Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  Ollie paused a moment. “Maybe not quite yet, given the after-the-fact nature of this whole thing. Eventually, of course. I like these quiet investigations where there’s no media pressure, so we can do our jobs without suspects hearing speculation and strategy on the six o’clock news. Or reading about it in some half-wit’s column.”

  “Very funny.”

  “To the columnist maybe. Not to the detective.”

  As they headed toward the door, Ollie reached his right hand inside his suit jacket, to his Colt Police .45, fingering it, as was his habit whenever he went back on the street. He saw Jake watch him and couldn’t resist a comment.

  “Almost traded it in on a guns-for-toys exchange. But when push came to shove and the bad guys had me cornered in an alley, I thought, would I rather have this or a Ken doll? Ken’s a real cutie, but hey, what can I say? I chose the .45.”

  Ollie and Jake walked out together at 2:05. The sandy-haired man in the business suit walked around the block to his blue Mercedes, jotted down some notes, and picked up his car phone.

  Jake walked down the familiar corridor to Doc’s office at Lifeline Hospital. He’d remembered it as bright and cheery. Today it was dark and gloomy. He walked into the front administrative office and turned to the right, to the head of surgery’s office. While Mary Ann wrapped up a phone call, he looked with casual disinterest at a Newsweek, scanning the bylines to see who he knew. Often Jake chose the articles he read not by the subject, but by the writer.

  Mary Ann, tall and slim with strikingly full and glimmering chestnut hair, had the face and body of a twenty-five-year-old receptionist and the tempered skills of a fifty-year-old office manager. Doc raved about her. As Jake recalled, she’d come to Lifeline six months ago after Doc’s old secretary quit. Mary Ann had just moved to town and was overqualified for the job, but took it anyway. She was top flight. Smart. Diplomatic. “Savvy about hospital politics,” Jake remembered him saying. Doc was blunt and sometimes abrasive and needed the equivalent of a press secretary to take off the sharp edges. Mary Ann was just the one. He could trust her with anything. That she was young, warm, and beautiful didn’t hurt either.

  “Jake,” Mary Ann said. Her perfume preceded her as she walked toward him and extended her invitingly feminine right hand. “Welcome. I’m glad you called. I’ve thought about you often since…everything happened.”

  A lot of guys would feel it in their spines hearing Mary Ann say she’d been thinking of them. Jake realized he was one of those guys.

  “Yeah, well…I guess it hasn’t been easy for you, either.”

  “No, it hasn’t. Just trying to keep my head above water while they get a new chief of surgery. Till then I have to do my job and half of what Greg did. I’m just hoping they won’t assign me an open heart surgery!” She laughed. “So, what can I do for you, Jake?”

  “Can we go somewhere more private?”

  Mary Ann looked curious. “Sure. We could go in Greg’s old office. Nobody’s using it yet.” She led the way.

  Jake had the eerie sensation he was walking into a museum. Doc’s books and wall hangings were right where Jake remembered them his last visit, maybe three weeks ago when he picked him up for an afternoon round of golf.

  “I haven’t had time to go through everything yet and get it all packed up for Greg’s wife. I told her I’d be glad to do it, and she said no hurry.”

  Jake wished the office could be left as it was, but he realized businesses didn’t keep memorial offices. Mary Ann waited attentively.

  “Well, I don’t know quite how to say this, and this is very confidential. Do you understand?”

  “I understand confidential, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, there’s an investigation into Doc’s…into Greg’s death.”

  “Investigation?”

  “It looks like it was murder.”

  Jake almost relished this moment because he was sure he could finally throw the unflappable Mary Ann for a loop. She did raise her eyebrows, but that was it. Now she looked skeptical.

  “Murder?”

  Jake recounted the note card and tie-rod story.

  “So, you’re conducting the investigation?” Mary Ann still sounded skeptical.

  “Well, I’m just…sort of a go-fer. A homicide detective asked me to help.”

