‘Really? I know someone who has diabetes,’ Pinsky said, thinking of Sheriff Matt Gabriel in Blackwater Bay.
‘You probably know more than one,’ Dr Wesjici said. ‘There are literally millions undiagnosed, leading to other things – kidney failure, heart problems . . . it is a bad thing. A sneaky thing.’
‘Did you know Ricky Sanchez?’ Pinsky asked.
‘The Question Master?’ Dr Wesjici chuckled. ‘That’s what I called him. A very intelligent boy. He made one or two remarks that were very insightful. He was only pre-med, but a very, very smart boy. He read way beyond his assignments. We lost a good one there.’
‘Did he ever seem worried to you?’ asked Pinsky. ‘Interested in anything specific lately?’
The old man thought for a moment. ‘He had a lot of questions about bones. Whether diabetes would show up in the bones, leave its mark as it were.’
‘Would it?’ asked Waxman.
Wesjici shrugged. ‘It was an interesting question. It got me thinking . . .’
‘You never stop thinking,’ Schoenfeld said affectionately. He glanced at the others. ‘He doesn’t work here any more, you know. Officially retired years ago. He just drops in every single day to use the library. Nobody pays him, he just keeps on going.’
Dr Wesjici shrugged. ‘Money I got, time I don’t. Nice meeting you, Sergeant Pinsky. If you want to know about diabetes, I’m your man.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Pinsky smiled. As they walked away he spoke in a low voice to the other two. ‘He comes in unpaid? He’s that serious?’
‘We’re all pretty serious here,’ Barney said. ‘So many diseases, so many possibilities . . . so many failures. And only so many grants to go round, hey, Waxman? I hear you got turned down for one a while back.’
‘So I did,’ Waxman agreed. ‘But I have a line on another source, so it’s just a matter of plugging away.’
‘Research depends on money, it’s as simple as that,’ Barney explained, gesturing around. ‘This is a city hospital. We all have our regular work to do and it comes first. But our own research is funded by outside money as the hospital never has any to spare. It supplies the facilities, which are costly enough, because of the prestige our research gains for it. But there’s never enough room, never enough of anything. Gets you down.’
‘Amen,’ Waxman echoed.
‘You mean you do other work in addition to your hospital work?’
‘Sure. You don’t think we’re in this for what they pay us, do you?’ Barney said. ‘Hospital doctors do not get big money. Our only hope of rising in the world is to discover something – a cure, a treatment – we could patent and sell. Meanwhile we do the blood counts, the tissue analysis, the post-mortems – all of it. When we can snatch a moment for our own work, we do.’
Waxman cleared his throat. ‘Barney is working on leprosy. You’re not going to get rich on a leprosy cure, Barney.’ He turned to Pinsky. ‘Ask him why.’
‘Why?’ Pinsky dutifully asked.
‘Because it’s a rotten disease that still strikes the poorest people in the poorest parts of the world and somebody has to do something,’ Barney said in a suddenly urgent voice. ‘There’s no glamour in it and, God knows, no money, but if you ever saw . . . ever knew . . .’
‘Barney was in the Peace Corps,’ Dan Waxman said. ‘He saw a lot of leprosy. It marked him, if you’ll pardon the pun.’
Barney flushed. ‘Don’t kid around, Waxman.’
‘I’m not,’ Dan said with respect. ‘I just wanted Sergeant Pinsky to know that money isn’t always the goal, OK, Barney? Some people still do stuff because they care. Like you, like Leo Wesjici.’
‘Tell that to some of the others,’ Barney muttered. ‘They’ve all got dollar signs in their eyes.’
‘Not Sherwin,’ Waxman said.
‘No, maybe not. Hard to tell with him. His brother died of AIDS and I guess that was enough. But the big money in research today is in AIDS, unfortunately.’
‘Unfortunately?’ Pinsky asked, surprised.
‘It’s a terrible disease, I’ll grant you,’ Barney said. ‘But its incidence is still small compared with heart, cancer, stroke, Alzheimer’s . . . they all need that kind of funding if we’re going to get anywhere with them. But no – it’s all red ribbons and AIDS that the stars and the politicians get excited about. Makes you sick . . . ha ha.’
