At eight-fifty-five we went into the hospital where we joined a large group going up the stairs to the auditorium. My heart was beating uncomfortably and I felt my hands turn cold and slightly damp. Lotty was lost in her own thoughts, but Max took my hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.
Max took charge at the auditorium door, where two cheerful young women were handing out name badges. Through the press of people I could make out Peter and Alan Humphries in the front of the room. They were talking with a small group of men. Peter’s dark hair was combed sleekly back, showing his face white and strained. He stood tautly, not joining in the laughter of the small group.
Lotty and I hung back while Max got our name badges and programs. The five of us moved furtively into seats at the rear of the small auditorium. I devoutly hoped that the theater-style lights would block Peter’s view if he looked up at the audience. The well-designed room gave everyone good sight lines to and from the stage.
Rawlings stirred nervously at my left. His tan polyester-blend sport jacket stood out in the crowd of six-hundred-dollar suit coats. “ ‘Treating Amniotic Fluid Embolism: The Whole Team Approach’?” he muttered incredulously. “What the hell have you got me into, Warshawski?”
I was almost too nervous to speak. “Wait a few minutes.”
I looked at the program. “Welcome,” by Alan Humphries, MHA, Executive Director of Friendship V. “Introduction,” by Dr. Peter Burgoyne, Chairman of Obstetrics at Friendship. Then a series of six talks on how to treat the embolism patient by various eminent specialists, some from Chicago, two from the East Coast. “Lunch,” followed by case histories and group discussion. “Breakup” at three in time to beat the rush-hour home.
I noticed that the registration fee was two hundred dollars. Max must have paid that. I leaned across Lotty to tap his arm and point to the spot in the program; he smiled and shook his head emphatically.
At nine-twenty, the auditorium was two-thirds full. Most of the guests had taken their seats. The bulk were men, I noted automatically, and Rawlings was the only black present. We children of the sixties do affirmative action head counts without thinking whenever we’re in a public place.
With a last smile and gesture at the group he was talking to, Humphries got them to sit down and climbed up on the stage. Peter took a place in the front row close to the stage stairs.
“Hi. I’m Alan Humphries, Executive Director of Friendship Hospital. I’d like to welcome all of you here on such a beautiful day, when I know you’d rather be on the golf course—that is, treating your patients” (loud laughter). A quick joke about an obstetrics resident, a few serious words on the difficulty of treating the amniotic-fluid embolism, a skillful PR plug for Friendship’s commitment to the whole patient, and Humphries introduced Peter.
“I’m sure most of you know him—his skill and dedication in the obstetrics field are not often found today. We at Friendship feel very fortunate to have him on our staff heading up our team approach to full-service obstetrics care.”
Polite applause as Peter got to his feet and started up the stairs to the podium. Humphries sat in the place Peter vacated. The house lights were turned down and the projector flashed the first slide up on the screen: the Friendship logo laid over a long shot of the starfish hospital. The knot in my stomach was so tight I was wishing I had skipped breakfast.
Using a hand control to move the slides forward, Peter quickly moved into the main theme of his talk. He started with a table of morbidity statistics in obstetrics for 1980-1985. The next slide, he said, broke down all deaths by known cause.
As he was talking, going through fetal hypoxia, rupture of the fetal membranes, and other technical material, the audience grew at first unnaturally quiet. Then a buzz swept through them, like a flock of birds spreading through a cornfield. Peter’s fluent voice faltered. He turned to look at the screen and saw his own cramped handwriting, greatly magnified.
“Saw patient at 1458…. In the absence of Dr. Abercrombie, the decision was made to treat with 4 gms of mg. sulf. intravenously STAT and 4 gms/hour. At 1530 returned to patient, who was still comatose; no reflexes, no urinary output, dilated to 7 cm. Mg. sulf. continues intravenously.”
Peter stood momentarily dumbstruck; then he pushed the forward button on the projector control. His own merciless exposition of the failure to treat Consuelo continued on the next slide.
