All of that was far in the future; though, since at the moment there was work to be done. As I headed up the parking garage ramps it struck me that I hadn’t had the foresight to call ahead for an appointment, but I figured that it didn’t really matter. There was a good chance Dr. Demming would be at work already since Squealer said he was on the evening shift, and if he wasn’t there it’d be no big loss since I’d just slide home early myself.
When I reached the top floor, I saw a green BMW sedan parked by itself with a sheet of clear plastic stretched across a rear window. It was the previous year’s model, with a few of the pricy exterior upgrades. Except for the busted window, the car seemed to show that the owner was doing all right for himself, and even the license tag was one of those classy personalized jobs. When I saw that it read, “DOCTORD,” I deduced that the doctor was almost certainly in.
I took the elevator all the way down to the ground floor before walking across the street to the research building. I counted ten stories from the sidewalk, so I honestly was a little disappointed when the lobby directory showed Dr. Demming’s office on the first floor. After seeing that high dollar car of his, I would’ve expected someone like that to be way up high in a corner office.
His suite was just off of the end of the main hallway, so I walked right past the receptionist to stick my head in the open door. Now when I picture a doctor, I always get this image of an older guy in a white lab coat with kindly eyes, gray hair and a rolling belly. Dr. Demming was anything but. He was lot younger, I’d say in his early forties, but if his youth turned me off then his stylish appearance more than made up for it. The dude was wearing a dark suit with pinstripes, and he’d kept the jacket on even though he was seated at his desk. I noticed with grudging approval that there were a few thin streaks of gray running through his black hair, but I wasn’t completely won over until I spotted that gold wristwatch. Even from across the room I could tell it was a genuine Rolex, not like the kind we had in the evidence room where the brand name is spelled with two Os. “Dr. Demming, I presume?”
He looked up from his desk. “Yes?”
I walked in without waiting for an invitation and stuck out my hand. When you’re dealing with snobby upper-class people, it’s best to let them know who’s in charge right from the start so I said. “Detective Mike Larsen, Charleston Police Department.”
The doctor glanced at my extended hand, hesitating only a split second before shaking it. His grip was strictly business with a nice firm squeeze at the beginning, then two solid pumps before he let go. All in all it was a good shake, friendly but noncommittal. “Doctor Charles Demming,” he said. “But I gather you already knew that. Please, detective, sit down.”
As soon as I heard him call me by my professional title, I knew I had him licked. I gave the doctor my best glowing smile and eased down into the thick leather chair across from his desk. The puffy brown seat settled comfortably around my butt, and the upholstery felt so good back there that I nearly moaned out loud. Thankfully, I managed to keep my composure while I started in on my spiel. “Doctor Demming, I’ve been assigned to investigate the vandalism to and larceny from your automobile that occurred earlier this week.” I laid it on as thick as I could, trying like hell to think up some more ten-cent words to work into the conversation. Professional people will usually respect a cop more if they hear words like “vandalism” and “automobile” instead of “break-in” and “car”.
“I wanted to speak to you in person as soon as possible, sir, because a rapid response is essential to solving a case like this. Most of our best leads are uncovered within the first forty-eight hours.” I’d heard that number somewhere before, and it sounded like it could probably be true.
The doctor smiled back at me. “Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that. I watch all the television shows on the subject. CSI, Law and Order … quite fascinating topics, really. I had an interesting discussion with your Officer Mealor on the different techniques for collecting evidence.”
Great, I thought. Just what I needed, another crime scene weenie. The very mention of Squealer’s name was enough to make my stomach turn, but I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. At the very least, the doctor’s interest would make my interview go a lot smoother.
“I realize that your time is very valuable, Doctor, so I won’t waste it.”
He flexed his fingers together and nodded.
“I’ve read...” I choked on the next word; “Officer Mealor’s report, and I really only have a few questions. I’ve already seen the damage to your car, but could you tell me what exactly was stolen?”
