by Diana Kirk
"This is somewhat difficult." Sullivan's face flushed and his gaze darted around the room. What was so embarrassing?
"I'm all ears."
"Father Jamison got into some personal trouble during his last assignment."
"Where was that?"
"Ann Arbor, Michigan. He was involved with a student there. There was a child. He took an overdose of pills. Left the same kind of note."
"What'd it say?"
"It was. . . was. . . pretty much the same as the one you've found. The church spent a lot of time and money on psychiatrists. After much deliberation, they let him stay with the order and the church assumed financial responsibility for the child. They figured he needed help. He was one of their own. They couldn't abandon him. Then he came to us as our Chaplain."
"Did he see the child?"
"No. That was a condition of staying with the order. He couldn't make any attempt to see either the child or the mother. It devastated him and he felt like a failure."
Mr. Sullivan leaned forward. "But he confessed to an almost uncontrollable attraction to young women. He'd been receiving psychiatric counseling and prayed constantly for help. Apparently, he was attracted to Miss Latham. . . I don't know. But I assure you, Sergeant, he was no killer. Frederick would sooner hurt himself than another person. And as you've seen, he did just that."
"I don't know." The uncontrollable urge to smoke swept over Krastowitcz. That familiar craving to fill his lungs with something besides air--he needed another Marlboro. "I've got to do some checking on your story. Maybe it's true, but for now he's the closest thing I've got to a suspect or solution in this case. Bear with me."
"Of course. We'll give you every assistance and be at your disposal, Sergeant." Sullivan rose to take Krastowitcz's hand.
Krastowitcz towered over the man but Sullivan's handshake was firm and steady. The president had no reason to lie. One thing nagged at him. Mr. Sullivan had said Jamison was harmless, but Krastowitcz wasn't so sure. Hadn't Suzanne told Trent the priest gave her the creeps. He might have gone to Grafton's office, found Suzanne there and tried something with her. But a priest and a scalpel? How'd he get it? Sure, it was easy--the Chaplain went wherever he wanted in the hospital and no one would ask questions. They wandered around giving the last rites, especially in the Emergency Room and there were scalpels in the surgical trays. He'd seen them, himself.
Slowly, Krastowitcz walked back to Jamison's residence. Upon entering the priest's room, he glanced around. The body was gone. Only a pool of blood remained as evidence that something bad had happened here. Officer Fred Abel stood where Rickowski had been minutes before.
"Why didn't you tell me Iverson was here?" Krastowitcz asked.
"Iverson said he'd see you at the morgue. Rickowski went along. I'm just following orders."
"Damn. Sonofabitch. Okay, Fred. Get things cleaned up and I'll see you back at the office."
He wanted Iverson's reaction to Jamison's body. Maybe Krastowitcz had missed a clue? No matter. He'd find out soon enough.
He was almost out of the building. "Gary?" Fred stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Captain Straley's on the phone."
"Damn. I can't get anything done." He trudged back to the reception desk and picked up the phone. "Cap. What can I do for you?"
"Traffic just identified that hit and run you've been working on."
"Mr. No Brain? That old rerun can wait."
"Not really. His name was Richard Canfield, he was a medical student at Dorlynd. That place is beginning to smell like bad news."
"What?"
"Richard Canfield. Missing for ten days. You've got his picture on your bulletin board, although not even God would recognize him. Got him from a cleaning receipt. Had his name, address, everything we needed. The crime lab bagged the contents of his pocket and, true to form, misplaced it. We ran a record check on him. Seems he had a misdemeanor record back in Ohio."
"Richard Canfield? Richard Canfield!" How many more bodies are we going to find before this is over? Canfield, the student Peter had told him about? Grafton's new lover? Now he was dead, too. There had to be a connection.
"Yeah, Krastowitcz," Straley said on the other end. "He had a room at Dorlynd, so since you're already there, go take a look-see."
"Sure, Cap."
He disconnected the line and dialed Andrea's number one more time. No answer. Damn. It was three o'clock. He could have her paged, but he had to get to the morgue and pick Iverson's forensic mind about Jamison. Then there was the direct order to go to Canfield's room. Damn. Things had looked so good there for a while.
A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach said he hadn't solved the case, after all.
