“Except that I was cleaning their clocks,” Kurtz said.
Moran looked skeptical. “Were you?” They had already reviewed the films three times over. “You were holding your own, I’ll give you that, but neither of them were out for the count and two against one is still long odds. Not to mention the third guy.”
The third guy had stood back and watched. The third guy wore a hat and dark glasses. “Look at his hands,” Barent said.
The hands were in shadow. Exactly what he was holding in them could not be made out, but…Kurtz winced. “Looks like a gun,” Kurtz said.
Barent shook his head. “A little bulky to be a pistol. Hard to tell. I think it’s a Taser.”
Moran nodded. “So, you see, you weren’t exactly winning. This guy could have stepped in at any time. He was just waiting to see what the others could do. You were lucky.”
Kurtz sighed. Lucky. Did he feel lucky? He was alive and in one piece. All things considered, that was pretty lucky, but most people didn’t have random thugs attacking them in parking lots. That wasn’t so lucky.
“So,” Barent said. “Until we get to the bottom of this, watch yourself.”
“Oh, thanks,” Kurtz said. “Thanks a lot.”
Chapter 18
Bollinger Grande Annee Vielles Vignes Blanc de Noir. The very best. He swirled it around the glass and admired the tiny bubbles rising upward against the light. The bottle had cost him over 500 bucks and he was not, frankly, enjoying it as much as he thought he would because, frankly, he felt like a fool. It was all very well to celebrate a job well done. It was quite another thing to pay idiotic prices for a bottle of fermented grape juice. Oh, it was good champagne. No doubt about that. But was it that much better than Dom Perignon?
He sighed. Relax, he told himself. Today went well. His little attempts at misdirection had been spectacularly successful and a new day offered new opportunities. He glanced at the clock, finished his champagne and rose to his feet. A criminal genius needed to be fresh and well rested for tomorrow’s amusements.
He smiled. Tomorrow…and, of course, the day after and the day after that. He rubbed his hands together, ignoring the faint tremble as he walked in to brush his teeth.
He had a lot of plans.
Over the next few weeks, an assortment of student papers vanished from a professor’s office, only to reappear on his desk three days later, torn into shreds.
Some bloody sheets were stolen from the laundry, only to re-appear draped over the windows of the medical school cafeteria.
No signs. No clues. Nobody saw anything. Nobody knew anything.
Then, two weeks after Halloween, a nurse, young and female, coming out to the parking lot after the evening shift, was pursued by a howling figure dragging a metal chain and wearing a fright mask. The nurse made it to her car unscathed. She was hesitant to report the incident and did so only at her co-workers’ urging. A review of the tapes revealed only that the perpetrator was tall and slim and presumably male.
Ten days later, an anatomically correct doll used to demonstrate fiberoptic bronchoscopy briefly disappeared, to reappear later in a classroom with a very large dildo in its mouth. Big deal. Kurtz, when he heard about it, wondered if this one was really part of the series. It lacked the element of calculated viciousness that the other incidents seemed to have. More likely just a student prank.
After that, there was a gap of another week. This time, a young post-doc employed by the pathology department had been working in her lab, again at night. Her slides, an unusual collection of soft-tissue sarcomas, had been smeared with feces and ruined. An unsigned note had been left, printed in crayon in block letters. It said:
I won’t quit until justice has been done. You can’t find me. You can’t stop me.
A few days after that, a pressure relief valve malfunctioned on one of the ventilators in the ICU. Once placed on the ventilator, an unfortunate patient named Mary Smith began to blow up like a balloon. Fortunately, the respiratory therapist involved was smart enough to disconnect the ventilator before the patient’s lungs exploded. The official police take on this one was that the ventilator had most likely been re-assembled incorrectly after routine cleaning, which had taken place only the day before. They might have been right. There was no way to tell.
The newspapers were starting to report things, though none had yet figured out what was really going on. When they did, it wouldn’t be pretty.