“Just my attaché case.”
I flipped to a blank page in the pad I’d stolen so I could pretend to take some notes. I took my time about writing, using the opportunity to steal a few admiring glances around his office. The names Harvard and Princeton stood out on the framed diplomas that lined his walls, and I couldn’t help wondering just how much medical school tuition cost these days.
I looked up at the doctor, who was waiting patiently for me to continue. “Was there anything about your case that will help us identify it and return it? Any monograms or engravings?” That question was critical in getting a rough idea of just how much money Doctor Demming brought in, without actually being so crude as to come right out and ask. It didn’t matter what it was: jewelry, a necktie, a BMW’s license plate or an attaché case. Whatever a rich person owns, they almost always feel the need to put their initials on their stuff.
“No markings, I’m afraid. It was a simple but elegant Gucci case crafted from rich brown calfskin.” He very courteously paused to let me scribble all this nonsense down. The second he saw my pen stop moving, the Doctor went on. “Oh, but there was some paperwork from the Medical University inside. Some stationery with my personalized letterhead, perhaps an old pay stub as well, but nothing particularly valuable.” Suddenly, a look of terror flashed across Doctor Demming’s face. “Detective Larsen, you don’t think the culprit would be able to use this information to steal my identity, do you?”
I did my best to hold back a laugh. If some crackhead like James Smithson was capable of making a profit from identity theft, he probably wouldn’t be out on the street breaking into cars for a living. Still, I knew that wasn’t what the doctor wanted to hear. “It’s highly improbable, sir, but just the same you should probably keep a close eye on your credit report for the next six months. How much would you say that your case was worth?”
He thought for a moment. “I paid almost $3,500 for it in Italy last fall.”
I muttered, “Mmmhmm, mmmhmm” as if talking about $3,500 briefcases was an everyday occurrence for me. In reality, it blew my mind that the doctor kept his worthless notes in a briefcase that cost more than my car. “And nothing else was missing, sir?”
“Not that I know of, Detective. I went through the car very thoroughly as soon as Officer Mealor had finished dusting for fingerprints.” He placed his arms on the desk, and I could see the worry in his eyes. “Level with me, Mr. Larsen. What are the chances of finding my case?”
About as good as the odds of me getting promoted to sergeant, I thought. But despite my reservations, I tried to lay down some of my best bull. “Honestly? Maybe fifty-fifty. You see, sir, the most common way for thieves to unload stolen merchandise is at a pawnshop. The store owner pays the seller a fraction of what an item is actually worth, but the quick exchanges are a very convenient process for thieves. Still, a briefcase…sorry, an attaché case like yours sounds like it would stand out from the crowd, so I’d say our chances are better than average. Our patrol division investigators compile lists of stolen property each week, then they personally go out and check the inventories of our local pawn shops.”
Doctor Demming leaned forward with a look of rapt interest. It wasn’t everyday that I got the chance to lecture to a doctor, so I went on explaining the process. “State law says that anyone who brings items to a pawn shop has to provide some form of photo identificat
ion, so whenever our investigators find stolen property it’s very easy to tell who brought it in. But who knows, we might even get lucky and catch a glimpse of this suspect making the transaction on a security camera.”
The doctor took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that James Smithson had probably just grabbed anything he thought was valuable before tossing the briefcase into the nearest garbage can, but I was on a roll and couldn’t resist tooting my own horn. “But it probably won’t even come down to that, sir. Officer Mealor lifted several latent fingerprints from the door handle of your car and based on those, I’ve been able to identify a suspect. As we speak, our patrol officers are out looking to bring him in for questioning.”
He clapped his hands and grinned. “Excellent, excellent! You and your officers have truly raised the bar for public service. Who is the suspect, might I ask? Some impoverished drug addict?”
“That’s what we think, sir.” I unfolded one of the fliers I’d made and tried to smooth out the creases against my leg. “Maybe you could be so kind as to pass this along to the University’s security guards for me? This man might still be lurking around campus, stalking his next victim.”