‘Forster and Duggan are working on Alzheimer’s,’ Waxman explained. ‘Murphy over there is working on colonic cancer.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Fitz?’
‘Out sick,’ Schoenfeld said. ‘He phoned in and said he was dying, by which we assume he has a slight cold. Fitz is a hypochondriac,’ he explained to Pinsky. ‘All pathologists are a little hypochondriacal. It goes with the territory.’
‘We have a pretty good record here for research, considering we are a city hospital,’ Waxman continued. ‘Mostly due to Barney, here, who gets the grants and does the donkey work for everyone else. You do good, Barney.’
‘Yeah. But mostly I do blood counts.’ Barney grinned, trying to get out from under Waxman’s serious praise. ‘What we could really use in here is more technicians.’
‘I’ll bring it up at the next medical board,’ Waxman promised.
‘Like hell,’ Barney said. ‘You’ve got your own corner to fight. ER is like a bottomless pit for funding.’
‘Amen,’ Waxman said. ‘Do you mind if we look around?’
‘Be my guest.’ Barney waved a gracious arm. ‘We have nothing to hide.’
Waxman took Pinsky around the department, as he had in others, introducing him to staff. From there they went to three further departments, before heading back to the ER and some more coffee in the staff lounge. Pinsky was very grateful to Waxman for giving him so much of his obviously valuable time.
Waxman shrugged. ‘My shift was over anyway. I’m not on until tomorrow night now. And I liked Ricky, you know. I liked him a lot.’
‘This is getting more and more difficult,’ Pinsky said, settling down at the battered table that took up most of the centre of the shabby room. The furniture was a collection of cast-offs from waiting rooms around the building that had gone past being seen in public. There were two couches, the table in the middle with no two chairs alike and built-in cabinets all around the edge of the room, most of them with broken doors. Assorted medical equipment was shoved willy-nilly into nooks and crannies, storage space apparently being at a premium everywhere. Pinsky looked at Dr Waxman over the edge of his coffee mug, while Waxman slumped on one of the couches. ‘Ricky seems to have gone everywhere and might have seen anything. Would he have known what he saw or heard?’
Waxman sighed, his own coffee mug riding up and down where it rested on his abdomen. ‘In Ricky’s case, probably. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? The boy was too smart for his own good. In this department alone he could have noticed a lazy intern who was fudging results, although I can’t think who that would be, frankly, they all bust their butts out there. He could have noticed samples being mixed up or mislabelled, or somebody stealing drugs, or something a rushed examination missed, or he could have overheard something a patient said—’
‘Enough, enough.’ Pinsky held up a defensive hand. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. He had thought it would be easy, but he was already in over his head. Investigating the hospital was like investigating an entire small town. And if he saw something wrong he would have no idea what he was looking at. It was hopeless. ‘To find out what Ricky found out – if he found out anything at all – I’d have to be as smart as he was. To know as much about medicine as he did . . . it’s impossible.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Waxman nodded. ‘I don’t know what to suggest.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d help me out, would you?’ Pinsky asked.
‘Me?’ Waxman looked astonished and sat up a little.
‘Yes. I know you’re busy—’
‘You haven’t seen the half of it,’ Waxman said. ‘You ought to be in the ER when things are really going . . .’
‘I have,’ said Pinsky ruefully. ‘Been shot, knifed and beaten up – not all at once, mind you. I’ve seen how this place resembles the monkey house at the zoo sometimes. The point is, I’m out of my depth here.’
‘What you’re saying is you want me to go around the hospital doing a private investigation?’ Waxman asked, a half-smile on his face. ‘A medical private eye?’ The idea seemed to appeal to him.
‘Yes,’ Pinsky confirmed. ‘Of course, there is always the possibility that you killed him, in which case . . .’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Waxman said wryly.
‘In which case you would do your best to cover up the reason,’ Pinsky continued inexorably. He didn’t believe it for a minute. As he instinctively knew Ricky had been murdered deliberately, so he judged Dr Dan Waxman to be worthy of trust.