“We should tell them,” Kurtz said. “Keeping this a secret is going to backfire.”
The Dean frowned. “You’re suggesting that we encourage our patients not to come here.”
“No,” Kurtz said. “I’m suggesting that the presence of a possibly homicidal maniac is not something that can be kept secret. The cover up is always worse than the crime. Remember?”
“I could say that we’re not the ones committing the crimes. While annoying, very few of the incidents so far seem designed to inflict real harm.”
“Really?” Kurtz gave him an incredulous look. The Dean, clearly, was in deep denial. “Sandra Jafari could have died. I could have died.”
The Dean winced. “Sorry. This is true, but harassing letters rarely lead to an attempt at suicide. I suspect that the result in this case was not intended. And as for you, fists and tasers do not indicate an intention to commit homicide.”
“No, merely an intention to beat me to a pulp. Hardly worth thinking about.”
The Dean reluctantly nodded, and gave a small, sad smile. He sighed. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll prepare a press release. Just in case.”
“Why so pensive?” Lenore said.
Kurtz gave a half-hearted shrug. “When I was a kid, things seemed so solid and stable and secure. You got up in the morning and went to school. You hung out with your friends and came home and ate your dinner and did your homework and went to bed. One day seemed much the same as the next. It seemed like things would never change, but after awhile, as you grow older, you come to realize that little by little, things are different than they used to be, in a lot of ways. Maybe you’re no longer friendly with that kid down the street. Maybe you like books or hobbies that didn’t used to interest you. Then your grandparents pass away and then one day it occurs to you that your father and your mother don’t look as big as they used to, and maybe your dad doesn’t have much hair anymore and then you go away to college and when you come home for the holidays, everything looks different.”
Lenore paused with a bite of food halfway to her mouth. She gave him a sharp look. “Growing up is like that,” she said.
“It’s not just growing up. It never ends. Things change.” He shook his head. “It’s not just you and your life and your own circumstances. What was that quote, ‘Most men lead lives of quiet desperation’…?”
“Thoreau.”
“Was it?” Kurtz shrugged. “This guy, he must have wanted something. Life, or something, or someone, has disappointed him.”
“You sound like you’re feeling sorry for him,” Lenore said.
Kurtz shrugged again, then he gave a tired grin. “Mostly, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I don’t like feeling like an idiot. None of us do.”
They were eating at the Spice Market, Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s temple to Asian Street food. It was kitschy, with bright lights and bright colors, and loud, but Kurtz loved the place. Tonight, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on the food. He glumly stared down at his bowl of Thai hot and sour soup with shrimp.
Lenore nodded and cut her own appetizer—chicken samosas with cilantro and yogurt—into small pieces. “You’ve been speaking with Lew and Harry,” she said. “You must have theories.”
“Of course, but it’s pretty much the same theory that we started with. Somebody who has a grudge, possibly against the school and probably against the Department of Ob-Gyn, and certainly against Christina Pirelli in particular. Most of it has been directed against her.”
“So, what did Christina ever do to make so
mebody hate her?”
“Nothing that she can figure out.”
“Maybe you’re being too logical,” Lenore said.
“What do you mean?”
“Academic medicine is not a forgiving game. I’ve heard you say that. Nobody cares if your mother was dying of cancer or your lab notes burned up in a fire. You either produce or you don’t get promoted. Publish or perish. Succeed or die. Isn’t that so?”
“Yeah, but most so-called academics don’t care that much. In the end, we’re all doctors. We take care of patients. That’s our primary responsibility and that’s what we get paid for.”
“It’s what you get paid for, but in the end, you’re not all doctors. For real academics, if they can’t do the research and publish the papers and get the grants, the stakes are a little higher, aren’t they?”
Kurtz frowned and stared into space. “I suppose so,” he finally said.
“Well, then.”
“Somebody has a grudge,” Kurtz said. “That’s for sure.”