He took the wrinkled sheet of paper and glanced down at the picture. In an instant, his eyes went wide with surprise as all the color drained from his face. The paper was shaking in his trembling hands, and it was obvious that Doctor Demming had run into James Smithson somewhere before.
“Doctor? Is everything all right?”
He swallowed and choked out, “Yes…. Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Detective.” His eyes were still glued to the photo.
“Do you recognize this man, sir?”
Finally, he mustered the strength to break his gaze away from the flier. When we made eye contact, his steely glare made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Actually … yes. I have seen this man before. That is, I’ve seen him once. It must have been two or three weeks ago when he was loitering around the parking lot behind the Harborview Tower offices. His presence seemed odd, since he just didn’t seem like the type who’d own a car.”
I nodded. The doctor’s snap assessment was entirely correct, even though a man like that was much too cultured to use the words ragpicker or crackhead.
He went on. “I suspected he was up to no good, so I crossed to the other side of the street and hurried toward my office. Damn it! I probably should’ve trusted my first instincts and called campus security.”
The doctor’s story seemed believable enough, and I couldn’t think of any logical reason why he’d be lying to me. Still, my investigative instincts told me he was leaving something out so I decided to press a little further. “Was that all? He didn’t actually say anything to you?”
“Yes, detective,” he said, his face set in iron now. “That was all.”
The doctor’s change in tone revealed that there must have been more to it, but I couldn’t very well rake somebody like Doctor Demming over the coals for some insignificant past encounter with a vagrant. After all, he was still the victim in the case. Stalling for time, I bent forward and flipped through the notebook as if I were searching for some important information. The pages were neatly organized and sectioned off by incident, and I couldn’t help noticing that the notebook’s previous owner had some truly amazing handwriting.
The pause gave me a few moments to mull over my predicament. The most likely explanation for Doctor Demming’s emotional shutdown was that Smithson had probably robbed him, or at least had harassed him aggressively. The doctor might have been freezing me out more from embarrassment than anything, so I tried to change the subject in an effort to steer the conversation back toward safe waters. With any luck, I’d be able to circle back around to James Smithson a little later. “So, Doctor, what kind of medicine do you practice?”
Usually there would be some sort of clues laying around a doctor’s office, like blown-up diagrams of specific organs or some stuff like that, but the only pictures on his walls showed a bunch of snooty English dudes riding horses on a fox hunt. He gave his Rolex a very deliberate look, which I supposed was his way of making sure I knew just how valuable his time was. “I’m not a practicing physician anymore. I’m the Acting Director of the Pharmacology Division.”
I swear, these doctors and their big words just kill me. “Farmacology” was a new word for me, so I put my detective training to use and tried to trick him into explaining what it meant while I took my sweet time spelling out his title. “Oh, I see. So as the director, you must be very involved with all aspects of the division.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, that’s correct. I approve all of the University’s evaluation studies for new drugs. I also monitor the progress of these studies, and I’m responsible for securing funding for future research.”
I bit my cheek, irritated at the fact that he could’ve just said “new drug division” right from the beginning. “Research, I see. Oh, and on behalf of my boss, sir, many thanks for what you guys did with Viagra. It’s changed his life.”
He just stared at me, and I came to the conclusion that Viagra must have been developed at some other hospital. I crossed and uncrossed my legs in a rare moment of self-consciousness, but any shyness disappeared as soon as I thought back to what Katie Maslow had told me earlier. I remembered what she’d said about that unknown chemical from both Encienario and McGurn’s toxicology workups, and I couldn’t helping thinking how much Big Jim would appreciate it if I had all of the week’s cases closed out by Friday. The victory would be especially sweet if I’d also managed to pull off an end-around and duck those dicks at SLED.