  “This isn’t for a newspaper story is it?” Mary Ann squinted distastefully.

  “Of course not. I’m in this because my best friends were killed, not for a byline.” Jake sounded defensive, and he knew it.

  “Okay. What do you want from me?”

  “Information.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, did Doc have any unhappy patients you know of?”

  “Everybody thought he was a terrific surgeon. There’s always some gripes, but I never saw anything really serious.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not that I can think of. Did he mention any to you?”

  “No, not really. I figured you’d know. No lawsuits or anything like that?”

  “Malpractice? He had some a few years ago, I’ve heard. But nothing recent. It’s rare for a doctor not to have them you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. Now this may get a little… touchy. Are there people who work here at the hospital that Doc had run-ins with?”

  “All kinds of them,” she laughed. “It might be easier to give you the list of those he didn’t.”

  “I mean serious conflicts, where it might have gotten personal.”

  “As in, personal enough to kill him?”

  “Look, we’re just looking for names of people with an ax to grind against Doc. I’m talking about regular people, not terrorists or anything. Anyone come to mind?”

  “Anyone who might be a criminal?” Mary Ann clearly resented the implication.

  “Look, Mary Ann, maybe I’m not approaching this right. Please, I’ve been asked to do this by the homicide detective in charge of this investigation. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to him.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m sorry, Jake. I didn’t mean to be difficult. I’m glad to help anyway I can. This is just a little, well different. Let me check the personnel roster. There’s not a person who works here capable of killing him, but that’s my opinion and you already know that, so let’s go from there.” Mary Ann ran her index finger down a computer printout.

  “Well, Greg didn’t like Dr. Carlton, and the feeling was mutual. Ditto with Dr. Morgan. And he refused to work with Dr. Dudley, he’s an anesthesiologist. Greg said he was incompetent, almost lost a patient. Dudley claimed it was Greg’s fault. There was an investigation, and no blame was assigned.”

  “Investigation?”

  “Yeah, it came through the State Medical Board. That’s where patient complaints are filed, and sometimes doctor’s complaints about each other, if they’re serious enough. I don’t know the details. Haven’t been here long enough. Maybe the patient advocate could tell you.”

  “Patient advocate?” Jake jotted down the note.

  “Just down the hall. When patients have a complaint they often go to administration, and she’s the contact. She listens to them, and if it’s anything other than a misunderstanding she can help clear up, she refers them to the State Board, gives them the address and forms.” Mary Ann paused. “Does this interest you?”

  “Yes, it does. Please, keep going down the list.”

  “Well, Dr. Marsdon was on the ethics committee with Greg, and they were always duking it out. Marsdon has an opinion on everything, and Doc got fed up with him. Quit the committee. Marsdon seemed to have it out for him.”

  “Is Marsdon a tall red-headed guy?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “No, but I was with Doc when we passed by him in the hall one time. They shot some pretty chilling glares at each other. I asked Doc what was going on and he changed the subject.”

  “I don’t know the whole story, but there was definitely bad blood.”

&nb
sp; “What can you tell me about the committees Doc was on?”

  “Well, let’s see, there were four, five counting the Ethics committee—the surgical committee, the quality assurance committee, the transplant committee, and the intensive care committee. He chaired a couple of them, at one time or another.”

  “What do they do in these committees?”

  “They’ve all got their purpose statements. How effective they are is debatable. You know all the jokes about committees—a camel is a horse put together by a committee, and stuff like that? I’ve been told committees used to be a prestige thing here. Looked good on your resumé. Some doctors won’t serve on them anymore. They’re so tired of all the red tape everywhere. But there’s still power there. You determine policy, make alliances. Trade votes.”

  “Vote trading?”

  “Sure, it even happens on the Supreme Court. Ever read Woodward’s The Brethren?”

  “Yeah.” Jake had once skimmed it in an airport bookstore, but it seemed the right response.

  “I don’t know how much I should be telling you, but a lot of people don’t have a clue the political forces at work in a big hospital. It’s pretty cut throat.”

