Laura jerked. She nearly crushed the vial of penicillin she was fingering in the pocket of her lab coat. Her knees started to buckle, and she lurched forward. Gloria almost lost control of the cart as she reached out to grab her. Laura tried to recover her balance by leaning against the refrigerator unit.
“What’s wrong?” the nurse blurted. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine,” Laura stammered. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Not until you settle down, girl.” Gloria steered Laura to a nearby bench. “I knew you looked tired. You been up all night studying? You sit here while I give these injections. I’m already a half-hour off schedule.”
Laura sank onto the hard bench against the wall, momentarily complying with the nurse’s order until her attention was diverted to the young girl and the man with her. They were both staring and he was pointing at her.
Then the girl called out, “Sister, she’s the one in the emergency room Johnny told us about! The yellow-haired doctor. She’s the one—”
Laura stared back. What was she talking about? Laura had never been inside an emergency room. Then her heart thundered as the words “yellow-haired” doctor reverberated. She’d heard those words before.
“Stacy, not here,” the nun said, glancing at Laura. “Johnny said a lot of stuff. I told your mama I’d check out what he said. Hush, child.”
Laura’s eyes clouded with confusion as she watched the young man reach over and put a hand awkwardly on the young girl’s shoulder. She grappled with the impact of what she’d just heard. Horrified, she now knew whom she had killed and left in the rubble. Johnny Diggs. Anthony’s brother. Lucy Jones’s other son? It had been self-defense, hadn’t it? But could she ever know for sure?
Laura did not wait to hear any more. She bolted off of the bench and ran off the surgical ward.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laura headed for the auditorium in a daze. She had one more class, histology, before she had to report back to Dr. Monroe. The lecturer used 35 mm slides, and the lights were dimmed as he worked his way through endless carousels. Laura sometimes dozed off during these lectures, but today she needed to get into that darkened room to sit and think.
She heard nothing of the lecture on the integument: the dermis, the epidermis, and the sweat glands. The layers of the skin seemed irrelevant as she began to reconstruct in detail everything that happened last Wednesday night, from the time she left the men’s surgical ward to the time she was attacked. On the very edge of her memory was the shadow of a young man with light brown skin. Not tall, but stocky. Did he have a shaved head? She couldn’t recall. He had barged into the ward, practically knocking her down, and yelled something that didn’t make sense about a yellow-hair doctor. Then she had gone off to her conference.
The lights suddenly came on in the auditorium. Laura blinked rapidly and dabbed the gathering tears from her eyes. The professor was now illustrating the tissues of the skin on the green chalkboard. He used different colored chalk to point out the five layers of the scalp. Suddenly Laura jerked forward and caught her breath as she realized that her assailant had worn a baseball cap. Underneath his head was shaved just like the scalp the professor was drawing.
She jerked again as someone poked her in the arm. The student sitting next to her had a note in his hand that he was trying to pass to her.
“What? Oh, thanks,” Laura muttered as she reached for the note, her name written on the outside. The message read:
I remembered your “special” meeting with Dr. Monroe later (I can’t wait to hear how it goes) so I told my dad to pick me up because I need to get home early. That’s all for now … Oops, not yet. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but my dad is going to stop by your house tonight to ask you about that murder last week. Dr. “Charming” doesn’t want him approaching any of us at school, as I told you this morning. That’s why he’s coming to your house. Dad’s a great guy, so no problem, but please don’t let him know that I told you. Act surprised, etc., and tear up this note. See you, tomorrow.
Love, Susan.
Once again, nausea coursed through Laura. She felt faint and shaky, but managed a glance and a slight wave in Susan’s direction, mouthing an “Okay.” She then got up abruptly and made her way to the exit. She just had to talk to Steve before Detective Reynolds got to him. She hurried through the halls until she found a pay phone. But when she called his office, Steve was not there.
What was she going to do? The gun that killed Johnny Diggs was still in her house. She had to make sure Steve didn’t tell the police anything about it.