I summoned up my most polite voice and asked, “Sir, I wonder if you could help me out with a couple of cases I’m working. This week our patrol officers responded to two separate deaths on the MUSC campus. I’m sure Officer Mealor must have mentioned that he discovered the vandalism to your car while investigating a suicide?”
The doctor pursed his lips, then nodded.
“Well, sir, we also had an accidental death two days before that. It looks like a man fell into the Wellness Center pool and drowned.”
I tried to read the doctor’s thoughts, but his face was like a stone wall and I had no choice but to ramble on. “The deputy coroner performed autopsies, which is strictly a routine procedure for any unnatural death. During the course of her work, she ran toxicology tests on the victims.”
He still wasn’t talking, so I had to prompt him again. “That means that she checked their blood for any foreign substances. You know, like drugs.”
Doctor Demming’s face flushed red. He snapped, “I know what a toxicology examination is, Detective!”
I hurried on before he had time to focus his rage. “Of course, sir, of course, but now here’s the interesting part: In both men, the coroner’s office found the same chemical in their bloodstream. The thing is, this particular substance didn’t match any street drugs, known medications or any other chemical substances. We’re having our blood samples sent up to Columbia for examination by the forensics technicians at SLED.”
His face was still red, but at least his voice had slipped back down into a quiet hiss. “I wasn’t aware that performing a full toxicology workup was part of a routine autopsy. It’s a completely unnecessary procedure, not to mention expensive. I’ll have to make an inquiry with the County Council about this egregious use of taxpayer dollars.”
I just shrugged off his comment, and Doctor Demming didn’t bother to say anything else. I figured that he must not have caught my hint, or else he just wanted to make me come right out and ask for help. Finally, I took a deep breath and just went for it. “The thing is, Doctor, the results from SLED’s toxicology testing will probably take at least four to six weeks to come back. Maybe even longer than that, knowing how slow those state employees work. But if you could possibly find a way to slip away from your duties for a few minutes, the two of us might be able to shoot up the
road to the coroner’s office and you could examine the samples yourself.”
And then, nothing. There was no reaction at all, except for the doctor’s gaze had dropped into a dark glare. I crossed my fingers and gave it one last shot in the hopes of appealing to both his ego and his inner crime scene geek. “Sir, this drug might be something completely new. Quite frankly, SLED’s forensic analysts can’t come close to your expertise.”
He shuffled some papers around on his desk for a moment before reaching to pick up his telephone handset, and I knew it was no use. “I’m quite sorry, Detective, but I couldn’t possibly break away from the office. And more importantly, please try to imagine the damage that would be done to my professional reputation if it ever came out that I’d participated in a police investigation.”
I sat there for a long moment, trying to figure out if I’d just been insulted.
After one last long, awkward pause, he looked up again. “Now if you would please excuse me, Mister Larsen, I have some very important calls to return.”
There was no mistaking the dismissal in his tone, so I stood up to take my leave. “Of course, Doctor. If there’s any progress finding your attaché case, I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time.” I tucked Smithson’s flier back into my notebook, knowing full well that this would be the last time the two of us would talk. If hunting down missing persons was a low priority for me, hunting down some rich jerk’s missing attaché case was at the absolute bottom of the barrel.
The doctor didn’t make any effort to shake hands, so I showed myself to the door and I’d made it almost halfway down the hall before another thought stopped me in my tracks. Doctor Demming had mentioned that he oversaw the research on new medications, which might fit right in with Katie’s idea about McGurn and Encienario being in some kind of drug therapy. I thought about it for a moment, and realized that a drug research program might also explain why both men had been wearing hospital gowns, and how both had come to be at MUSC in the first damn place. And so even though my inner detective told me to quit while I was ahead, I just couldn’t pass up the chance to swing for the fences and clear out all my cases in a single afternoon. With my jaw firmly clenched, I marched back down the hall to the doctor’s office and barged right in.
Burnout (Goosey Larsen Book 1) Page 17