An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  “Really?” he said quizzically. “Are you thinking of becoming an M.D. in addition to your other accomplishments?”

  “Only if the shots don’t work and I end up howling at the moon. What’s your opinion of healers?”

  He gave me an amused grunt. “You trade me in for a healer and you’ll find yourself howling at the moon and frothing at the mouth in a very short time. Does that answer your question?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He thought about it for a few moments. “A faith healer is fine for someone whose illness is psychosomatic,” he said seriously. “That’s assuming, of course, that the sufferer is a believer.”

  “What about a psychic healer who’s supposed to be able to heal in a way that has nothing to do with religion?”

  “Nonsense,” Greene said evenly.

  “That’s straight enough,” I said, and almost doubled over with a spasm. I waited, and after a few moments the twitching stopped.

  “I’ll have the nurse bring you some coffee,” Greene said. “Then you should get something to eat. After that, you may want to go home and sleep. You’re going to be very tired.”

  “Thanks,” I said, getting down off the table and starting to dress. “Tell me: do you know Dr. Jordon?”

  When I didn’t get an answer, I looked up at him. “Eric Jordon?” he asked guardedly.

  “That’s him.”

  “Is he your regular doctor?”

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “An acquaintance. He’s affiliated with the Medical Center, isn’t he?”

  Greene looked uncomfortable. “I … uh, I don’t believe he’s been affiliated here for five or six months.”

  “Oh? What hospital is he affiliated with now?”

  Greene looked nervously at his watch and cleared his throat. “I’m not sure he’s affiliated with any hospital at the moment,” he said quietly.

  “Isn’t that odd? I’d think it would be tough going for a doctor who didn’t have hospital privileges somewhere.”

  Greene put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. “These sound like the kind of questions a private detective might ask. Are they?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. I liked Greene and wanted to be up-front with him. Besides, I didn’t have time to be clever; I’d tried that with Krowl, and had probably lost an important source of information as a result.

  “Malpractice suit?”

  “No, Joshua. I can’t go into detail, but it involves a case I’ve been working on simultaneously with the Kathy Marlowe matter. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking you about Dr. Jordon if this other case, in its own way, wasn’t just as important. It involves a woman’s life and a man’s freedom. Dr. Jordon has access to information that might answer some important questions, but he’s being very uncooperative. I’m trying to find out why. That’s all I can say, except to assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strict confidence.”

  “Is Dr. Jordon being … charged with anything?”

  “No. I’m just trying to understand his behavior.”

  Greene shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Look … I appreciate your frankness, but you have to understand that professional ethics prevent me from discussing a colleague.”

  “Sure, Doctor,” I said with a sigh. “I understand perfectly.” I finished dressing and started toward the door.

  “Wait a second,” Greene said tensely.

  He disappeared out into the corridor, and I waited impatiently, in a hurry to be on my way. Greene returned five minutes later with coffee in brown paper cups. He motioned for me to follow him into a small office just off the emergency room. He closed the door after us, then offered me a cigarette. It tasted like chalk. I ground it out and sat down in a straight-backed chair.

  “How’s your stomach feeling?” Greene asked casually as he sat down on a leather divan across from me.

  “It hurts.”

  He nodded. “You’re the first private detective I’ve met,” he said easily, stirring his coffee with his little finger. “It must be interesting work.”

  “Sometimes,” I said curtly, putting down the cup and starting to rise. “I’d love to chat with you, Joshua, but—”

  “For example,” Green said forcefully, still stirring his coffee. “I imagine you have procedures for finding out things about, say, a doctor you are interested in.”

  “Sure,” I said softly, slowly settling myself back down into the chair. “We clever, real-life private detectives have procedures for finding out absolutely anything. But some procedures are more time-consuming than others.”

  “I thought so,” Greene said, refusing to meet my questioning gaze. “And of course, almost all your time at present is being used to try to find out what’s been done to Kathy.” He covered his mouth with a long, tapering hand, coughed drily. “Assuming you did have the time, how would you go about checking on a physician?”

  I stared hard at the doctor, but he refused to look up from his coffee. By then the liquid had to have grown stone cold, but he kept right on stirring. “I’d start by asking questions of his patients and colleagues—if they’d talk to me. After that, I’d use my contacts in the various Court Clerks’ offices to see if there’d been any malpractice suits filed against the doctor; how many, if any, and what their disposition had been. That’s exactly what I will do—when I get the time.”

  Greene lighted a cigarette, took two quick, deep drugs, then ground it out. “I see,” he said, carefully wiping an ash smudge off his index finger. “After a lot of digging, you might very well discover that this particular doctor had had a number of malpractice suits filed against him; enough, in fact, to eventually cost him his hospital affiliation. Then you’d investigate further and find that he hadn’t been able to get another one. Of course, it would probably be helpful if you could find out about the relationship this particular doctor had with his partner.” He cleared his throat. “Assuming, of course, that the doctor you were investigating had a partner.”

  “It would be helpful,” I said tightly. “Also very time-consuming. Doctors don’t like to talk about each other.”

