Ricochet

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed a bit disappointed, but she also seemed to genuinely regret Ricky’s death, which helped him like her a little better. He was working on autopilot at the moment, trying to forget Ricky as the boy he knew and to think of him as ‘the victim’. It helped, gave him a little distance. But he was still full of guilt inside, and grief, and anger. It didn’t help his work, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. The best he could do was to keep trying to suppress it, at least while he was working.

  ‘Do you know if he was particularly friendly with any of the other nurses?’ Pinsky enquired, before she could start asking about the weapon and vouchsafing more theories.

  ‘I don’t know. I met him when he brought up a case from the ER when I was practically in tears with this computer, and he noticed and came over. That was all.’

  That sounded like Ricky, Pinsky thought. He wouldn’t have liked to see a woman in tears. Not if he could help. ‘He was good with the computer, was he?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, an absolute whizz,’ she said. ‘And he explained it really well. I felt ever so much better about it after that. It didn’t scare me any more, see? He made me realize how it was just a machine, and my slave, really. It did what I told it to do; it didn’t do anything it hadn’t been told to do. It was just like a parrot, sort of. Of course, if someone put in the wrong things to do, it would mess up . . .’

  Pinsky knew very little about computers. He could just about manage to use the one at work, but mostly he left it to the support staff and secretaries. ‘Have you ever seen Ricky anywhere else in the hospital?’ he asked.

  She seemed confused. ‘I don’t go anywhere else in the hospital,’ she said. ‘Except the cafeteria and occasionally X-ray. I have seen him in the cafeteria sometimes, if I was on a late duty. He worked late afternoons and evenings, I think. He was going to school, he told me. He was pre-med.’ From her expression this seemed to confer some kind of special status on Ricky Sanchez. Doctor-in-becoming.

  ‘Did you notice if he always ate with the same people?’ Pinsky asked. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Mostly he ate with a book on the side,’ she said. ‘I mean, I didn’t see him all that often down there, but it was always with a book. Oh, no – once I saw him with some girl from the pathology lab, a phlebotomist.’

  ‘A what?’ Pinsky was completely thrown by this weird word.

  ‘A phlebotomist – a blood taker,’ Agnes explained. ‘They come up and take blood from the patients for testing. You know, they have these little trays . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Pinsky, feeling a little unsteady. He hated needles and these people used needles . . .

  ‘But I don’t know her name,’ Agnes said kindly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been a help,’ Pinsky said without much conviction. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘I’ll try and find out her name for you,’ Agnes offered. ‘One of the other nurses might know – at least her first name, anyway. I never noticed.’

  ‘We appreciate any information you can give us,’ Pinsky said formally, wanting to go someplace where there was a chair and maybe even coffee. The problem was huge. It was all beginning to get to him.

  Phlebotomist?

  Jeesh.

  Pinsky located the chief resident of the ER in the staff lounge, where he was dozing on a couch, an empty coffee mug held loosely in his hand and resting on his stomach. It was fortunate he had emptied it before falling asleep, Pinsky thought.

  ‘Dr Waxman?’

  Waxman sat up as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod. ‘I’m here, what is it?’ He looked up at Pinsky, then readjusted his wire-rimmed glasses which had moved a little off-centre. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here. Staff only. You’ll have to—’

  Pinsky held up his ID and flashed the gold badge. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Ricky Sanchez,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Ricky Sanchez. He was an orderly here and he was—’

  ‘Oh, right, right,’ Waxman said, rubbing his temples. ‘Sorry. Yes, Ricky. What about him?’ He swung his legs down and sat up. Pinsky pulled over a chair from the table in the centre.

  ‘My name is Ned Pinsky. I answered the call on his murder. I’m also a friend of the family. Ricky was badly worried about something over the past week or so and before he died he called me about it. I think he found out something that got him killed.’