‘So if I found something I would be a hero, but if I didn’t seem to find anything I’d be a suspect?’ Waxman finished his coffee and stood up to get a refill. He lifted his mug in a silent question.
Pinsky shook his head. ‘I guess you would.’ He moved his mug around the table, matching it to the various rings left behind by coffee drinkers before him. ‘Sounds bad, doesn’t it?’
‘Sure as hell does.’ Waxman tilted his head and looked at Pinsky quizzically. ‘The trouble is, I don’t have all that much opportunity to roam and ask questions. And I know these people personally, most of them.’
‘Which is an advantage. Do you like all of them?’
‘No, of course not. Which might affect my judgement.’
‘It was just a thought,’ Pinsky said reluctantly. ‘Sorry – it’s asking too much.’
‘On the other hand, someone killed Ricky, so something is obviously wrong. I can’t condone that, can I?’
‘I don’t know. Can you? I know there are a lot of grey areas in medicine, especially where ethics are concerned. The value of the one as against the value of hundreds and stuff like that.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Waxman said. ‘I know all about that, believe me. I’ve had to sew up many a criminal, knowing what he’d done to the victim in the next cubicle. What he might do again once he was back on the street. It’s not easy. We just have to leave moral questions to others, get on with the job and try not to think about it at night. I’ve had to treat cop killers, rapists, paedophiles, you name it. My only business is preserving life, Sergeant, no matter whose it is.’
‘So if you found a doctor who was . . . I don’t know . . . killing patients through incompetence, say, would you report him?’
‘To my peers, yes. To you, probably not,’ Waxman admitted. ‘Not right away, anyhow. There are procedures for that one.’
‘But that might be exactly the kind of thing Ricky noticed?’
Waxman nodded. ‘It could be something like that.’
‘And would he have known who to turn to about it?’
Waxman sighed. ‘Probably not. And so he would have spoken to the person directly and . . .’ He pondered the point. ‘I see why it’s bothering you. I don’t think that would be enough to kill for, though, you know. You can argue back about apparent incompetence, make a case for Ricky being untrained . . .’
‘So it would be something more?’
‘I think so.’
‘And if so, something worth blowing the whistle on?’
‘Yes.’ Waxman walked away a few steps, hit his hand gently against the table edge, walked back. ‘I’ll look around. I’ll see if I can see what Ricky saw.’
‘Thank you,’ Pinsky said gratefully. ‘But be careful.’
‘Danger is my middle name.’
‘How reassuring for your patients.’
TWELVE
‘Well, that’s a wrong one,’ Kate said, hanging up the phone and stopping the recording. ‘Turns out P. Fancher is a woman. Our friendly monster is definitely male.’
‘Some women have deep voices,’ Liz pointed out.
‘Not that one. She chirped at me.’
‘Who’s next?’
‘Um . . .’ Kate ran her finger down the list. ‘Fitt, Oscar.’
‘You want me to take this one?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll do it. I might recognize the voice right off.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
Kate was dialling. Her face assumed a serious expression, much to Liz’s amusement. Kate acted with her whole self, which was why she was not much good at prevarication. So far, however, she was doing OK. ‘Professor Fitt? Good morning. This is Mrs Dowling in the bursar’s office.’
‘That’s a new one,’ muttered Liz.
‘How are you today? That’s good. We’re trying to assess class loads this year – how many classes are you teaching this semester? Yes, I know we should have a record, but the paperwork hasn’t come through yet. Yes. Yes. Well, that seems reasonable to me, does it seem so to you? Uh-huh. And are any of them giving you trouble? Any difficult students? Fine. So you’re quite happy? I’m so glad. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’
‘Let’s see now, you were just from the bursar’s office, you have been doing a survey on student unrest, you’ve tried selling insurance – that was a bust – and you’ve been an old student trying to get a recommendation. What’s next?’
‘Well, I can’t use the same excuse for all of them, can I?’ Kate protested. ‘Word would get around – “Have you heard from that woman . . . Have you been bothered by . . .” and so on. They do talk to one another.’