Chapter XVIII
WHATEVER IN CONNECTION WITH MY PROFESSIONAL PRACTICE, OR NOT IN CONNECTION WITH IT, I MAY SEE OR HEAR IN THE LIVES OF MEN WHICH OUGHT NOT TO BE SPOKEN ABROAD, I WILL NOT DIVULGE, AS RECKONING THAT ALL SUCH SHOULD BE KEPT SECRET. . . .
Inside Hardwyn's small bathroom, Andrea tried to control her breathing, which was still coming in short gasps. How long had she been here? It was so dark, she couldn't see her watch. She prayed Hardwyn had a strong bladder.
"Dr. Hardwyn?" Teresa's voice floated in.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Sullivan is on the line. Can you take it?"
"Mike. What's up?"
"What? He did what? Are the police there?"
What had happened? Who? Which police? She didn't really care, if only he'd leave so she could get out.
"He thinks Jamison killed Grafton? Are you sure? I'm speechless. I can't believe it. What should I do?"
Jamison? The priest had killed Milton and Suzanne? No way. Andrea's mind reeled. It didn't make any sense. She had to get out and find Gary.
"Sure, Mike. Whatever you say. I'll cooperate whatever way I can. I don't know."
Andrea pressed her ear against the door, and Hardwyn dialed the phone. Her breathing rasped and huffed so rapidly, she was sure he heard her. The calmer she strove to be, the harder her heart pounded against her ribs.
Not now, please. A deep breath caught in her throat and she struggled not to cough.
"Peter, Dr. Hardwyn. In looking over some of Milton's papers, I've found something that doesn't look right. Some results on cell bathing. Yes, I'm sure you can."
"Around six?
"Good. I'll see you then. If you can find the rest of the papers, I'd appreciate it. I've got to make that report to NIH, especially now since his death.
"Okay. Thanks, Peter. I'll see you then."
His footsteps drew closer. He was coming into the bath-room. Quickly, she stepped behind the shower curtain and hoped it brought her better luck than it had Janet Leigh. The door opened and Hardwyn flicked on the light.
Her heart stopped. Her lungs screamed for air.
The rasp of his zipper ripped through the small room followed by water hitting water, and flushing. She struggled for breath. Against coughing. For consciousness. Against discovery. Finally--blessedly--the light went out. Her galloping heart threatened to burst from her chest. If she didn't get medical attention fast, she'd suffocate.
KRASTOWITCZ ENTERED Canfield's room. A typical college dormitory--clothes, books, papers, opened and unopened snacks everywhere. Only thing missing was the student. But this one wasn't coming back. He'd left his head as scavenger bait on the highway. Krastowitcz sat at the student's desk. Now, what the hell? He picked up a scribble-filled tablet and flipped through the pages. Nothing unusual. Notes from class, phone numbers, and, finally, Grafton's name next to a number.
The usual mess of student papers alongside a couple of joints crammed the desk drawers. Krastowitcz stuck his hand over and around the wood of the drawers. Cheap wood grated against his finger pads. The way this day was going, all he'd get for his efforts were splinters. His fingers touched cool metal under the frame of the bottom drawer--something taped to the underside. With a stubby nail, he pried it loose and pulled up a key. The phone rang, startli
ng him and he jerked. The key fell behind the desk. Damn!
"Krastowitcz," he almost snarled.
"Hey, Gary," Rickowski said. "Iverson called. Wants you to high tail it to the morgue--like yesterday."
"On my way." He threw the receiver onto the cradle and shoved the desk aside retrieving the key. He stuffed it in his pocket. He'd get to it later. Right now, something important was in the air.
KRASTOWITCZ ENTERED the morgue. "Goddamn it, George. Don't ever do that to me again." His voice boomed, bouncing off stainless steel tables to echo around the room. The naked body of Father Frederick Jamison lay open on a shiny slab, the "Y" shaped incision already revealing secrets only an M.E. could divine. Here, laid open, the priest lost his humanity and became a thing, a specimen, a scientific procedure. Krastowitcz skidded to a halt, turned and stared down at Jamison.
"What's the matter, Gary? I had to get Jamison here so we could get the autopsy out of the way. Just in case I get more bodies or I've got to leave town, again. Remember what happened last time."
