Eye Sleuth

by Hazel Dawkins

  “Of course. But even if the desk attendants don’t see everyone who comes in or out, the video cameras do.” Val was distressed that he or his staff might be to blame for Lanny’s attack. “After the ambulance left, I went upstairs and found the sign barring the entrance to the balcony that runs round the dome had been knocked over. It looked as if there’d been a scuffle. Perhaps Mrs. Oldenburg was trying to run away from that…that terrible man? I don’t know what we could have done to prevent this tragedy, we try to protect each person who comes to the club, whether they live here or not.”

  “Val, accidents happen,” I said to Val. “Lanny would be the first to defend the club, everyone knows the club is security conscious, always has been.”

  It definitely was. Partly because of the prodigious art collection that had grown steadily since the club’s founding in 1898 and partly for the security of those who lived there, as well as visitors. The double brownstone, originally the home of Samuel Tilden, a governor of New York––best known for losing the presidency to Hayes by one electoral vote after winning the popular vote––had been remodeled to form the club. A modern building with studios and apartments for artists was built on what had been Tilden’s garden and stables on 19th Street and was connected to the clubhouse by a long corridor lined with art.

  The upper floors of the main building contain the club’s administrative offices and those of several other organizations, including the Poetry Club and the National Federation of Press Women. The three bedrooms––bathrooms down the hall––are for members who live sixty miles or more from the club. The club’s front entrance on Twentieth Street faces Gramercy Park and is the main access to the club and apartments. A street door exits onto Nineteenth Street from the apartment building but when the police examined it, they found it locked and undisturbed. Deliveries and staff use a back entrance.

  “We checked the tapes from the surveillance cameras for the outside doors,” Val said.

  I knew all about the row of closed circuit cameras that sat behind the front desk and monitored key areas. One-eyed robots, they’d sat silently on duty when I worked at the club in my student days.

  “He must have left by the front door,” Val said. “The tape from the camera on the main door shows a man shielding his face with his hand as he left. It was about the time of the attack.” Val looked from Aldon to me, his frustration clear. “Why would someone attack Mrs. Oldenburg?”

  “Lars thought it probably was a madman but Andy said that man he saw talking to Lanny seemed really angry. Has he told the police about that?” I said.

  “The police interviewed Andy earlier, I’m sure he told them what he knew.” Aldon said.

  “If he was a lunatic, he wasn’t so crazy that he forgot to cover his face,” I pointed out.

  “Survival instinct?” said Val.

  Finally, the two left and I sat waiting to be called in by the police. Val reappeared with a cup of hot tea and I drank it greedily. Lars eventually emerged from his interview and I waited as he checked his cell phone for messages.

  “Dag called with good news, Yoko,” Lars said. “The first part of Lanny’s surgery went well. I’m heading back to the hospital. Keep in touch?”

  We hugged. I watched him hurry off then reluctantly went in to talk to the police.

  The detective who interviewed me was a real Archie Bunker type. Burly body, pugnacious speech patterns. When I was shown in and introduced as Dr. Kamimura, he took one look at me and decided I must have arrived from Tokyo that morning and although I was young for the job, I might have had a hand in the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Hostility oozed out of his every pore. A thoughtful look crossed the detective’s face when I said I’d been born and raised in Brooklyn. I didn’t say that my dad’s father was in World War II, in the 442nd infantry regiment, all Japanese Americans. Their bravery in combat resulted in the 442nd becoming the most decorated unit in U.S. military history.

  Archie let me know straight off that he’d heard from Detective Dan Riley.

  “You were at the station yesterday over a street shooting, right?” He headed straight for the jugular. “Think there’s any connection between that and this?” He turned on his small tape recorder and made a show of opening a notebook and settling it in front of him. He stared at me, pen poised.

  I swallowed hard but didn’t let the detective see that his frontal attack shook me up––I still wasn’t over the shock of yesterday’s murder, let alone the warning, and today’s attack on Lanny had sent tentacles of worry deep into my psyche, worry that there was a connection. On some deep level, I was numb. The senses of shock and anger were surface emotions.