“A motive may be insane to everybody but the person who has it. Figure out the motive and maybe you’ve figured out the crime.”
Not exactly a new concept in the annals of police work, but still…Slowly, Kurtz smiled. “Let’s order some champagne,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”
“You want to do what?”
“The annual Benefactor’s Ball is in three weeks. I suggest that we throw in a commendation to honor Christina Pirelli and the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology.”
The Dean appeared doubtful. “And this is supposed to accomplish what, exactly?”
“It’s supposed to get our lunatic angry enough to come out of the woodwork.”
“He’s done that before. Frequently. We haven’t been too fond of the results.”
“Before, he was on his own turf. This time, he’ll be on ours. I think it’s time for us to pick the battleground.”
“What do Officers Barent and Moran think?”
“They think it could work,” Kurtz was shading the truth, but only a little. Harry Moran had rolled his eyes. Barent had frowned. “Pretty obvious,” he said. “The guy would be a fool to take the bait.”
“He’s nuts,” Kurtz had said. “I’m hoping it will drive him off the deep end.”
“If you really drive him off the deep end, maybe he’ll blow up the administration building.” Barent shrugged. “If the Dean wants to do it, we can station some guys in the crowd. Don’t get your hopes up.”
The Dean looked pensive. “They are starting a new community outreach program, and one of Christina’s research associates is doing some really impressive work on the effects of hormonal changes on the genesis of ovarian cancer.”
“It’s already a benefit. Announce that half of the proceeds will go to a fund a new screening clinic, and maybe a lab.”
“Sure,” the Dean said. “Why not?”
Chapter 19
The benefit was held each year on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, supposedly to get an early start on the holiday season. Kurtz wore a tuxedo, which he hated, and Lenore wore a dark red gown which perfectly set off her green eyes, blonde hair and lush curves. The Dean gave an impressive speech. Christina glowed. Her research associate, Lydia Cho, seemed dazzled. The food was good, the wine superb. All in all, a perfect evening.
Barent and Moran had promised them some anonymous detectives in plainclothes, but if they were there (Kurtz could only assume that they were there), they knew how to mingle without making themselves conspicuous. The caterer had picked his people for reliability and discretion. Cameras were unobtrusively placed. If anything happened, they would be certain to get it all recorded.
But nothing happened.
The party began to wind down around ten. By midnight, all of the guests had left. Over $250,000 had been pledged.
“We should do this more often,” the Dean said.
Kurtz frowned. “Not exactly a victory for the good guys.”
“You win a few, you lose a few. Sometimes you get rained out. I’m not sorry that the event remained uneventful.”
Kurtz shook his head, “Oh, well,” he said.
And that was that. Zilch.
The next day, a note was received in the Dean’s office:
It was excellent champagne, but I’ve had better. Obviously, you think that I’m an idiot. You’ll regret that. You can’t find me. You can’t stop me.
“Well, shit,” the Dean said.
Two days later, Kurtz’ anesthesiologist called in sick and his first case, a gallbladder, was delayed for over an hour before they could dig up a replacement. You had to roll with the punches in this business, Kurtz knew that. Worse things had happened, but somehow, he was having trouble maintaining his usual cheery outlook. He could feel his hands tremble. There was a twitch at the corner of his eye.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” Vinnie Steinberg said. He looked grim. “I’ll make a few phone calls. It shouldn’t be too long.”
“Right,” Kurtz said. He decided to take a little walk. He got a cup of coffee and sat outside on a bench in the courtyard, letting the late-November sun shine down on his face while he sipped his coffee. It was cool but still pleasant and a light breeze was blowing. Slowly, he could feel his muscles unwind.
Henry Tolliver wanted the job, Kurtz reflected, but the negotiations were on hold while Staunton sorted out its little troubles. It was common knowledge that Tolliver was also on the short list at Jefferson. In normal times, Staunton and New York could outbid Philadelphia and Jefferson but these were not normal times.
