A woman’s voice answered: “Information Desk.”
“This is Dr. DiMatteo. You paged me?”
“Yes, Doctor. There’s a Bernard Katzka standing here at the desk. He’s wondering if you could meet him here in the lobby.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m sort of busy up here. Could you ask him what his business is?”
There was a background murmur of conversation. When the woman came back on, her voice sounded oddly reticent. “Dr. DiMatteo?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a policeman.”
The man in the lobby looked vaguely familiar. He was in his mid-forties, medium height, medium build, with the sort of face that was neither handsome nor homely and not particularly memorable. His hair, a dark brown, was starting to thin at the top, a fact he made no effort to conceal the way some men did with a sideways combing of camouflaging strands. As she approached him, she had the impression that he recognized her as well. His gaze had, in fact, singled her out the moment she stepped off the elevator.
“Dr. DiMatteo,” he said. “I’m Detective Bernard Katzka. Homicide.”
Just hearing that word startled her. What was this all about? They shook hands. Only then, as she met his gaze, did she remember where she’d seen him. The cemetery. Aaron Levi’s funeral. He’d been standing slightly apart from everyone, a silent figure in a dark suit. During the service, their gazes had intersected. She’d understood none of the Hebrew being recited, and her attention had wandered to the other mourners. That’s when she’d become aware that someone else was scanning the gathering. They had looked at each other, only for a second, and then he’d looked away. At the time, she’d registered almost no impression of the man. Looking up at his face now, she found herself focusing on his eyes, which were a calm, unflinching gray. If not for the intelligence of those eyes, one might never notice Bernard Katzka.
She said, “Are you a friend of the Levi family?”
“No.”
“I saw you at the cemetery. Or am I mistaken?”
“I was there.”
She paused, waiting for an explanation, but all he said was, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Can I ask what this is all about?”
“Dr. Levi’s death.”
She glanced at the lobby doors. The sun was shining and she had not been outside all day.
“There’s a little courtyard with a few benches,” she said. “Why don’t we go out there?”
It was warm outside, a perfect October afternoon. The courtyard garden was in its chrysanthemum phase, the circular bed planted with blooms of rust, orange, and yellow. At the center a fountain poured out a quietly comforting trickle of water. They sat down on one of the wooden benches. A pair of nurses occupying the other bench rose and walked back toward the building, leaving Abby and the detective alone. For a moment nothing was said. The silence made Abby uneasy, but it did not appear to disturb her companion in the least. He seemed accustomed to long silences.
“Elaine Levi gave me your name,” he said. “She suggested I talk to you.”
“Why?”
“You spoke to Dr. Levi early Saturday morning. Is that correct?”
“Yes. On the phone.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“Around two A.M., I guess. I was at the hospital.”
“He made the call?”
“Well, he called the SICU and asked to speak to the upper-level resident. I happened to be it that night.”
“Why was he calling?”
“About a patient. She was running a postop fever, and Aaron wanted to discuss a plan of action. Which labs we should order, which X rays. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“I’m trying to establish the chronology of events. So Dr. Levi called the SICU at two A.M. and you came on the line.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you talk to him again? After that two A.M. call?”
“No.”
“Did you try to call him?”
“Yes, but he’d already left the house. I spoke to Elaine.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three o’clock, three-fifteen. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the clock.”
“You didn’t call his house any other time that morning?”
“No. I tried paging his beeper several times, but he never answered. I knew he was somewhere in the building, because his car was in the parking lot.”
“What time did you see it there?”
“I didn’t. My boyfriend—Dr. Hodell—he saw it when he drove in around four A.M. Look, why is Homicide investigating this?”
He ignored her question. “Elaine Levi says there was a call around two-fifteen. Her husband answered the phone. A few minutes later he got dressed and left the house. Do you know anything about that call?”
“No. It could have been one of the nurses. Doesn’t Elaine know?”
“Her husband took the phone into the bathroom. She didn’t hear the conversation.”
“It wasn’t me. I spoke to Aaron only once. Now I’d really like to know why you’re asking me these questions. This can’t possibly be a routine thing you do.”
“No. It’s not routine.”
Abby’s beeper went off. She recognized the number on the readout. It was the residency office—not an emergency, but she was getting fed up with this conversation anyway. She rose to her feet. “Detective, I’ve got work to do. Patients to see. I don’t have time to answer a lot of vague questions.”
“My questions are quite specific. I’m trying to establish who made calls at what time that morning. And what was said during those calls.”
“Why?”
“It may have a bearing on Dr. Levi’s death.”
“Are you saying someone talked him into hanging himself?”
“I’d just like to know who did talk to him.”
“Can’t you pull it off the phone company computer or something? Don’t they keep records?”
“The two-fifteen call to Dr. Levi was made from Bayside Hospital.”
“So it could have been a nurse.”
“Or anyone else in the building.”
