Harvest

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Dr. Levi was found hanging in an unused patient room of the hospital,” explained Katzka. “The workman who found the body was almost certain the lights were off.”

  “Go on,” said Rowbotham.

  “Well, your time-of-death finding correlates with what we think happened—that Dr. Levi died very early Saturday morning. Well before sunrise. Which means he either hung himself in the dark. Or someone else turned off the lights.”

  “Or the workman didn’t remember what the fuck he saw,” said Lundquist. “The guy was puking his guts into the toilet. You think he’d remember if the light switch was up or down?”

  “It’s just a detail that concerns me.”

  Lundquist laughed. “Doesn’t bother me,” he said, and tossed his gown into the laundry bag.

  It was nearly six o’clock that evening when Katzka pulled his Volvo into a parking space at Bayside Hospital. He got out, walked into the lobby, and took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. That was as far as it would take him without a pass key. He had to leave the elevator and climb the emergency stairwell to reach the top level.

  The first thing he noticed as he emerged from the stairwell was the silence. The sense of emptiness. For months, this area had been undergoing renovations. No construction workers had come in today, but their equipment was everywhere. The air smelled of sawdust and fresh paint . . . and something else. An odor he recognized from the autopsy room. Death. Decay. He walked past ladders and a Makita saw, and turned the corner.

  Halfway down the next corridor, yellow police tape was plastered across one of the doorways. He ducked under the tape and pushed through the closed door.

  In this room, the renovations had been completed. There was new wallpaper, custom cabinetry, and a floor-to-ceiling window with a view over the city. A penthouse hospital suite for that special patient with a bottomless wallet. He went into the bathroom and flicked on the wall switch. More luxury. A marble vanity, brass fixtures, a mirror with cosmetic lighting. A thronelike toilet. He turned off the lights and walked back out of the bathroom.

  He went to the closet.

  This was where Dr. Aaron Levi had been found hanging. One end of the leather belt had been tied to the closet dowel. The other end had been looped around Levi’s neck. Apparently, he had simply let his legs go limp, causing the belt to tighten around his throat, cutting off carotid blood flow to the brain. If he had changed his mind at the last moment, all he had to do was set his feet back on the floor, stand up, and loosen the belt. But he had not done so. He had hung there for the five to ten seconds it had taken for consciousness to fade.

  Thirty-six hours later, on a Sunday afternoon, one of the workmen had come into this room to finish grouting the bathtub. He had not planned on finding a dead body.

  Katzka crossed to the window. There he stood looking over the city of Boston. Dr. Aaron Levi, he thought, what could’ve gone so wrong in your life?

  A cardiologist. A wife, a nice home, a Lexus. Two kids, grown and in college. For one irrational moment, Katzka felt a flash of rage at Aaron Levi. What the hell had he known about despair and hopelessness? What possible reason did he have to end his life? Coward. Coward. Katzka turned away from the window, shaken by his own anger. By his disgust at anyone who chose such an end. And why this end? Why hang yourself in this lonely room where no one might find you for days?

  There were other ways to commit suicide. Levi was a doctor. He had access to narcotics, barbiturates, any number of drugs that could be ingested in fatal doses. Katzka knew exactly how much phenobarb it took to end a life. He had made it his business to know. Once, he had counted out the right number of pills, calculated for his own body weight. He had laid them on his dining room table, had contemplated the freedom they represented. An end to grief, to despair. An easy but irreversible way out, once his affairs were in order. But the time had never been quite right. He had too many responsibilities to take care of first. Annie’s funeral arrangements. Paying off her hospital bills. Then there’d been a trial that required his testimony, then a double homicide in Roxbury, and the last eight car payments to complete, and then a triple homicide in Brookline, and another trial requiring his testimony.

  In the end, Slug Katzka had simply been too busy to kill himself.