"Yeah. Well, I'd appreciate being told when you're going to do something like that. I'm still the chief investigating officer here. I haven't been replaced, yet, but at the rate I'm going, I'll catch heat for sure."
"Why so glum? Takes more than a few homicides to get your goat."
"Real funny, George. Close this one for me and I'll laugh at anything you say. I'm worried about Trent. He was in a bad way last night, talking about what he'd like to do to Jamison. He was convinced that priest killed Suzanne, and he almost convinced me."
"Nothing to say on this one. Seems routine. Suicide." Iverson pointed toward Jamison's head. "Placed the gun directly in his mouth. See?" Iverson rotated Jamison's head exposing a ragged oozing wound where the back of his head should've been. "Blew out a hole about the size of a silver dollar. After I look inside, I can tell more, but everything, including placement in the room is consistent with suicide--no interference from outside forces, and so far the autopsy corroborates everything."
"What about Richard Canfield? How'd you finally I.D. him?"
"Tough one. Since his head was completely smashed, dental records didn't help. What we did do was try to match his finger prints with missing persons reports. Still nothing. Then we got lucky--in his pocket was a cleaning receipt. We took it to the cleaners and guess what?"
"Yeah?"
"Richard Canfield--the missing student from Dorlynd. Went to his room and dusted for prints. We don't have a positive match yet, that'll take time. But now that we've something to compare prints with, I'm sure they'll match."
Krastowitcz plopped onto the stool. "I'm hoping Jamison is our killer. Take some samples of his blood. We'll have the FBI run a DNA. Maybe there're cells from someone else, too."
"Jeez, Gary. Sounds like, you're grabbing at straws. I doubt it, but if that's what you want, I'll run `em. But it'll take time. Lots of time."
"So? No problem. If Jamison's our man, we've got all the time in the world."
ANDREA'S LUNGS exploded, and she gasped for air in great ragged heaves. The door clicked shut. Hardwyn had left. Still, she waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Agonizingly slow.
Her lungs burned. She wouldn't last much longer in a full blown asthma attack with no inhaler. It sat back in her office. Only minutes were left to get to the Emergency Room. She cracked the bathroom door open. His office was dark. Good. Clutching her painful chest, she tiptoed to the outer door and peeked out. Teresa was gone, too. Thank you, God! Andrea checked her watch. Four thirty-five. She'd been here all afternoon. Everyone was gone.
To remain unnoticed, her car was parked two blocks away. Now it was a hazard, and she might not make it to the ER. If she passed out, who'd find her? She had to make it to her car. Get help. Relax, relax, relax, she chanted to herself. You can do this; you can make it. Slow steps. Do it. Slow. Breathe.
By the time she reached her car, her breath came in short gasps. She slammed into reverse and shoved her foot on the gas pedal.
In less than three minutes she pulled into the Emergency Room lot, scrambled out of her car, and staggered into the triage room. She collapsed to the floor, grabbing her throat. Stunned horror registered on the nurse's face. Andrea's reflexes were reduced to sheer willpower but she forced one word from her rasping throat. "Epinephrine!"
ANDREA'S EYELIDS snapped open. Somewhere overhead an airplane whined as it circled its approach to the airport. The sensation of a warm presence, a strong shoulder and rhythmic breathing signaling deep sleep enveloped her. Gary. How could he sleep at a time like this? Were they going to Paris? Milton had found the cure for AIDS and Gary was sleeping. What an upside-down world. Gary stirred, mumbled something and lolled his head onto Andrea's shoulder. She liked the mixture of shaving lotion, leather, and sweat that clung to him. It gave him an enticing musky scent. She placed her lips next to his cool forehead and breathed deeply. Her fingers traced over his eyebrows, into his scalp, and got lost in his thick curls. Her lips pressed tiny kisses in the wake of her fingertips.
Up close, the tiny lines around his eyes gave him a helpless look, especially in sleep. She cared a great deal for this gruff man; he was comfortable and easygoing, like a forever friend. What was wrong with that? She couldn't imagine.
Her eyes fluttered.
The engine wasn't a plane, it was a respirator. Connected to her. Oh, my God! Pulling at the tube in her throat, she fought the equipment.
"Hey, Tim, she's coming out of it."
"Get her disconnected."
"Andrea? Andrea? Can you hear me?"