I saw a shape get up from the front row and move hurriedly up the aisle. The projector-room door opened behind us. The screen went blank and the house lights came up. Alan Humphries’s voice wafted through an intercom from the projection room.
“Excuse us just a minute, gentlemen. One of the secretaries apparently got the slides confused with those from an in-house mortality conference. Dr. Burgoyne, if you’ll just join me back here for a second, we’ll get these slides sorted out.”
Peter didn’t seem to hear him. Under the harsh glare of the stage lights his strained face looked faintly yellow. He paid no attention to the rising hum from the audience. He dropped the projector control and walked up the aisle. Past the projection booth. Out the double doors.
It took Humphries a moment or two to realize Peter wasn’t coming into the booth. He recovered himself smoothly to suggest that the audience take a quick break. He gave them instructions on how to find the cafeteria, where coffee and rolls would be on the house.
As soon as Humphries left the theater, I nudged Rawlings. He was on his feet at once and the two of us beat the rush out the door. I could hear Murray calling to me querulously over the din, but I didn’t stop. Rawlings kept pace with me as I jogged down the corridors to the obstetrics wing.
I’d forgotten the double doors barring entry to anyone who wasn’t gowned and masked. I hesitated an instant, decided not to waste time going down the stairs and back up again on the other side, and pushed through. Rawlings was on my heels. An angry nurse tried to stop us, but we ignored her, ignored two women sweating in labor, paid no attention to the doctor who popped out of one of the side rooms to yell sharply at us.
We went on through the doors at the far end. The hallway, which had been deserted at two in the morning, was filled now with bustling figures. We shoved past them into Peter’s office.
Peter’s secretary was one of the fresh-faced women who’d handled registration. Her automatic smile of greeting changed to panic when we charged past her desk to her boss’s door.
“He’s not in there. He’s in a meeting. He won’t be in all day.”
I opened his office door anyway and looked in. It was empty. The secretary bleated in the background, but she wasn’t used to throwing people out and didn’t know how to start.
“Now what?” Rawlings demanded sharply.
I thought for a minute. “His house, I guess.” I turned to the secretary. “Alan Humphries hasn’t been in here, has he? No? I guess he’s quicker on his feet than I am. Or knows Burgoyne better.”
We left. I took Rawlings down the near staircase.
“You know this place pretty well,” he said suspiciously. “You know where this Dr. Burgoyne lives?” When I nodded he added ironically, “You and the doc were kind of good pals, huh? So you’re sure he ain’t going to mind you barging in on him.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” I snapped, my nerves stretched to their tautest. “If this turns into a wild-goose chase, then I’ve cost the city of Chicago your salary for an entire morning and you can bill me.”
“Hey, relax, Ms. W. If that’s all that’s worrying you, that’s such a tiny sum it isn’t worth thinking about. I’m having a good time.” We had reached the front exit and were heading to the parking lot. “My car or yours?”
“Yours, of course. If one of the local boys stops you for speeding you can plead professional courtesy or something.”
He laughed and moved over to his Monte Carlo at a pace that seemed smooth and relaxed but had me jogging slightly to keep step. He unlocked the doors and started the engine. The car was rolling before I had my
door shut.
“Okay, Ms. W. I’m putty in your beautiful hands. Point me.”
I gave him directions to Route 72. Rawlings drove rapidly but skillfully; I relaxed a bit. During the short ride I gave him a summary of my analysis of the cover-up in obstetrics and Malcolm’s death.
He was quiet for a minute, thinking, then said cheerfully, “Okay, I forgive you. If you’d told me all that Wednesday I would have said you were blowing smoke. I ain’t totally convinced yet, but those two guys high-tailing it did have a suspicious aura to it…. You know anyone drives a Pontiac Fiero? It’s been trailing us at least since we hit the highway.”
I twisted to look at the road behind us. “Oh, that’s Murray—I guess he saw us leave and didn’t want to lose the end of his story.”
Rawlings turned onto the side street leading to Peter’s house and pulled into the driveway. Peter’s Maxima was there and behind it a dark gray late-model Mercedes. Burning a little rubber, Murray pulled in behind us.