  “I don’t see a connection. I didn’t know the woman who was killed on the street and I don’t know why my godmother was attacked.”

  “But you got a look at the man who did this, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes, I did but it was only a quick glimpse, enough to know I didn’t know him but enough to believe I’d recognize him if I saw him again. Did you talk to Andy the front desk clerk? He mentioned to me that he saw a man follow Lanny up the stairs and he seemed to be angry.”

  “We’ve talked with Mr. Andy Greer and have a description. I’d like to hear what you saw.”

  “He had dark hair, lots of it. I only saw him from the waist up because he was standing behind the gallery railing. Mostly it’s a blur, it happened so fast––but I could tell he was angry, furious.”

  “That’s it?” Archie asked incredulously.

  “Yes, that’s all. If I could tell you any more, I would.”

  I kept my voice neutral but still got a nasty look. Archie decided to move on. He had me watch the morning’s security tape of people coming in and exiting the club but nodded, unsurprised, when I said I didn’t know the man shielding his face as he left. The videotape held no clues and Archie didn’t look too disappointed that I couldn’t help identify the man.

  “You work where?”

  He nodded at my answer, comfortable with the familiar name, State University of New York.

  “At SUNY, doctor of optometry, researcher,” he muttered, scribbling notes even though his micro-cassette recorder was still whirring. “You research what?”

  Sticky question. Sometimes I sidestep it but this time any evasion, however well intentioned, had the potential to backfire.

  “Behavioral optometry.”

  “That is what?” His voice was truculent. It was my fault he hadn’t heard of behavioral optometry. Scientifically researched and validated and available in forty countries, it’s been around for decades but is still a well-kept secret.

  “It’s a specialty in optometry,” I said.

  “Like cardiology versus general medical practice?”

  Surprised, I agreed, reminding myself no one ever said Archie Bunker was stupid, just that he veered hard on the side of homophobic. Maybe xenophobic too, like Detective Archie.

  “What is it, this specialty?”

  This was frustrating. Dan Riley’s questions hadn’t delved into my optometric background. Then I remembered Riley had grown up next door to Dr. Forrest. I was tempted to ask Detective Archie what any of this had to do with the attack on Lanny but resisted. Maybe clues were uncovered through such questions.

  “It’s health care for the vision system. Lenses and therapy for youngsters and adults. Helps with learning, health and behavior problems.”

  The detective glanced at me, raising his eyebrows to show he could.

  “If it’s a therapy, what are you researching?”

  Good one, Archie.

  “Currently, my work is mostly helping to write a conference paper about the prototypes one of our professors is developing. Part of what I have to do is compare their value with other types of vision therapy equipment.”

  “Equipment? There’s special equipment?”

  “Yes, a lot.”

  “You work with any drugs?”

  Again the police focus on drugs.

  “Last year I
studied how some prescription drugs affect the vision system, myopia in particular, and how vision therapy can reduce the myopia.”

  The detective didn’t ask about myopia, apparently knowing it was nearsightedness. He looked over his scribbled notes.

  “Drugs,” he said triumphantly. “Optometrists can’t prescribe drugs.”

  I cursed silently. Had I explained too much?

  “Nowadays we can.”

  This point was often fiercely debated by optometrists but I didn’t want to bring that up.

  “Therapeutic drugs for the eyes can be prescribed by optometrists who pass state exams.”

  Satisfied that we optometrists had regulations to follow like anyone else, the detective’s questions moved on.

  “What time were you supposed to meet Mrs. Oldenburg?”

  How often had I run my internal tape about what had happened from the moment I’d arrived at the club? It didn’t make any difference. It was always the same. I told Archie what I had seen, step by step, and my frustration built. In the last two days, not much made any sense. I forced myself to concentrate on the man in front of me. He was doing his job and I had to help. Soon enough the questions came to an end and the detective gruffly told me I could leave.