  ‘Whoa, wait a minute,’ Waxman said, putting up a hand. He squinted at Pinsky through his glasses, as if they weren’t helping him to focus. ‘The officer who came the other day didn’t say anything about this. Are you saying Ricky wasn’t mugged?’

  ‘I am,’ Pinsky said firmly. ‘He phoned me and said he knew something that might destroy a career.’

  ‘A medical career?’

  ‘He didn’t specify,’ Pinsky admitted.

  I need more coffee,’ Waxman said, getting up with a grunt. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  When they were both supplied with liquid stimulant, Waxman eyed Pinsky carefully. ‘I want to get this straight. Ricky called you and said he knew something that could ruin somebody’s career, you think it was somebody here in the hospital and that Ricky was killed to shut him up?’

  Pinsky raised his eyebrows. The guy was sharp. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

  ‘And that’s what the Police Department thinks?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Aha,’ said Waxman with a grin. ‘You’re on your own.’

  ‘You’re fast,’ Pinsky said.

  Waxman laughed and shook his head. ‘Not really. I watch a lot of TV and read a lot of crime novels. It’s my way of relaxing. Normally, if this were official, there would be two of you, right? To act as one another’s witness and so on?’

  Pinsky smiled ruefully. ‘Right.’

  ‘And you would be asking for all kinds of statements.’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Waxman leaned back against what remained of the torn upholstery. ‘You could get in trouble for this.’

  ‘Damn, you must read a lot,’ Pinsky said, not without irony.

  ‘Oh, I’m a real whizz,’ Waxman said. ‘Actually, if you want the truth, you’ve got guilty conscience written all over you. You say Ricky called you, but you didn’t say you did anything about it.’

  Pinsky sighed. ‘I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘I got caught up in something else and I forgot. I expected him to call me back when he knew more details.’

  ‘Bummer,’ Waxman said with real sympathy in his voice. ‘But what makes you so sure? I mean, people get attacked every day – believe me, I know. We fix up the victims and the crooks – equal time, equal bandages. Ricky could have just been unlucky. The officer who was here yesterday seemed to think that was the case. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We get an awful lot of patients from French Street violence.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’ Pinsky asked. ‘Why was he down on French Street? It’s not the kind of place anybody sensible would go at night unless he was a drunk or a drug addict . . . and Ricky was neither.’

  ‘He could have been a drug addict,’ Waxman said reluctantly. ‘It happens in hospitals . . . the stuff can be got, used, covered up. We try to be as careful as we can, but . . .’

  Pinsky shook his head. ‘No way. He was working hard, he was getting good grades, he was dating my daughter – all straight.’

  ‘Dating your daughter?’ Waxman’s eyes widened. ‘It gets worse.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pinsky concurred. ‘It gets worse.’ He gave Waxman some of Ricky’s background.

  ‘I must say, I’m surprised your superiors don’t listen to what you have to say,’ Waxman admitted.

  ‘Oh, they listened. But I was told to lay off because I am emotionally involved and they dropped it on other detectives. My partners are following up a
bigger case . . . they have to prioritize.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Waxman agreed. ‘That’s the name of the game here too, especially when we get a rush on.’

  He considered Pinsky and part of the ceiling, and his coffee mug and his own shoes. ‘How can I help you?’ he finally asked.

  ‘This is the pathology department,’ Dr Waxman said, opening a door and leading Pinsky into a small anteroom. They had been to odontology, oncology, the diabetes clinic, audiology, cardiology. The place had departments Pinsky had never heard of or imagined existed.

  In every department Waxman had introduced him and explained why it was important that everyone they spoke to gave their full concentration to the problem. Pinsky was so grateful to him he was nearly in tears inside. Never once did Waxman indicate it was other than an official inquiry.