“What the hell you mean, Warshawski, leaving me there when all hell broke loose?” he shouted angrily, slamming the car door.
I shook my head. It was too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less.
Rawlings was already at the door. “Can it, Ryerson. Your hurt feelings don’t count right now.”
As we ran from the car to the house, Peppy came bounding up to us, her golden-feathered tail waving like a pennant in the summer sun. She recognized me and gave a short bark of delight, turning to race back to the yard where she picked up a tennis ball. She reached me again as we were opening the back door. Her pure joy in me and the day brought an involuntary catch to my throat. I blinked my eyes hard, petted her gently, and told her to stay. Rawlings and Murray followed me silently into the house.
We were in the kitchen, an electronic showroom that silently gleamed stainless steel in the summer sun. We moved quietly across the Italian tile floor into the hushed dining room, past rich dark chairs and modern statuary to the hall leading to Peter’s study. The door was shut.
Rawlings jerked his head toward the wall on the blind side of the door. I took up position there. He swung the door open and rolled clear of the entrance. I had my Smith & Wesson in hand and followed him rapidly into the room. As well choreographed as if we’d practiced it for three years. When no shots sounded, Murray followed us in.
Peter was sitting behind his desk, a gun in his right hand a replica of my semiautomatic. Alan Humphries sat in an armchair facing him. Peter’s gun was pointed at Humphries; although Peter looked up when we crashed in, he didn’t move the gun. His face was pinched and the whites of his eyes showed dangerously. Our surprise entrance didn’t seem to startle him—he was in a state beyond shock or surprise.
“Oh, Vic, it’s you.”
“Yes, Peter. It’s me. This is Detective Rawlings from the Chicago Police Department. Murray Ryerson from the Herald-Star. We want to talk to you about Malcolm Tregiere.”
He smiled a little. “Do you, Vic? That’s nice. I’d like to tell you about him. He was a good doctor. He was going to be the kind of doctor I should have been—Lotty Herschel’s prize student in perinatology, healer of the sick, protector of the poor and innocent.”
“Shut up, Peter,” Humphries said sharply. “You’re out of your head.”
“If I am, it’s a good place to be, Alan. You know, money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Or maybe you don’t know that. When Tregiere showed up at the hospital, I knew the game was over. He took in everything we’d done—and hadn’t done. He was too polite to say anything, just pitched in, did his best with the baby and the girl. But it was too late, of course.”
He was speaking in a dreamy voice. I glanced at Rawlings, but he was far too shrewd a cop to interrupt the flow of a confession.
“I knew he’d be reporting back to Dr. Herschel, so I went to Alan to tell him we’d better get ready to face the music. But Alan didn’t want to do that, did you, old boy? Oh, no, not to interrupt the future flow of capital, or whatever the shit the financial garbage says. So he stayed late at the hospital, trying to figure it out. That was before we lost the girl, Consuelo, of course, but she had gone under once because of the magnesium sulfate and her condition was pretty shaky. Critical, we say in the medical-industrial business.”
He held the gun level at Humphries the whole time he spoke. At first the administrator tried to interrupt him, tried to signal to us to disarm Peter, but when he saw we weren’t responding, he lapsed into silence.
“Then Alan had a little luck, didn’t you, Alan? The girl’s husband showed up late that night. Alan’s always been good at sizing people up, judging their strengths and weaknesses. He did a real fine job with mine, for instance. I mean, once I’d swallowed the Friendship financial bait, it was easy to push me each step of the rest of the way, wasn’t it?
“Anyway, the girl’s husband showed up. And Alan gave him five thousand dollars to keep him happy. And learned that he had some pals back in Chicago who were into some rather antisocial activities, who might do anything for a price. Like break into Malcolm Tregiere’s apartment and steal his notes. And maybe bash his brains in. You said you’d told them to wait until he wasn’t home—but that wouldn’t have done you much good, would it? Because he could always reconstruct his dictation. No, you needed him dead.”