  “Will you let me know if you find out who attacked my godmother?”

  The detective switched off the tape recorder and snapped his notebook shut. He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. I waited by the door for a moment but he wasn’t going to say anything. I left and wandered down to the glassed-in telephone cubby off the grand staircase and called the hospital. Dag answered on the first ring. Voice low, he told me Lanny was expected back from surgery soon.

  “Lars is here. The staff doctor did stop by to tell us that the neurosurgeon is optimistic about Mrs. Oldenburg’s overall condition.”

  “Thanks, Dag, I’m on my way.”

  I hung up, deeply worried about Lanny. What I’d learned in my training was fueling my concern. A lengthy coma means severe brain injury. Coma victims, when they eventually surface from their twilight sleep, can be helped by therapies, from physical to optometric, but the results vary.

  My stomach gurgled, reminding me that so far, lunch had been a cup of tea. Something like pizza was overdue. The thought started my digestive juices flowing. I set off to find food. One jogger huffed her way past me. A few locals walked their dogs or carried bags of groceries. Inside the locked gates to Gramercy Park, one of the gardeners raked a gravel path. It was all so normal. I glanced around nervously. It was a few hours since Lanny had been attacked. Even so, that lunatic might be nearby. Would I recognize him? Would he recognize me? My scalp crawled at the idea of meeting that angry man face-to-face. He’s long gone, I told myself. All the police buzzing around the club would put off anyone with a guilty conscience.

  My mind’s eye memory of the attacker wasn’t sharp but I’d know him if I ever saw him again. One thing was certain, I’d never forget the fury in his face. The club’s videotape of the man shielding his face as he left had shown thick hair. My view of him as he peered down from the gallery was of plenty of dark hair. That narrowed the field to half the men in Manhattan. By now, V. I. Warshawski, the brash Chicago P.I. created by Sara Paretsky and brought to lusty, long-legged life in the movies by Kathleen Turner, would have tracked down the guy and be bashing on his door, waving her gun. But I’m no P.I. and I don’t own a gun, only the retinoscope we optometrists use. Hard to intimidate anyone with that.

  A warm, yeasty smell tickled my nose. I was outside Ray’s Famous Pizza place on Sixth Avenue at Eleventh Street. The three slices I inhaled went a long way to reviving me. When I got back to the hospital, Lanny still wasn’t out of surgery.

  “I’m staying here until Lanny comes back to her room,” Lars told me. “I’ve arranged for permanent security, three shifts of eight hours each, in the hall right outside the door. Dag will be inside. He’s chosen a comfortable reclining chair so he can rest at night. He’s a light sleeper so he’ll respond immediately to any situation.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m not convinced security is entirely necessary but I’d never forgive myself if I was wrong.”

  “I understand,” and I did.

  “Yoko, what about security for you?” Lars said. “I can arrange that.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Part of the time I think yesterday’s warning means nothing. Now I wonder if it was about Lanny. I just can’t come up with any connection.”

  “The police want to be called when Lanny is out of surgery. They want to question her about the attack.”

  “So do I. What do you think, Lars?”

  “We’ll have to be watchful and prepared for any possibility. Lanny will have total security. Beyond that we can only wait. Yoko, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go home, get some rest?”

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t rest, I’m full of frustrated energy. I think I’ll head to the office. Promise you’ll call as soon as Lanny returns from surgery? I can be back here in minutes.”

  “You know I will,” and Lars hugged me.

  Back at the college, I dropped by Dr. Forrest’s office to explain why I’d been absent for more than a long lunch. I kept the conversation brief. I wasn’t about to spread the news of Lanny’s situation any further, so the afternoon was quiet, which suited me. I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s non-stop flow of visitors. When the phone rang, I grabbed it before there was a second ring.

  “Lanny’s back from surgery,” Lars said.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I speed-walked to the hospital, anxious to see my dear godmother. The sight of a deathly pale Lanny was sobering. She was unconscious.