  They went through another door into a very large laboratory with several people at work on various pieces of apparatus. Pinsky recognized a microscope, but that was about the extent of it. It was very quiet in the room, despite all the people in it. ‘This is where blood tests and tissue samples are analysed, sometimes against the clock. Say a surgeon will send down a bit of a tumour to be examined while he has a patient open on the table. He’ll want to know the status of the tissue before he proceeds, and he won’t want to keep the patient anaesthetized any longer than absolutely necessary. So someone has to be prepared to work fast. There are also several research projects going on here, more long-term work, under both government and private grants. This is also where our post-mortem exams are done.’ He gestured. ‘Through there. Want to see?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Pinsky said. ‘When you’ve seen one post-mortem . . . you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know very well,’ Waxman said, amused. ‘I passed out twice during my first one. Got dragged out, came back, got dragged out again. Humiliating. But we adjust.’

  ‘Why would Ricky come here?’

  ‘He might have brought blood samples for cross-matching or tissue for testing. He might have wheeled down a dead patient. He might have brought in or taken out reports that someone needed urgently,’ Waxman answered. ‘All kinds of reasons. This is a big department.’ He led Pinsky over to one of the long tables. ‘This is the research section. Barney, do you have a minute?’

  A small man put down what he was working on and came across. ‘Waxman, what the hell are you doing here?’ he asked cheerfully. He had an elfin face and ears that stuck out, but his eyes were both compassionate and alert. A thick fuzz of bright-red hair covered his skull, kept short but not controlled. ‘Slack time in the ER?’

  ‘Never,’ Dr Waxman said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Pinsky.’ He turned to Ned. ‘Barney Schoenfeld is the head of the big heads around here.’

  ‘Big heads?’ Pinsky asked.

  ‘The researchers.’ Barney smiled. ‘We, of course, call them geniuses, but everybody else has their own rude words. It’s because we rarely communicate with the lower orders. It’s tough in the ivory tower, but we occasionally come out for coffee.’

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ Pinsky said, liking the little man immediately.

  ‘Sergeant Pinsky is investigating Ricky Sanchez’s death,’ Waxman explained.

  ‘I heard about it. That was a damn shame,’ Barney said. ‘He was a nice kid.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Pinsky asked.

  Barney laughed. ‘We all knew him. Nosiest kid I ever met. Nice to see, really – he was always collecting information. He was really into pathology, he said. Wanted to go into forensic pathology, or maybe paleopathology—’

  ‘He’s dazzling us with footwork.’ Waxman grinned. ‘Every day that went by, Ricky wanted to do something different. He was very open to suggestion and kept falling in love with different specialities.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Barney agreed. ‘But it was kind of flattering, too.’

  ‘Which is how he got to know so many people in the hospital,’ Waxman said. ‘There’s nothing like an audience for whatever it is that you do – he made each one he talked to feel like the world’s greatest expert.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Barney confirmed. ‘Take Forster, over there. Or Duggan. They were crazy about him.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He was like a pet and everyone tolerated him. But even Sherwin – he even would irritate Sherwin sometimes with all his questions, would you believe, and Sherwin has the patience of a saint. Come and meet them.’

  They followed Schoenfeld over to the far corner where a tall, gaunt man was peering into a microscope and making notes – it looked like he was counting, for the notes were all figures.

  ‘Ivan, this is Sergeant Pinsky of the police. Waxman you know.’

  Sherwin looked up. ‘Sorry, I’m busy,’ he said, but he smiled.

  ‘You’re always busy,’ Barney agreed amiably. ‘But do you remember a kid named Ricky Sanchez, always used to come in here?’

  ‘And ask questions,’ Sherwin said, his hands straying to the notepad and pencil. They kept moving as he talked, the pencil revolving in his long, thin fingers. ‘Very nosy kid.’

  ‘Well, that nosy kid is dead,’ Pinsky said abruptly.

  Dr Sherwin couldn’t have been more than forty-five, judging by his hands, which were neat and well-kept. But he was obviously caught up in his work and his eyes kept going back to his microscope. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. He didn’t seem particularly interested. ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Do you remember anything unusual about him?’ Pinsky asked. ‘Anything he was particularly nosy about?’