“Well, Miss Nelson. You’re punctual,” David Monroe remarked as Connie showed Laura into his office.
“Yes, Dr. Monroe,” she mumbled after an awkward pause. With a sweeping arm motion, he invited her to sit in the lone chair opposite his ample oak desk.
“I’ve read your report.” Dr. Monroe said. “The prognosis, as you’ve pointed out, is dismal. Did you find anything in your examination today that points to the contrary?”
“Nothing,” Laura said quietly.
“The Diggs boy will surely die from complications caused by massive brain injuries. You’ve done a good job of listing them. There’s no hope of recovery of any cerebral function. We’ve requested permission from his mother to disconnect the respirator. It’ll be best for her and for the patient. But she continues to hold out hope.”
He paused. Laura remained silent.
Then Dr. Monroe simply informed her that her report was acceptable, wished her success and dismissed her.
Laura rose from her chair, mumbled a “thank you,” and hurried out of his office. She headed toward the nearest pay phone to try Steve again. What she did not notice was that Dr. Monroe had followed her into the hall, watching her run down the corridor. As he turned back to his office, a slight smile crossed his face.
“Steve, I’m glad I caught you in the office,” Laura said too rapidly. “You doing okay?”
“Not bad. What’s up with you?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I was thinking that it would be nice if we had dinner out tonight.” She tried not to sound desperate. “How about Abacus? We love the food, and the service is pretty quick. It’s been a while since we’ve been out.”
“What? Is this my wife I’m talking to? Go out for dinner on a weeknight?”
“I had an easy day,” she lied. “Besides, I’d like a chance to talk to you. I’m sure Carol can watch the boys. She’s always anxious to make a little extra money.”
Carol Slade, her husband and toddler son lived upstairs in the house on Washburn that Steve and Laura rented in the northwest section of Detroit. To Laura’s enormous relief, Carol had been delighted when Laura approached her about babysitting. For Laura, it meant that her children would never even have to leave the house when she went off to school.
“Tell you the truth, I’m pretty tired. The weekend, all that parental strain.” Steve gave an exaggerated groan. “Maybe tomorrow, babe.”
“Please, Steve, will you do it for me?” Laura tried to sound excited rather than anxious. “We need it after that weekend. Meet me there at 7:00?”
“Feels like you’re twisting my arm, but okay, come home first, and we’ll go from there.”
“There’s a book at the Providence Hospital library in Southfield that I need,” she bluffed. “Sometimes I go there when the books I need are already out down here, so I’ll be out that way already.” Laura felt a sick guilt. Was she getting too good at making up lies? “Leave the boys with Carol and just meet me there. Okay?”
“Oh, one more thing, honey. Will you stop at the supermarket on the way and get some jars of baby food for Kevin? Fruit, like applesauce and pears? We also need peanut butter, jelly and paper towels. And, oh, I really hate to do this to you, but I’m in desperate need for pantyhose. Remember, size A. Get suntan or taupe, not beige. Beige makes my legs look sickly.”
Laura knew that Steve would balk at the pantyhose request, but the unseemly t
ask might get him out of the house earlier. Hopefully, Susan’s dad would not show up before then. She waited in silence.
“Hey babe, that’s asking too much. I’ll be dammed if I’m going to stand around trying to pick out pantyhose like some kind of weirdo.”
“Steve, please. Get me about six pair. Please, honey?”
Steve grunted. “Yeah, I’ll do it just this once.”
Laura hung up the phone with a sigh. She had one more thing to do before leaving. Stopping in an empty restroom near the building exit, she settled herself down on an uncovered toilet seat in one of the stalls. Cringing, she clumsily assembled the apparatus that she’d secreted in the pocket of her white smock earlier, then plunged the needle through the pink rubber cap of the vial and drew up what she thought was the right amount of milky white fluid. Without the benefit of swabbing the site with alcohol, she stood, bent forward and stabbed the needle into the upper, outer part of her gluteal muscle, pushing the plunger until the chamber of the plastic syringe was empty. Wincing, she prayed that her ignorance would not cause her to strike a critical nerve or a major blood vessel. She expected a sore behind, but at least she wouldn’t end up with syphilis or gonorrhea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Laura and Steve were ushered into a small comfortable booth at Abacus. They both enjoyed this restaurant, nestled in one of the new shopping malls in the Detroit suburbs. The atmosphere was small town, and it reminded both of them of the cozy, comfortable restaurants back in Grand Rapids.