  “In what way?”

  “For one thing, administration and physicians sometimes are in real adversarial roles.”

  “Why?”

  “Competition for the bottom line—money. Hospital management wants to capture physicians’ incomes. Not all of it, but they want a great deal more than the doctors want to give. With all the health care changes, available dollars are even more limited. You can understand why doctors can’t roll over and let everybody pick their pockets.”

  Mary Ann had the distinct sound of a legislative assistant—she did understand the politics. Jake could see why Doc admired her.

  “Sometimes you get a few doctors together and they set up clinics competing with the hospital. They hire their own staffs. They figure, why should the pencil pushers and PR people get their money, when its their skills people want? Our CEO here is a businessman, not a doctor, and the doctors feel like military officers taking orders from civilians. It just doesn’t sit well. Generally, they manage to get along, at least on the outside, but sometimes the lines get drawn. Like union and management battles I guess. Some people feel pulled two directions.”

  “Anyone in administration hostile to Doc?”

  “Dr. Cooper, the CEO, for one.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t a doctor.”

  “He’s a Ph.D. Believe me, that doesn’t impress an MD! Greg used to say, ‘He isn’t a real doctor.’ I heard he said it once to his face. You know Greg.”

  “Yeah. Anyone else you see on the list?”

  Mary Ann moved down the rest of the alphabet. “Let’s see. Reilly. No problems. Simpson. Greg liked him. Turner. Orthopedic surgeon. Greg didn’t have much time for him, but no serious conflicts—at least, not that I know of.”

  She threw out a Dr. Walden as her last case where there was bad blood, assuring Jake once more none of these people were killers.

  “Okay, one last question. What do you know about the anti-abortion people?”

  “The kooks, you mean? Now there’s some people who belong on a suspect list! They’d be capable of taking out anybody that crossed them. And Greg crossed them, big time.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you know his part in the abortion pill discussions. They were out holding their stupid signs for months, trying to give the hospital a bad name. Same with fetal tissue research. Greg was instrumental in securing one of the research grants, and they didn’t like it a bit. Why don’t these people mind their own business and get a life?”

  Jake shrugged his uncertainty. “Anything else they have against him? Maybe more recent?”

  “Nothing that comes to mind.” Mary Ann hesitated. “Well, is this confidential?”

  “If it’s pertinent I have to tell the police, but otherwise, yes, it’s confidential.”

  “Okay, since he was your friend I guess I can trust you with it now, even though I’m willing to bet he never did. He was involved with a few late-term abortions. Perfectly legal, of course, but he didn’t want anyone to know about them. The protesters go bananas over stuff like that. They can make life miserable for you. Greg didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “Who did know?”

  “A handful of doctors and a few nurses, I suppose. Plus somebody at one of the clinics that made the referrals. Most won’t do them after twenty-four weeks, so they pass them on to hospitals.”

  “Twenty-four weeks?”

  “Yeah, you know, the late-term stuff is pretty sickening, from what I’ve been told.”

  Jake wanted to change the subject. “Okay. Do you know any of these protesters by name? Especially any that might have contacted Doc personally?”

  “No, not really. He got some letters. I took a few phone calls. Most were cordial on the outside, but you can sense the arrogance, the condemnation. These are self-righteous people. Loose cannons. I’d check them out for sure.”

  “Yeah, I plan to.”

  Jake jotted down some more notes, then headed out to the hallway. Mary Ann walked him out the door.

  “Listen, Jake. I feel bad about how…uncooperative I may have seemed at first. I feel like I owe you one. How about I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

  Jake was taken off guard. “You don’t owe me anything. I mean …”

  “No, listen, it’s a good excuse anyway. I’ve…well, I’ve thought before I’d enjoy getting to know you better. An office is such a stuffy place. I thought maybe we could have some fun together. How about tomorrow night?” Her bright warm smile took on new dimensions.

