, right into the path of the police car. I couldn’t look. The baby was going to be killed.

  At the last minute, the cop car swerved. He almost sideswiped two cars to avoid her. He must have been on a serious mission, because he didn’t stop to arrest the Mother of the Year. Another police car was right behind the first. Then another and another. I counted four police cars and two ambulances before I gave up. More were screaming down the street. All were going to Moorton Hospital.

  It was twelve noon.

  I was too late, I thought. Failure overwhelmed me. I should have told the police. I should have tried harder to make Dr. Boltz’s assistant believe me. I should have gone to the right doctor’s office. I’d wasted all morning in the wrong place. I should have driven faster, better, taken a different route. The Doc in the Box killer got here first.

  Another doctor was dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was an accident.

  I followed the parade of police cars and ambulances to the hospital, and they roared into the emergency entrance, lights still flashing, sirens strangled off in mid-shriek. Doors slammed and opened, and the EMTs wheeled out a white-haired woman whose eyes were closed and two crying children. I didn’t find out until later that the woman had run smack into a school bus.

  But a quick glance told me these were not blood-spattered shooting victims. There were no gunshot surgeons. No injured men at all.

  What was I thinking? Why would Boltz or Harpar arrive at Moorton by ambulance anyway? If Dr. Harpar had been shot, they would take him to the closest hospital, Katie’s Palace on Ballas, St. John’s Mercy. There was no reason to bring Harpar into the city. If Boltz were shot, they wouldn’t need an ambulance. They would just wheel him down the hall to the Emergency Room.

  I felt a rush of relief. Boltz was still alive. But it wasn’t over yet. If Katie was correct, the Doc in the Box killer would strike today by twelve-fifteen.

  It was twelve-oh-two. I whipped Ralph into the parking garage and pulled into the first empty Doctors Only spot. If I was saving their lives, it was the least they could do.

  I took the second-floor walkway to the Wellhaven Medical Arts Building. Dr. Boltz’s office was on the fourth floor. I didn’t wait for the elevator. I ran up the two flights of stairs. The killer wasn’t hanging out in the stairwell this time. No one else was using them.

  I stood outside the door of Boltz’s office for a moment, adjusting my slippery scarf turban and listening for screams, shots, or other sounds of chaos. Nothing. Inside, the place was packed but peaceful. I wasn’t taking any chances. I checked with the receptionist to see if Dr. Boltz was in today. She said he was with patients, but running an hour behind, and the sign-in sheet was on the ledge.

  I found a Time magazine from November and took a seat next to a large, lively woman wearing a bright red dress, dangling earrings, and a straw hat covered with red silk poppies. She hid her chemo baldness with flair. “Hi,” she said. “Name’s Rita. You look new. I’m one of the Nuts.”

  “The what?”

  “The Nuts. We’re all patients of Dr. Theodore ‘Mr. Personality’ Boltz. Get it? Nuts and Boltz?”

  I got it, and laughed. She laughed along, earrings swinging like chandeliers in an earthquake. “We all see each other in the waiting rooms here at the hospital so much we formed our own club. You here for treatment?” she said, eyeing my turban.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” I said truthfully. I was grateful when the waiting room door swung open and a tall, thin woman came in. The first two things I noticed were her aluminum cane and her big smile.

  “Hey, Denise!” the exuberant Rita yelled at her. “You look happy.”

  “I am,” Denise said, taking a seat nearby. “I get my last chemo treatment this morning, after I see Boltz. Then I won’t be seeing much of you anymore, Rita. My tests are looking good. I won’t have to come back except for checkups every three months. Won’t even need this thing much longer.” She waved her cane.

  “Congratulations,” Rita said. “This is how we like to lose club membership. Seen Rick yet this morning?”

  “Here he comes now,” she said, as the office door opened again. “Hi, cutie, how are you doing?”

  Rick was about twenty-five, a muscular handsome tanned guy with longish dark hair, wearing a black nylon lifting belt and blue coveralls. Was he the killer? No. Cal was blond and lean. Harry was older and going gray. Bill had curly dark brown hair, and Rick’s was straight. He also had large brown eyes and long lashes that curled at the ends—and I’d swear he never used an eyelash curler.

  “My boss is being a bastard, but what else is new?” he said. “I’m not barfing so much on this new chemo program. So I can’t complain.”

  A nurse called a woman, and the rest of us stared at the waiting room TV. The local noon news was on, and the anchor was reading the top stories. “She’s a real babe since she changed her hairstyle,” Rick said.

 
; “Shame on you,” Rita said. “That’s the problem with women in the media. Everyone looks at their hair and clothes, and nobody pays any attention to what they’re saying.”

  But I was hanging on the anchor’s every word. “No new developments in the medical murders that killed six people, including four doctors,” she was saying. “The FBI has been called in to investigate the serial killings …”

  No new developments. That was just what I wanted to hear. No more doctors were dead. Yet.

  I checked the waiting room once more for someone who looked like blond Cal or curly dark-haired Bill, or Harry the graying ex-cop. Someone average-looking, with average height. And an extraordinary desire to murder.

  Besides Denise and Rick, who were both about five-nine, I saw a wheezy old man in a wheelchair. Sitting next to him was his daughter—at least I assumed it was his daughter. She looked like a younger version of the old man. Both were equally grumpy, but she didn’t have the unlighted cigar butt stuck in her mouth.

  Next to them was a pale, pretty young woman wearing a good blond wig. The grumpy woman and the pale blonde were both sitting, but they didn’t seem very tall. Or very short. They were average.

  The pale blonde sat across from an elderly, liver-spotted woman with a walker. Now, she was short—barely five feet tall, I’d guess. A young man, very thin with prematurely gray hair, sat next to the old woman, showing her some article in a magazine while she talked animatedly to him. He was straightening her fluffy pink sweater when the nurse called, “Mrs. Kaffee? Mrs. Henrietta Kaffee?”

  Calling her name set off a burst of dithering for Mrs. Kaffee, the woman in the fluffy sweater. She couldn’t find her pocketbook. She dropped her reading glasses. She wanted to take her magazine in with her, but didn’t know if that was fair to the other patients who might want to read it. The young man helped her without complaint, found the purse, picked up her glasses, assured her that no one would mind if she took the magazine with her. When he gathered the last of her things, he said, “Tha-a-a-t’s all, folks,” and everyone in the waiting room laughed. That phrase reminded me of something. What was it?