After placing an order for chicken chow mien, fried dumplings, and a couple of beers, Steve began to talk politics. They’d evacuated Hanoi, had Laura heard? The fact was, she hadn’t, but she really didn’t care at the moment. She just shrugged.
Steve then launched into a breakdown of the recent riot statistics in Detroit. Forty-three deaths. Steve said that there were commissions set up to investigate what went wrong. A lot of finger pointing, but on the positive side, more funds might be allocated for programs his clients desperately needed.
“I’m glad,” Laura interrupted him. “Listen, honey, there’s something that I need to talk to you about.”
“You didn’t get your book, huh.”
“What?”
“The book you needed? You didn’t get it?” He smiled.
Laura faked a laugh. “No, it’s not that.”
His smile faded.
“Hey,” she said quickly. “It’s just that something happened around school. Not at the school itself, but in the neighborhood. A guy was shot and killed about a block away from the hospital. Between the main exit and the student lot where I park.”
“Did you know him? Somebody from the school?”
“Nobody I knew,” she said, taking a deep breath to make sure she spoke slowly.
Steve was already shaking his head. “God, Laura, I keep telling you. You’re in such a dangerous section. Look at you, you’re scared.” He reached across the table for her hand.
“It happened the night I worked late in the library. Remember I called you? You know, for that report I had to do.”
Steve listened silently, holding off on asking questions. He frowned, his blue eyes flashing. “That school is too damned dangerous. You could have been killed. You know, all this racial tension and insane violence were not part of the equation when we decided to move to Detroit, but here we are. I tell you, it scares the hell out of me that you have to stay out so damned late.” He lowered his voice. “Just because the mayor’s lifted the curfew doesn’t mean the danger is over. At least you have protection.”
Laura felt her face drain. “I’m fine, Steve, really. But I wanted to tell you this so you’d know what was happening. If I hadn’t decided to turn back and head for the library at the last minute, who knows what would have happened. God, was I scared when I heard that.”
“Damn good thing I gave you that gun. That’s exactly why I insisted that you take it, even if you keep giving me misery over it.”
“Shush. Keep your voice down.”
“That neighborhood is unstable and dangerous. Anything can happen any time,” he insisted. “You’re lucky you didn’t get caught in the crossfire.”
“You’re right. I am lucky,” Laura said. “The police are all over the school. The dean’s added more security. That’s good. But what’s not good is that they want to talk to me about this killing.”
“Why you?” Steve’s eyebrows shot up. He set down his beer and scrutinized his wife.
Laura forced herself to speak slowly. “After our conference, I left the hospital with Susan. Her dad was picking her up there. Susan’s dad, who happens to be a detective with the Detroit Police, saw me walk toward the student parking lot before I changed my mind and headed for the library. It was a snap decision, and thank God I made it. I was so torn about being home with you and the boys and pulling together a decent report, you remember, right?”
“Yes, I remember that night. I fell asleep on the couch waiting for you and even had a crimp in my neck in the morning to prove it.” He smiled broadly at his wife, the tiny laugh lines around his eyes softening his gaze. It had been a long time since the two of them had been out like this. No kids. Just having dinner.
She smiled back. “The bottom line,” Laura continued, “is that Detective Reynolds wants to talk to me. Tonight. At home. Susan clued me in, but I’m not supposed to know, so whatever you do, don’t give it away that we’re expecting him. Anyway, in case he talks to you, I just wanted to make absolutely sure that you wouldn’t mention anything to him about the gun.” Laura had lowered her voice. The next booth was empty, but she couldn’t afford to be careless.