  Now it was three years later and Annie was buried and those phenobarb pills had long since been disposed of. He never thought about suicide these days. Every so often, though, he’d think about the pills lying on his dining room table, and he would wonder why he had ever been tempted. How he had ever come so close to surrender. He had no sympathy for the Slug of three years ago. Nor did he have sympathy for anyone else with a bottle of pills and a terminal case of self-pity.

  And what was your reason, Dr. Levi?

  He looked at that glowing view of Boston, and he thought about how it must have been in the last hour of Aaron Levi’s life. He tried to imagine climbing out of bed at three in the morning. Driving to the hospital. Riding the elevator to the thirteenth floor and then climbing the last flight of steps to the fourteenth. Walking into this room. Tying the belt over the closet dowel and slipping your head into the loop.

  Katzka frowned.

  He crossed to the light switch and flipped it up. The lights came on. They worked just fine. So who had turned them off? Aaron Levi? The workman who’d found the body?

  Someone else?

  Details, thought Katzka. It was the details that drove him crazy.

  11

  “I can’t believe it,” Elaine kept saying. “I just can’t believe it.” She was not crying, had sat dry-eyed through the burial, a fact that greatly disturbed her mother-in-law, Judith, who had wept loudly and unashamedly while the Kaddish was recited over the grave. Judith’s pain was as public as the ceremonial slash in her blouse, a symbol of a heart cut by grief. Elaine had not slashed her blouse. Elaine had not shed tears. She now sat in a chair in her living room, a plate of canapes on her lap, and she said, again: “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “You didn’t cover the mirrors,” Judith said. “You should cover them. All the mirrors in your house.”

  “Do what you want,” said Elaine.

  Judith left the room in search of sheets for the mirrors. A moment later, all the guests gathered in the living room could hear Judith opening and closing closets upstairs.

  “It must be a Jewish thing,” whispered Marilee Archer as she passed another tray of finger sandwiches to Abby.

  Abby took an olive sandwich and passed the tray along. It moved from hand to hand down a succession of guests. No one was really eating. A polite nibble, a sip of soda, was all that anyone seemed to have stomach for. Abby didn’t feel much like eating either. Or talking. At least two dozen people were in the room, seated solemnly on couches and chairs or standing around in small groups, but no one was saying much.

  Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Judith, of course. Elaine gave a little wince of embarrassment. Here and there, subdued smiles appeared among the guests. Behind the couch where Abby was seated, someone began to talk about how late autumn was this year. It was October already, and the leaves were just beginning to turn. The silence, at last, had been breached. Now new conversations stirred to life, murmurings about fall gardens and how do you like Dartmouth? and wasn’t it warm for October? Elaine sat at the center of it all, not conversing, but obviously relieved that others were.

  The sandwich platter had made its rounds and now came back, empty, to Abby. “I’ll refill it,” she said to Marilee, and she rose from the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found the marble countertops covered with platters of food. No one would go hungry today. She was unwrapping a tray of smoked salmon when she looked out the kitchen window and noticed Archer, Raj Mohandas, and Frank Zwick standing outside on the flagstone terrace. They were talking, shaking their heads. Leave it to the men to retreat, she thought. Men had no patience for grieving widows or long silences; they left that ordeal to their wives in the house. They’d even brought a bott
le of scotch outside with them. It sat on the umbrella table, positioned for easy refills. Zwick reached around for the bottle and poured a splash into his glass. As he recapped the bottle, he caught sight of Abby. He said something to Archer. Now Archer and Mohandas were looking at her as well. They all nodded and gave a quick wave. Then the three men crossed the terrace and walked away, into the garden.

  “So much food. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of it,” said Elaine. Abby hadn’t noticed that she had come into the kitchen. Elaine stood gazing at the countertop and shaking her head. “I told the caterer forty people, and this is what she brings me. It’s not like a wedding. Everyone eats at a wedding. But no one eats much after a funeral.” Elaine looked down at one of the trays and picked up a radish, carved into a tiny rosette. “Isn’t it pretty, how they do it? So much work for something you just put in your mouth.” She set it back down again and stood there, not talking, admiring in silence that radish rosette.