She gagged. They stopped the unit and pulled the endotracheal tube from her throat.
"Tim? she said hoarsely. "What happened?"
"Looks like a narrow escape. God, Andrea. I didn't even know you had asthma. You were lucky. We used a ton of epinephrine and you almost didn't make it. Don't you have an inhaler?"
"I lost it somewhere."
"Lost it?" The Emergency Room physician scratched his head. "Are you a doctor or what?"
"An absent-minded doctor." She gasped a chuckle. "Well, thanks." Andrea tried to sit up. "I'll be going."
Tim held her down. "Not so fast, Doctor. You're admitted for observation for the next twenty-three hours. Understood?"
"But I'm fine."
"You didn't handle your asthma like a responsible patient, Doc. In fact, you seem to be in the noncompliant category, so we need a little preventive medicine. Stay here, Andrea. That's an order!"
"You can't make me."
"I know. But by the time you fight it, twenty-three hours will be up. Relax, Andrea. Enjoy the R & R at the Dorlynd Country Club."
"All right, sure, Tim."
She settled back in her hospital bed, and the nurse brought her the grant file. "You dropped this when you came in. Where do you want it?"
"Thanks; I'll take it." She reached for the folder and relished the chance to read it, unnoticed. Being admitted might not be so bad after all. With all the epinephrine, she'd never sleep. Like a tight spring, she was over-wound, ready to break free at any moment.
Inside the folder, jumbled papers were in disarray. She pulled out a computerized expenditure printout. The figure twenty-five million caught her eye. A lot of money.
In the expense column she noticed seven-hundred thousand spent for a photon counter. Weird. Milton didn't have a photon counter. No one in research had one. Nine-thousand for travel. Who'd gone anywhere? Milton never left town. Neither had she. Remodeling, one-point-five million. She ran a quick mental guesstimate. Unbelievable! Roughly fifteen million in expenses for research, only she'd never seen any of it anywhere. An error? Or maybe, a reason for murder.
Had Milton known about this? He'd have to. He knew every-thing that went on in Dorlynd, and he recorded everything in his journal.
Her head snapped up. Of course. The journal. She needed it for verification immediately. The black book, the one in his picture box. Maybe that was his journal. S
he'd forgotten. . . where had she stuffed it?
If Milton truly had found a vaccine, diseases would be cured, millions of lives would be saved. Milton would've won the Nobel, and have the coup of a lifetime. He'd been right. She would've been famous, too, just for having worked on the project. Those lonely dying patients would have a chance to live. AIDS, like polio, would be a thing of the distant past, a scourge, dominating a brief wrinkle in time, cured by an easy process. Deep down she'd always wondered if it would be simple, something scientists had overlooked, because of its too obvious solution. Now, according to DuBoismier, Milton had done it. But it cost him his life.
Who would've killed him? Someone manipulating his funds, most likely, but who had control? Who ordered supplies, made reports? Who knew everything about Milton? Dwight Hardwyn? No, it couldn't be him.
OH, MY GOD. PETER. No wonder he was so angry that day in the laboratory. The files. The journal had to be in the lab. Hardwyn planned to meet Peter in the lab at six. She glanced at her watch on the stand next to her bed. It was six o'clock, now.
Hardwyn might be in danger. Peter had killed twice. He'd kill again. She had to warn the Dean, had to find Gary, and had to get him to the lab.
She scrambled out of bed. The room moved beneath her, and she staggered forward. Dizziness enveloped her and she plopped back down on the bed to suck in a deep breath. Take it slow. Easy. She could call the Dean, but he was probably already at the laboratory. If she called the lab, she might set Peter off. First, call Gary at headquarters, then head to the lab.
Peter wouldn't dare kill both of them.
Chapter XVIX
. . . WHILE I CONTINUE TO KEEP THIS OATH INVIOLATE, MAY IT BE GRANTED TO ME TO ENJOY LIFE AND THE PRACTICE OF MY ART RESPECTED ALWAYS BY ALL MEN, . . .
Krastowitcz sauntered up to the desk sergeant. "Checking in, Sarge. O'Connor on C-shift command tonight?"
"Yeah. In the day room havin' his evening coffee. Best not disturb him. He hates interruptions, unless it's real important." The sergeant leaned forward, blatant interest written on his face.