“You’re raving, Burgoyne,” Humphries said loudly, his own face pale. “Can’t you see, Officer, that he’s out of his mind? If you’d get that gun away from him, we could talk sensibly. Peter gets carried away, but you look like an intelligent man, Rawlings. I’m sure we could work something out.”
“Knock it off, Humphries,” I said. “We know you have Sergio Rodriguez’s phone number in your office. I could get the detective here to send an officer over right now and lay hands on it.”
He sucked in his breath sharply, the first chink in his defenses.
Peter went on speaking as if there had been no interruption. “So Tregiere was dead. But we knew Warshawski was a detective. And her reputation was pretty good, so I stepped in to keep an eye on her. Young good-looking doctor, lots of money—plenty of women would fall for that, and maybe she would, too. Besides, Alan still didn’t have the dictation. Perhaps Tregiere had given it to her when they were out at Friendship together. Easy enough to search her apartment while she was asleep.”
He turned eyes that were dark holes of despair to me. “I liked you, Vic. I might have fallen in love with you if I hadn’t been carrying the burden of death on my shoulders. I could tell you were getting suspicious and I’m not very good at hiding things, so I backed away from you. And besides, there was the whole business of those IckPiff files… .”
His voice trailed off. I took a deep breath to ease the tension in my throat. “It’s okay, Peter. I know about those. Alan got in touch with Monkfish and convinced him to stage an anti-abortion rally outside Lotty’s clinic. He had someone in the crowd to get Lotty’s file on Consuelo. You couldn’t know that Friendship’s counsel, Dick Yarborough, was my ex-husband. I knew Monkfish couldn’t afford Dick and I wanted to know who was paying him to get off the hook for destroying Lotty’s clinic.”
Humphries, seeing Peter’s attention distracted, made a move to get out of his chair.
Rawlings pulled out his police revolver and waved him back. “Let the doctor finish, man. So you got Sergio to break into Warshawski’s place to get the files, huh? And the old man who lives downstairs got his head bashed in, but fortunately didn’t die. We can read that part. But what about Fabiano? How’d he come to die?”
“Oh, that.” Peter looked down at the gun in his hand. “Alan had paid him to shut him up. We figured five thousand was more money than he’d ever get together and it wouldn’t occur to him to sue. But then he got sick of being harassed by his dead wife’s brothers, and by Vic here. Everyone knows how tight she is with Dr. Herschel, and Dr. Herschel’s nurse is the dead girl’s sister. So anyone who wanted to get back at Vic or the Alvarado family would
do it through Dr. Herschel, right?”
Rawlings and I nodded without speaking.
“So Fabiano brought suit against Dr. Herschel for negligence in treating his wife while she was pregnant. He meant to keep his word and leave Friendship out of it—slime that he was, he had that much honor—but once you start a process like that, you don’t have much control over it. Of course the lawyer he found soon saw where the deep pockets were. Out at Friendship.
“So we got our summonses. And Alan kind of lost his head. He got me to give him the model number of Vic’s gun and went out and bought one just like it. Then he met Fabiano at his bar in the city for a friendly, fatherly chat. I came along for the ride. And the incrimination, right, Alan? So he put his arm around the boy and shot him in the head. Of course, he kept the bullet case. He figured the police knew Vic here would spring to Dr. Herschel’s defense, and if they found Fabiano’d been killed with a bullet from her gun, why, they’d arrest her.
“He gave me the gun to keep. After all, he’s got a wife and children at home. You can’t keep a gun around the home—it isn’t safe, is it, Alan?” He waved the pistol at Humphries and laughed a little.
Rawlings cleared his throat, started to say something about forensic evidence, then thought better of it. “Okay, Doc. You didn’t mean Warshawski any harm. You’d have brought her flowers in prison and got her a good lawyer. Maybe her old moneybags lawyer husband. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give me the gun. It’s evidence in a murder case, you see, and I need to take it back to Chicago with me.”
He spoke in a quiet, persuasive voice and Peter turned his dreamy gaze to him.
“Oh, yes, the gun, Detective.” He held it up and looked at it. Before I realized what he was doing, he held it to his temple and fired.
33
Retriever in Mourning
Bitter Medicine Page 24