  “Oh, I know all about that. But, if you persisted, you just might discover that the senior partner was dissatisfied with the relationship and was taking steps to dissolve this partnership. I’m not sure what any of this would have to do with your investigation, but it certainly might answer a few of your questions about the doctor.”

  “It certainly might,” I said, fairly springing up out of the chair. “You’ve got my number; you’ll let me know right away if there’s any change in Kathy’s condition, right?”

  For the first time since we’d entered the room, Greene lifted his eyes to meet my gaze, smiled easily. “Right.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going back to work on finding out what’s been done to Kathy.”

  Greene raised his eyebrows. “I told you: you’re going to find that you’re very tired and sore. And you must rest.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m just going to have to put it on remote control. I’ll walk and talk very slowly.”

  Joshua sighed. “Any leads at all?”

  “My cup runneth over with weirdos, but I can’t say for sure that any of them qualifies as a lead. You still don’t think there’s any possibility Kathy could be suffering from some psychological trauma?”

  He shook his head. “Forget that notion. There’s no witchcraft involved in Kathy’s condition, Mongo. Whatever’s wrong with her has a physical cause. I’m sure we’ll have the answer as soon as we learn what the question is.”

  On the way out, I raised my bandaged thumb in the air. “Thanks for the tender loving care, Joshua. And thanks for the discussion on private detectives.”

  Joshua Greene had been absolutely right: I was exhausted, and it felt as if I had a permanent cramp in my stomach. I tried to eat some breakfast, but I couldn’t even get started on it. I went back to my apartment and lay down, but I couldn’t
find anything even remotely resembling a comfortable position. I got up and took three aspirins, then sat on the edge of the bed and idly rummaged around in my emotions.

  Despite Greene’s assurances, I was still very much afraid of the deadly germs that were loose in my system. I was more than a little angry, and I was beginning to feel sorry for myself. That wouldn’t do at all. If I couldn’t sleep, I had to do something. I picked up the phone and dialed Bill Younger’s private number. The Senator answered on the first ring.

  “Senator, it’s Frederickson.”

  “Frederickson,” Younger said gruffly, his voice strained. “I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “How’s your daughter?”

  “Linda’s … worse. I’m … not sure even Esteban will be able to help her if she has to wait much longer. I’m getting ready to hold that press conference you suggested in the first place.”

  “That could cost you your career, and it won’t necessarily get Esteban out.”

  “I have to do something, Frederickson. Have you been able to find any new evidence?”

  “No, but I think I may be able to raise some new questions. At the outside, how much time do you think we have before Esteban won’t be able to help your daughter any longer?”

  There was a long silence on the line, then: “A week, maybe ten days. She’s deteriorating rapidly now. She … she—” His voice broke, and I heard him sob. After a few moments he cleared his throat and brought his voice back under control. “It takes her most of the morning to clear her lungs. Her medication helps some, but only Esteban seems to be able to affect her condition for any length of time.”

  “All right, Senator. Here’s what I’ve got—and it’s not much. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but maybe—just maybe—I can raise enough questions and doubts to get Esteban a sympathetic bail hearing. But I’m going to have to get my facts straight, and that’s going to take some more time. Hold off on your press conference for a couple of days. In the meantime, either bring your daughter with you to New York or leave a number where I can reach you twenty-four hours a day. It’s next to impossible to get bail in a premeditated-murder case; if I can arrange a hearing based on new information, I may want you here—fast. I’ll try to arrange for any hearing to be held in camera, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Linda and I will be in New York this evening,” Younger said tensely. “We’ll stay at The Plaza. You can reach me there whenever you need me.”

  “Very good. There’s one other thing, and you probably won’t like it. If I run into any road jams, I may need a little unethical political pressure brought to bear. If you’ve got any juice in the city, start getting your contacts together. Okay?”

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Frederickson.”

  When I hung up, spasms of pain and nausea rippled through my belly. I wasn’t looking forward to the hours I was going to have to spend talking to court reporters and combing through the public trial records. And I was going to have to conserve enough energy for some fast talking.

  I started to stand up, but another spasm put me on my back with my knees drawn up to my chest. I breathed deeply, trying to relax. The deep breathing helped some, but it also made me return to the question of just how a rabid bat had ended up in my bedroom. It could have flown in a few days before, during the time when I’d left the window open; it could have holed up in some nook or cranny. Maybe. But I was finding my discomfort and the fact that I could still die of rabies—not to mention the general inconvenience of being bitten by a rabid bat—somewhat distressing. If someone had sicced the animal on me, I definitely wanted to find out who so that I could repay the kindness.

  Assuming the bat had received human help getting in, it was obviously a kind of deadly game-playing, and probably had something to do with the Esobus matter. I had no way of knowing who’d been talking to whom, or who could be responsible.

  I picked up the phone and started to dial Krowl’s number, then thought better of it and hung up. I assumed that coming up with a rabid bat in the middle of Manhattan was no particularly easy task. Krowl had been shaken enough to blow someone’s whistle after he’d talked to me: but unless Esobus had a private cave full of rabid bats, it wasn’t likely that the little critter who’d bitten me could have been conjured up in the few hours that had passed since I’d left his house. In any case, I doubted that Krowl would talk to me, and a call would only telegraph the fact that I was suspicious.