Still, aside from the uproar, no permanent damage had been done…not yet, anyway. Kurtz shook his head. So far, they had been relatively lucky, but it wouldn’t last. Kurtz was sure of that. The guy had been doing this for a long time and there was no indication whatsoever that he was ready to stop.
Across the quad, an elderly couple were walking arm in arm. The man wore a rumpled suit and the woman wore a print dress. A small handbag dangled from her free hand. A skinny white kid with dyed green hair and a ring through his nose was intently following them, inching slowly closer. What a jerk…Kurtz rose to his feet and walked up to the kid. “Hey,” Kurtz said.
The kid stopped. He looked at Kurtz suspiciously. “What?”
“They’re not your grandparents, are they?”
The kid blinked.
Kurtz pondered the situation. The kid was smirking. Kurtz was tempted to wipe the smirk off his face. “They do look like easy marks, don’t they?” So did this little idiot, if it came to that. He was about half Kurtz’ size. “But that doesn’t mean they deserve to get their handbag stolen.”
“Huh?” A sneer crossed the kid’s face. “Get lost, asshole, or I’ll call the police.”
Kurtz considered whether or not it was worth it and reluctantly decided that it wasn’t. “Kid,” he said. “I’ll give you one chance. You see, I wasn’t born yesterday and I happen to be the police.” This was true, though Kurtz was almost embarrassed to say it out loud. Police surgeons did carry the rank of Inspector in the New York City Police Department, though the actual police occasionally resented it and more often considered it a joke. “You’ve been closing in on the old folks ever since you came in here. Maybe you’re innocent. Maybe you’re not, but I’ll bet anything you like that you have no legitimate business, so take advantage of the fact that I have better things to do and get lost.”
The elderly couple had by this time entered the building. The kid glanced at them as they vanished inside and almost audibly sighed. Without a word, he turned and walked away.
Kurtz glanced at his watch. Almost an hour had passed. He was feeling better, he realized. His little encounter with the teenaged jackass had cheered him right up. Maybe by now, his case could get underway. He drew a deep breath of the cool autumn air and went back to the OR.
The new anesthesiologist’s name was Jenkins. He was short and middle-aged and obviously pissed off. Kurtz hadn’t seen him before bu
t he seemed to know his business. After the patient was asleep, Kurtz said to him, “I guess you had other plans for the day?”
Jenkins shook his head. “I was working on a paper. I was supposed to be non-clinical.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
Jenkins gave him a sour look over the drapes. “I’m supposed to get a day out of the OR each week. This is the third week in a row that I’ve lost it.”
Kurtz had performed this operation a hundred times before. The camera on the end of the tube displayed the abdominal contents on the overhead screens. Kurtz’ fingers moved steadily, and before long, the gallbladder hung by a thread. He slipped a bag under it, put clips on the duct and snipped it. The gallbladder dropped into the bag and he pulled it out through the tiny hole in the abdomen.
“I understand a lot of you are looking for jobs,” Kurtz said.
Jenkins gave a weary grin. “We’re all looking for jobs.”
“Great,” Kurtz muttered.
Jenkins shrugged.
Twenty minutes later, the patient was awake and tucked into a corner of the Recovery Room. Kurtz retrieved his white coat from the rack by the door and went out to the elevators. Five minutes later, he was sitting in Bill Werth’s office. He felt self-conscious, almost like he was there under false pretenses.
“So.” Werth smiled. “What’s up?”
Kurtz drew a deep breath. In for a pound… “Have you heard about the threatening letters? The phone calls?”
Werth frowned at him. “Not really. Just rumors. What’s going on?”
The Dean had been reluctant to bring anybody else into the inner circle, but Kurtz had insisted on discussing things with a professional.
“I frankly doubt that Dr. Werth will be more helpful than the police,” the Dean had said.
“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t, but we haven’t been doing so well on our own. It can’t hurt.”
The Chairmen Page 16