  “Well, I’d be a fool to turn down that invitation. I’m working late at the Trib tomorrow afternoon. Probably can’t leave till after 6:30.”

  “Perfect. I’ll meet you at 7:00 downtown, say at Anthony’s, on Fifth Street?”

  “Uh, sure, Anthony’s at 7:00.”

  Jake felt intoxicated by the combination of Mary Ann’s perfume, her smile, and her graceful fingers with their crimson nails, now making themselves at home on his right shoulder.

  “Great. I’ll look forward to it, Jake. See you then.”

  Mary Ann waved coyly and returned to her desk. Jake watched her admiringly, then turned and walked toward the patient advocate office with a noticeably lighter step.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A After getting Little Finn off to school at 8:15, Sue Keels sat down in her bright warm kitchen, savoring her morning coffee and solitude. Sometimes Finney wouldn’t leave for work till 9:00, and they’d enjoy those forty-five minutes together. The hardest times were waking up and reaching over to a husband who wasn’t there, and preparing for a 6:00 dinner knowing Finney wasn’t going to barge in the front door at 5:45 and meet her in the kitchen for a hug and kiss.

  Jake had called last night and said he’d be there at 9:00. He sounded tense. It hadn’t been easy for Sue—not at all—but she felt she had the resources to deal with her loss. She was afraid Jake didn’t.

  Sue opened up the Tribune, skimmed over the lead stories, and went to the forum section. There was Jake’s column right on the front page, upper left. She read it faithfully, sometimes agreeing, often disagreeing. She glanced at Jake’s sketched profile and smiled, noting the picture gave no hint of his graying sideburns and slightly receding hairline.

  “We’ve got to update that sketch, Jake,” she said aloud, eagerly digging into his column, titled, “Our Schools: Our Future.”

  According to Barbara Betcher, head of Oregon’s chapter of the National Education Association, our public schools face a funding crisis. She says a great deal of blame for children’s problems has been laid at the feet of public schools when parental neglect and child abuse have risen dramatically.

  “The stability of the children’s home environment affects their academic performance,” Betcher says. “Given our limited funding, I think we’re doing a re
markable job in the classroom.”

  I got a very different picture from Carl Mahoney, head of Citizens Advocating Responsible Education (CARE), a right-wing group with a long history of battling public schools. Mahoney’s reaction to raising teacher’s salaries or any other increases in school funding? “It’s like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.”

  According to Mr. Mahoney, “Public education is inferior to private education.” He claims “many school programs are harmful and destructive,” citing declining test scores as proof. When I asked him about public schools that would close down if school vouchers became a reality, he said, “We’d all be better off if they were closed.” As for the poor and minorities who would be hurt most by vouchers, Mr. Mahoney simply says “they wouldn’t.”

  Carl Mahoney is bothered that “morality,” by which he means his particular brand of morality, isn’t the central focus in schools. He opposes birth control and abortion, and thinks schools shouldn’t discuss such issues. Mr. Mahoney says “It’s my tax money that goes to the public schools, so I have a right to control how it’s spent.”

  Ms. Betcher says we should be proud our state test scores are better than the national average. She points out the deck is stacked toward higher test scores in private schools because they don’t accept poor and minorities.

  “Public schools accept everyone. Naturally, underprivileged children pull down test score averages, but every child deserves an education.”

  I agree with Mr. Mahoney that public schools have to set their sights high. I agree with Ms. Betcher that we must not discriminate by leaving out poor and minorities because they cannot afford our schools. That’s the whole reason for tax-funded public schools in the first place, to assure an education for all children regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation or economic status.

  Some may be surprised to know that though Mr. Mahoney lives just down the street from Evergreen School, he sends his children to a private fundamentalist school. That is his prerogative. But doesn’t it raise some questions about his right to control the curriculum of schools he has chosen to give up on? If I handed in my resignation to the Tribune this week, accusing it of mismanagement, then came back in six months to tell the editors how to run this newspaper, should I be surprised if I wasn’t given much credibility?