  “I’m so sorry, Elaine,” said Abby. “If only there was something I could say to make it easier.”

  “I just wish I could understand. He never said anything. Never told me he . . .” She swallowed and shook her head. She carried the platter of food to the refrigerator, slid it onto a shelf, and shut the door. Turning, she looked at Abby. “You spoke to him that night. Was there anything you talked about—anything he might have said . . .”

  “We discussed one of our patients. Aaron wanted to make sure I was doing all the right things.”

  “That’s all you talked about?”

  “Just the patient. Aaron didn’t seem any different to me. Just concerned. Elaine, I never imagined he would . . .” Abby fell silent.

  Elaine’s gaze drifted to another platter. To the garnish of green onions, the leaves slitted and curled into lacy puffs. “Did you ever hear anything about Aaron that . . . you wouldn’t want to tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were there ever rumors about other women?”

  “Never.” Abby shook her head. And said again, with more emphasis, “Never.”

  Elaine nodded, but seemed to take little comfort from Abby’s reassurance. “I never really thought it was a woman,” she said. She picked up another tray and carried it to the refrigerator. When she’d closed the door she said, “My mother-in-law blames me. She thinks it must be something I did. A lot of people must be wondering.”

  “No one makes another person commit suicide.”

  “There was no warning. Nothing at all. Oh, I know he wasn’t happy about his job. He kept talking about leaving Boston. Or quitting medicine entirely.”

  “Why was he so unhappy?”

  “He wouldn’t talk about it. When he had his own practice in Natick, we’d talk about his work all the time. Then the offer came in from Bayside, and it was too good to refuse. But after we moved here, it was as if I didn’t know him anymore. He’d come home and sit down like a zombie in front of that damn computer. Playing video games all evening. Sometimes, late at night, I’d wake up and hear those weird beeps and clicks. And it was Aaron, sitting up all alone, playing some game.” She shook her head and stared down at the countertop. At yet another platter of untouched food. “You’re one of the last people who spoke to him. Isn’t there anything you remember?”

  Abby gazed out the kitchen window, trying to piece together that last conversation with Aaron. She could think of nothing to distinguish it from any other late-night phone call. They all seemed to blur together, a chorus of monotonous voices demanding action from her tired brain.

  Outside, the three men were returning from their garden walk. She watched them cross the terrace to the kitchen door. Zwick was carrying the bottle of scotch, now half-empty. They entered the house and nodded to her in greeting.

  “Nice little garden,” said Archer. “You should go out and take a tour, Abby.”

  “I’d like to,” she said. “Elaine, maybe you’d come out and show me . . .” She paused.

  There was no one standing by the refrigerator. She glanced around the kitchen, saw the platters of food on the counter and an open carton of plastic wrap, a glassy sheet hanging out and fluttering in the air.

  Elaine had left the room.

  A woman was praying by Mary Allen’s bed. She had been sitting there for the last half hour, head bowed, hands clasped together as she murmured aloud to the good Lord Jesus, imploring him to rain down miracles upon the mortal shell of Mary Allen. Heal her, strengthen her, purify her body and her unclean soul so that she might finally accept His word in all its glory.

  “Excuse me,” said Abby. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to examine Mrs. Allen.”

  The woman kept praying. Perhaps she had not heard her. Abby was about to repeat the request, when the woman at last said, “Amen,” and raised her head. She had unsmiling eyes and dull brown hair with the first streaks of gray. She regarded Abby with a look of irritation.

  “I’m Dr. DiMatteo,” said Abby. “I’m taking care of Mrs. Allen.”

  “So am I,” the woman said, rising to her feet. She made no attempt to shake hands with Abby, but stood with arms cradling the Bible to her chest. “I’m Brenda Hainey. Mary’s niece.”

  “I didn’t know Mary had a niece. I’m glad you’re able to visit.”