  ‘He wanted to know everything. He’d stop me in the hall, even, to ask some question or other. Not so much lately, though. Which was a relief, to be honest. I’m not good at handling interruptions.’ Like this one, he seemed to imply.

  ‘So you don’t know what he was interested in, say, last week?’ Waxman asked.

  ‘No idea at all. Sorry,’ Sherwin said. ‘Can I get back to work now? My specimen is drying out.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pinsky echoed and they moved away.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Schoenfeld said. ‘He’s a nice enough guy, but he’s never been what you call sociable. Brilliant in his way. Trouble is, he pushes too hard. Only sees his own point of view. He got turned down for a big grant last month for just that reason. He wanted to go too far, too fast. It happens . . . we get caught up in our subject and think it is the only one worth pursuing.’

  ‘Sometimes we’re right,’ said an attractive brunette as they came up beside her area. But her smile softened her statement.

  ‘This is Felicity Duggan. She and her partner over there – Jan Forster – are working on the neuropathology of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.’ A blonde woman further down the bench waved vaguely as she pored over what looked like skull scans against a light box on the wall. ‘This is Sergeant Pinsky, Felicity. He’s working on the homicide of Ricky Sanchez.’

  Dr Duggan’s eyes filled with tears, but she kept them from overflowing. ‘He was a lovely boy,’ she said. ‘Always so interested in everything we were doing. Encouraging, too. I liked it when he asked questions . . .’ She smiled at Pinsky. ‘We all like to talk about our work. If someone shows the least interest we’re off and running.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ came a hoarse and amused voice from the other end of the bench. ‘I’d rather do it than talk about it,’ added Jan Forster, unclipping the sheets of acetate from the light box and switching it off. ‘You’d talk to him for hours and we’d get behind . . .’

  Felicity blushed ‘He was a handsome boy and . . . well, I had a soft spot for him, I admit it. He was so enthusiastic. He reminded me of when I started out.’

  ‘Before you became old and raddled and cynical,’ commented Dr Forster, putting down her negatives and coming up to them.

  ‘True.’ Felicity laughed. Then she frowned again. ‘It was terrible, what happened to Ricky. Working late hours . . . I suppose no
ne of us is safe on the streets any more.’

  ‘He wasn’t just mugged,’ Pinsky said.

  She looked surprised, as did her partner. They exchanged a glance. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘It was personal. It was murder.’ Pinsky used the word like a club – it was often effective. Mostly because he believed it so intensely himself.

  ‘Good God,’ Dr Forster said. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Pinsky said. ‘I think whoever attacked him meant to kill him.’

  ‘But why?’ Dr Duggan asked.

  ‘Probably to stop him asking questions,’ Pinsky told her.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Felicity Duggan shook her head. ‘Surely not. Maybe it was over a girl, or . . .’

  ‘We’re looking into all the possibilities,’ Pinsky said quickly. ‘Whatever the reason for his death was, we’ll find it.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so,’ Felicity said and her partner nodded agreement. ‘If there’s anything we can do . . .’

  ‘We’ll let you know.’

  As they walked away, Pinsky looked at Schoenfeld. ‘Are they any good at what they do?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Schoenfeld seemed startled.

  ‘Well, they’re so . . . ordinary. And attractive.’

  ‘Chauvinist,’ Waxman accused. ‘They happen to be two of the best researchers we have – right, Barney?’

  ‘Right,’ Schoenfeld agreed. He led them to another bench. A very small, very old man was crouched over a very large ring-binder. ‘Here’s another example of deceptive beauty.’ He grinned. ‘Dr Leo Wesjici. He’s just a kid, of course, but we have high hopes for him.’

  ‘You jest, you terrible man,’ said Dr Wesjici. ‘It is true I am only twenty-eight, but I work hard. It takes its toll.’

  ‘Dr Wesjici is working on diabetes research,’ Schoenfeld explained.