  It suddenly occurred to me that there was someone else who’d had the time; also, to judge by his background, he was crazy enough to come up with just such a nasty gift for somebody he was unhappy with. He might not have any connection with Esobus, but at the moment I didn’t feel picky. I called the Chancellor’s office. Two secretaries later, I got him on the line.

  “Good morning, Dr. Frederickson,” Barnum said. He sounded a lot better than he had the last time I’d talked to him; controlled and self-assured. “How are you?”

  “Actually, I’m feeling a bit tacky.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. Incidentally, I’m glad you called. I’ve been feeling rather embarrassed about that … matter we discussed.”

  “I don’t know why you should be embarrassed. You have a legitimate concern.”

  “Well, thank God you’re a discreet man. You were absolutely right to back away from it, and I appreciate your good judgment. I should have handled it myself from the beginning.”

  “You’ve talked to Dr. Smathers?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said firmly. “Yesterday morning, right after you left.”

  “Did you talk about the rumors?”

  “No,” Barnum said, sounding a little less sure of himself. “I didn’t feel I had the right. But I did ask him where all his money was coming from.” He laughed shortly, and his voice brightened again. “It seems Dr. Smathers has been getting a number of grants on his own, and you know what sloppy bookkeepers these scientists are. Very commendable of him, I think—the grants, I mean.”

  “Very commendable. Did you find out what he’s up to?”

  “Well, I’ve been through most of his complex. It seems Dr. Smathers has received grants to study certain forms of psychotic behavior. The equipment they use is very expensive, and there are potentially dangerous people on the fourth floor from time to time. That explains the need for tight security. Actually, Dr. Smathers was quite gracious.”

  “Chancellor, did my name come up?”

  Barnum cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it did, Dr. Frederickson. Not that I’m indiscreet, but Dr. Smathers seems to have put two and two together. He jokingly asked me if I’d hired you to check up on him.”

  “Jokingly.”

  Barnum laughed nervously. “I didn’t confirm or deny, but I think Smathers guessed. Actually, he seemed more amused than offended.”

  “Amused,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that.” I added a good-bye and hung up. The phone rang almost immediately. It was Garth.

  “Hey, brother,” he said. “Your phone’s been busy for a half hour and it’s only nine in the morning. What’s up?”

  “Somebody’s been driving me batty. That’s a punch line. Want to try and guess the joke?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Have you got a line on Harley Davidson?”

  He grunted. “Yeah, and it’s bad news. If you want to get anything coherent out of him, every second counts. And I’m not kidding.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Your friend Davidson’s a junkie, and it seems he’s in a bad way.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Bobby.”

  “Well, unless there are two rock stars going by the name of Harley Davidson, this is your man.”

  “How long’s he been on junk?”

  “According to my sources, about a year,” Garth replied. “Once he started to go, he went downhill fast. I’ve seen it before. He hasn’t sung a note in six months, and his band’s broke
n up. No promoter will touch him, even if he wanted to perform, which I understand he doesn’t. For a while he was moving around a lot, staying with friends. Now even they don’t want him.”

  “Have you got a current address on him?”

  “Try 38 Farrell Street. You know where it is?”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling a little chill. “Off The Bowery. Thanks, Garth. I appreciate the information—and the speed.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Will do. Any further information on Daniel?”

  “Still kicking ass, from what I hear.”

  “If the two of you cross paths, tell him I want to talk to him. About bats.”

  “What’s with the bats?”

  “I’ll talk to you later, brother. Thanks again.”

  After hanging up, I eased myself over the side of the bed. The pain in my stomach had eased to a kind of dull throb; now it was my thumb that burned. I managed to get dressed; I needed a shave, but decided to save my energy for what looked to be a long day. I wanted to talk to Davidson, then start pulling together my other contacts.

  I opened my apartment door and was startled to see April Marlowe, her hand raised as if to knock. We both jumped, then laughed. She was dressed as she’d been when I’d first seen her, in jeans and the steel-blue silk blouse. She looked tired, but still stunning.

  “Robert!” she said breathlessly, reaching out and gently touching my right hand. “I saw Dr. Greene this morning and he told me what happened to you. Are you all right?”

  “Just a little sore, April. Thanks.”

  “Sore? Dr. Greene told me you were in pain and that you’d probably be in bed all day!”

  “I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital.”

  April looked at me oddly; something like a cloud passed across the surface of her blue-gray eyes. “After all you’ve done for Kathy, I thought it was time you got a little tender loving care.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, covering her hand with mine. As before, the touch of her flesh was like an electric shock, making it hard for me to breathe. This time she didn’t draw her hand away. I squeezed her fingers, then quickly drew my own hand back, embarrassed by even this small intimacy. I felt like a shy schoolboy—even more so since Krowl’s reading had made me intensely aware of just how much April Marlowe fascinated me. “I appreciate your coming to see me, April,” I continued, resisting the impulse to look at my feet. “I know how hard it is for you to leave Kathy. You can go back now. I’m all right.”