‘Not your guy, I’d bet,’ Liz countered. ‘I bet he’s a loner, crouched over his telephone, spewing his poison.’
‘What a picture,’ Kate said.
‘Class load is a good idea, though,’ Liz continued. ‘I mean, he must have plenty of time on his hands, you should pardon the expression. Maybe he’s a research fellow rather than a teacher.’
‘Interesting point.’ Kate stood up and stretched. ‘Want some coffee?’
‘Always,’ said Liz, also standing. ‘Let me get it. You try one more.’
‘Oh, heck,’ Kate complained, sitting down again. ‘I thought I might get a break.’
‘You will – after one more,’ Liz directed as she headed towards the kitchen. She had seen that the initial novelty of this approach had been wearing a little thinner with every call. Kate was a great enthusiast and a great starter, but a bad finisher. She needed encouragement to persevere.
After a minute, as she filled the coffee maker, Liz could hear Kate’s voice from the front room. ‘Professor Gumbaugh? Good morning, I’m lucky to catch you in. How are you today? Oh, this is Mary Toogood, I’m a stringer for the BMJ here in Grantham. Yes, the British Medical Journal, that’s right. We do like to keep up with foreign news, too. Could you tell me what you’re currently researching? Oh, really? That’s very topical, isn’t it? No, of course I wouldn’t expect to know details, just the general gist of what you’re looking into . . . it’s for a survey, you see. No names, of course. What size classes do you have? Do you work with individual students? Does that leave you much time for your own work?’
Liz grinned and began to search the cupboards for some cookies. Kate needed to keep up her strength.
Until they checked out Mayhew’s movements for Sunday and Monday, Stryker had no official reason to hold him and he was released with instructions to stay in the city. He asked about his car and Tos said that they would arrange for its return from Indianapolis. Meanwhile he could use his wife’s car. They drove him home and took him in. The master bedroom was still taped off and sealed, but he said he would sleep in the guest room. He seemed too exhausted to do much else. They left him to it, watched him carrying his suitcase into the guest room as if he were only a visitor as in all the hot
els he frequented on his selling trips.
‘So,’ Tos said. ‘Not as straightforward as we thought, is it? I believe him. Do you? Do you think he killed his wife?’
Stryker shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it’s possible. He could have driven back here instead of going south, shot her, then continued south during the night. Depends on what time he checked into the hotel. Or he could have checked in, then driven back from Dayton, shot her, and returned to the hotel by the morning and come down for breakfast as usual. Those big hotels don’t notice much and if he took his key with him he’d have no reason to speak to reception, would he? It’s possible. Maybe Indianapolis can get a mileage reading for us and we can work backwards . . . if we can find out what it was when he started.’
‘We’re going to have to check it all out,’ Tos said, starting up the car. ‘It’s going to be a long haul.’
Stryker agreed. ‘We’ll have to interview all her grad students, her colleagues . . . ’
‘Old girlfriends or boyfriends,’ Tos added. ‘Routine, all of it, and all of it necessary. Someone argued with Elise Mayhew and shot her. If it wasn’t her husband, who the hell was it?’
‘Santa Claus,’ Stryker suggested.
‘Too early,’ Tos said. ‘He’s still building toys up north. Try again.’
‘The Easter Bunny.’
‘Recharging his batteries.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Stryker said. ‘We can’t cover all this by ourselves. We’ll have to give more of it to Neilson and Muller.’
‘What do you make of Muller?’ Tos asked, curious.
Stryker shrugged. ‘He listens, which is a very good start. I don’t know how he’ll hit it off with Neilson, who is a bit of a firework himself. Ned used to keep him under control. Now Neilson has to be top dog. I’m hoping it will steady him to have a rookie to look after.’
‘Interesting,’ Tos said neutrally.
Stryker glanced over at him. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘Hell, you’re the boss, Jack. Muller looks good enough to me. Maybe more than good enough. You sure Neilson will stay on top of him? Maybe it will be the other way round. Muller is a quiet one. You have to watch the quiet ones.’
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