  “I only heard about her illness two days ago. No one bothered to call me.” Her tone of voice implied that this oversight was somehow Abby’s fault.

  “We were under the impression Mary had no close relatives.”

  “I don’t know why. But I’m here now.” Brenda looked at her aunt. “And she’ll be fine.”

  Except for the fact she’s dying, thought Abby. She moved to the bedside and said softly: “Mrs. Allen?”

  Mary opened her eyes. “I’m awake, Dr. D. Just resting.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Still nauseated.”

  “It could be a side effect of the morphine. We’ll give you something to settle your stomach.”

  Brenda interjected: “She’s getting morphine?”

  “For the pain.”

  “Aren’t there other ways to relieve her pain?”

  Abby turned to the niece. “Mrs. Hainey, could you leave the room please? I need to examine your aunt.”

  “It’s Miss Hainey,” said Brenda. “And I’m sure Aunt Mary would rather have me stay.”

  “I still have to ask you to leave.”

  Brenda glanced at her aunt, obviously expecting a protest. Mary Allen stared straight ahead, silent.

  Brenda clutched the Bible tighter. “I’ll be right outside, Aunt Mary.”

  “Dear Lord,” whispered Mary, as the door shut behind Brenda. “This must be my punishment.”

  “Are you referring to your niece?”

  Mary’s tired gaze focused on Abby. “Do you think my soul needs saving?”

  “I’d say that’s entirely up to you. And no one else.” Abby took out her stethoscope. “Can I listen to your lungs?”

  Obediently Mary sat up and lifted her hospital gown.

  Her breath sounds were muffled. By tapping down Mary’s back, Abby could hear the change between liquid and air, could tell that more fluid had accumulated in the chest since the last time she’d examined her.

  Abby straightened. “How’s your breathing?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “We may need to drain some more fluid pretty soon. Or insert another chest tube.”

  “Why?”

  “To make your breathing easier. To keep you comfortable.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Comfort is a very important reason, Mrs. Allen.”

  Mary sank back on the pillows. “Then I’ll let you know when I need it,” she whispered.

  When Abby emerged from the room, she found Brenda Hainey waiting right outside the door. “Your aunt would like to sleep for a while,” said Abby. “Maybe you could come back some other time.”

  “There’s a matter I need to discuss w
ith you, Doctor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just checking with the nurse. About that morphine. Is it really necessary?”

  “I think your aunt would say so.”

  “It’s making her drowsy. All she does is sleep.”

  “We’re trying to keep her as pain free as possible. The cancer’s spread everywhere. Her bones, her brain. It’s the worst kind of pain imaginable. The kindest thing we can do for her is to help her go with a minimum of discomfort.”

  “What do you mean, help her go?”

  “She’s dying. There’s nothing we can do to change that.”

  “You used those words. Help her go. Is that what the morphine’s for?”

  “It’s what she wants and needs right now.”

  “I’ve confronted this sort of issue before, Doctor. With other relatives. I happen to know for a fact it’s not legal to medically assist a suicide.”

  Abby felt her face flush with anger. Fighting to control it, she said as calmly as she could manage: “You misunderstand me. All we’re trying to do is keep your aunt comfortable.”

  “There are other ways to do it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Calling on higher sources of help.”

  “Are you referring to prayer?”

  “Why not? It’s helped me through difficult times.”

  “You’re certainly welcome to pray for your aunt. But if I recall, there’s nothing against morphine in the Bible.”

  Brenda’s face went rigid. Her retort was cut off by the sound of Abby’s beeper.

  “Excuse me,” said Abby coolly, and she walked away, leaving the conversation unfinished. A good thing, too; she’d been on the verge of saying something really sarcastic. Something like: While you’re praying to your God, why don’t you ask Him for a cure? That would surely have pissed off Brenda. With Joe Terrio’s lawsuit lurking on the horizon, and Victor Voss determined to get her fired, the last thing she needed was another complaint lodged against her.

  She picked up a phone in the nurses’ station and dialed the number on her beeper readout.