“Why would I do that? I’m not about to mention an unregistered gun.”
“Well, it’s just that you are very honest and so am I. If we get asked whether we own a gun, what will you say?”
“We’ll both say ‘no.’ There’s no reason to spill our guts about something that is none of their business. I don’t want to be harassed just because I want to protect my family. Not by these Detroit cops. From what I’ve seen some of them are worse than the riffraff. And I’m not too thrilled with them coming to my home to question my wife about something she knows nothing about, either.”
This was the reaction Laura had prayed for. Steve being supportive. For a moment, she toyed with telling him the whole story, but the moment quickly passed. She would guard her horrible secret.
Laura nodded. “Okay, but for the time being I’m going to stop bringing it in to school.”
“Come on, Laura. You’ve got to protect yourself. Isn’t that what this conversation is all about?”
“Just until this blows over,” Laura promised. “I don’t want any cops catching me with an illegal weapon.”
He grumbled a reluctant assent and went on to tell her about their new neighbors, Sally and Lionel Watkins, a middle-aged black couple and their two young grandsons, who had just moved in next door. Mikey was excited about having new playmates: Keith was four, and Charlie, two.
Laura was only half-listening. Had he said that he liked the Watkins family already? That was good. But she had lied to Steve yet again, which filled her with insidious guilt.
A dark blue Chevy Impala was waiting in front of the Nelson house as Steve pulled his ’58 Pontiac sedan into the narrow driveway. Laura parked the Falcon on the curb. They walked hand-in-hand to the door, and it wasn’t until Steve turned the key in the lock that two men appeared behind them. One was tall and husky with a shiny bald spot, probably in his fifties, looking professional in a gray striped suit. Must be Susan’s dad, Laura figured. The other was slim and younger, pale with watery blue eyes and a long narrow nose, slipshod in baggy dungarees and a wrinkled sports jacket.
Laura tensed as Steve squeezed her hand and turned toward the men. “Can we help you?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Nelson?” the older man inquired.
“Yes,” Steve answered.
“I’m Detective Reynolds and this is Detective Kamin
sky.” He flashed a badge with picture I.D. “Could we come in and ask you a few questions?”
“What’s this all about?” Steve said.
“Excuse me, Detective Reynolds, but, you are Susan Reynolds’s father?” interrupted Laura, smiling innocently. “Steve, Susan Reynolds is a classmate of mine.”
“Yes, I am, Mrs. Nelson.”
“Are you here for something specific?” Steve asked. “We’re running a bit late, and the babysitter will be anxious for us to pick up our children.”
Detective Reynolds nodded tersely. “I know. The lady upstairs answered your bell when we rang. Said you were out to dinner, so we waited outside. Please, take your time to get settled.”
Steve began to say something, but Laura stopped him. “Steve, go on up and get the kids. Come on in, detectives.”
As Steve headed upstairs, Laura escorted the men into the living room and offered them a pop or beer. Anything to keep her busy in the kitchen, away from their probing stares.
“A pop would be great,” Reynolds answered. Kaminsky nodded.
“So what brings you here?” Steve asked after Mikey had been put to bed. He joined Laura on the sofa where she sat with Kevin nestled in the crook of her arm. “Has something happened in the neighborhood? Crime’s rampant all over Detroit, but so far this neighborhood seems okay.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the younger detective said. He had a habit of bobbing his leg as he spoke. “It’s not this neighborhood.”
“We’re investigating a shooting that occurred down by the medical school last week,” Detective Reynolds stated flatly. “There was a homicide. Mrs. Nelson, we thought you may have seen or heard something the night of the murder.”
“No,” Laura responded with an exaggerated shrug. “When did this occur?”
“Wednesday night.” John Reynolds studied Laura for a moment before sipping his Vernor’s ginger ale. “Mrs. Nelson, I personally saw you in the vicinity of the murder site that night. When I picked up Susan, I saw you walk directly toward the scene of the crime, the direction of the student parking lot. That’s why I’m here. Are you sure you didn’t see or hear something?”
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