  “The doctors say she ought to have recovered from the anesthesia by now,” Lars said quietly. “But recovery times can vary.”

  We sat by the side of the bed, not talking. Eventually, Lars got up to leave.

  “Dag will call me when Lanny regains consciousness,” he said. “I can return promptly. I feel useless, as much help as a bump on a log.”

  I nodded agreement. It was driving me crazy to sit there. I was grateful Lars said when Lanny regains consciousness, not if. Right now, I didn’t want to face the question of when. Like Lars, I felt useless and restless. Much better to be at my desk, trying to keep my mind occupied. I could return to the hospital in minutes. I knew the police would want to question Lanny. So did Lars and I. We’d see who got there first.

  The rest of the afternoon I spent at my desk, growing more and more worried as time went by and I didn’t hear from Dag. Finally I’d had enough of work and I gave in to the temptation to call the hospital. Dag answered immediately.

  “Mrs. Oldenburg is still unconscious,” he told me quietly. “The doctors are monitoring her closely but there is no news.”

  My heart sank. I couldn’t bear to go to the hospital and see dear Lanny again. I decided to go home. It wouldn’t take long to get to the hospital from my apartment if I walked and no time at all if I caught a cab. As I straightened the files and paperwork on my desk, I considered Mary Sakamoto’s warning. Was it the key to the attack on Lanny? I had to do some detecting of my own. I knew I wasn’t guilty of anything wrong, whatever the detectives might think. Even if the police and Lars thought there was scant evidence of any danger to me, I wasn’t going to wait on the sidelines for more trouble to erupt.

  “Let me buy you a drink?” It was resident pest Allan.

  “Another time.” We walked down the stairs, Allan airing his frustration about the lack of funds for the latest technology and for once, he didn’t bug me to join him. Outside, we parted amiably, he headed north to the trendy bar he favored, me south to my apartment.

  The streets were clogged with traffic and I walked home slowly, glad the day was over. By now, in the normal way, Lanny ought to have come round from the anesthesia. The inescapable fact was that my dear godmother was in a coma and if it lasted, it would only become deeper. I braced m
yself. I prayed we wouldn’t have too long to wait for Lanny to come back to us. Every hour the coma went on spelled major trauma.

  At the corner of Tenth Street, I considered what I wanted for dinner before I tackled the long flights to my apartment but I wasn’t hungry after the pizza orgy of my late lunch and the emotional turmoil I felt over Lanny put a damper on any interest in eating. The cats and I could share a can of tuna. What I did want, desperately, was a long soak in the tub. My apartment doesn’t have a shower, it doesn’t even have a real bathroom. The bathtub is next to the kitchen sink in the room you enter from the front door. A piece of plywood covered with oilcloth covers the tub when it’s not in use.

  The building, turn-of-the-century dilapidated, dates back to the 1900s. The apartments are laid out railroad style, so you walk through one room to reach the next. The first room houses the vintage bath and equally ancient sink, a stove and a noisy fridge. The tenant before me left a round table with three unsteady chairs but the price was right. Two huge windows overlook backyards and the garden of KK, the Polish restaurant. When the weather’s good, if I feel like eating al fresco, I take a quick look out to see what tables are empty in KK’s pleasant patio.

  The front room, my bedroom-cum-living room, looks out over First Avenue. Tucked in one corner is a tiny room, more of a closet really, with a lavatory. One day I may opt out of city life but for now, Manhattan is my speed, even if it’s warp speed. Life in the Big Apple may be stressful but I’ve the antidote: a candle-lit bath in my kitchen-dining-room health spa.

  I filled the tub, added lavender salts and lay soaking. I debated whether to call the hospital again but Dag had promised to let me know the minute Lanny showed signs of coming round from the anesthetic. The man had enough on his hands, a 24-hour security detail is no picnic, even if there was always someone in the hall outside Lanny’s room.