“Is that your theory? That someone from Bayside called Aaron and told him something so upsetting that he killed himself?”
“We’re considering possibilities other than suicide.”
She stared at him. He had said it so quietly, she wondered if she had understood him correctly. Slowly she sank back down on the bench. Neither one spoke for a moment.
A nurse pushed a woman in a wheelchair across the courtyard. The pair lingered by the flower bed, admiring the chrysanthemums, then moved on. The only sound in the courtyard was the musical splash of the fountain.
“Are you saying he might have been murdered?” said Abby.
He didn’t answer immediately. And she couldn’t tell, looking at his face, what his answer might be. He sat motionless, revealing nothing by his posture, his hands, his expression.
“Did Aaron hang himself?” she asked.
“The autopsy findings were consistent with asphyxia.”
“That’s what you’d expect. It sounds like a suicide.”
“It very well could be.”
“Then why aren’t you convinced?”
He hesitated. For the first time she saw uncertainty in his eyes, and she knew he was weighing his next words. This was the sort of man who made no move without considering all the ramifications. The sort of man for whom spontaneity itself was a planned action.
He said, “Two days before he died, Dr. Levi brought home a brand new computer.”
“That’s all? That’s the basis for your questions?”
“He used it to do several things. First, he made plane reservations for two to St. Lucia in the Caribbean. Leaving around Christmas time. Also, he sent E-mail to his son at Dartmouth, discussing plans for Thanksgiving break. Think about it, Doctor. Two days before committing
suicide, this man is making plans for the future. He has a nice vacation on the beach to look forward to. But at two-fifteen A.M., he climbs out of his bed and drives to the hospital. Takes an elevator, then the stairwell, to a deserted floor. Ties a belt to the closet dowel, loops the other end around his neck, and simply lets his legs go limp. Consciousness wouldn’t fade at once. There would be five, maybe ten seconds left to change his mind. He has a wife, kids, and a beach on St. Lucia to look forward to. But he chooses to die. Alone, and in the dark.” Katzka’s gaze held hers. “Think about it.”
Abby swallowed. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“I have.”
She looked at his quiet gray eyes and she wondered: What other nightmarish things do you think about? What kind of man chooses a job that requires such terrible visions?
“We know Dr. Levi’s car was found in its usual parking spot here at the hospital. We don’t know why he drove here. Or why he left the house at all. Except for that two-fifteen caller, you’re the last person we know of who spoke to Dr. Levi. Did he say anything about leaving for the hospital?”
“He was concerned about our patient. He might have decided to come in and see to the problem himself.”
“As opposed to letting you deal with it?”
“I’m a second-year resident, Detective Katzka, not the attending physician. Aaron was the transplant team internist.”
“I understood he was a cardiologist.”
“He was also an internist. When there was a medical problem, like a fever, the nurses would usually contact him. And he’d call in other consultants if he needed them.”
“During that phone call, did he say he was coming into the hospital?”
“No. It was just a game plan discussion. I told him what I was going to do. That I’d examine the patient and order some blood work and X rays. He approved.”
“That was it?”
“That was the extent of our conversation.”
“Did anything he say strike you as not quite right?”
Again she thought about it. And she remembered that initial pause in their phone conversation. And how dismayed Aaron had sounded when she’d first come on the line.
“Dr. DiMatteo?”
She looked up at Katzka. Though he’d said her name quietly, his expression had taken on new alertness.
“Do you remember something?” he asked.
“I remember he didn’t sound very happy that I was the resident on duty.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the particular patient involved. Her husband and I—we’d had a conflict. A serious one.” She looked away, feeling a little queasy at the thought of Victor Voss. “I’m sure Aaron would’ve preferred that I stay miles away from Mrs. Voss.”
Katzka’s silence made her look up again.
“Mrs. Victor Voss?” he said.
“Yes. You know the name?”
Katzka sat back, exhaling softly. “I know he founded VMI International. What surgery did his wife have?”
“A heart transplant. She’s doing much better now. The fever resolved after a few days of antibiotics.”
Katzka was staring at the fountain, where sprays of sunlit water sparkled like gold chain. Abruptly he rose to his feet.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. DiMatteo,” he said. “I may call you again.”
She started to reply “Any time,” but he had already turned and was swiftly walking away. The man had gone from absolute motionlessness to the speed of sound. Amazing.
Her beeper chirped. It was the residency office again. She silenced it. When she looked up, Katzka was nowhere in sight. The magical disappearing cop. Still puzzling over his questions, she returned to the lobby and picked up the house phone.
A secretary answered her call. “Residency office.”
“This is Abby DiMatteo. You paged me?”
“Oh, yes. Two things. You had an outside call from Helen Lewis at New England Organ Bank. She wanted to know if you ever got an answer to your question about that transplant. You didn’t answer your page, so she hung up.”
“If she calls again, let her know my question’s already been answered. What was the second thing?”
“You have a certified letter up here. I signed for it. I hope that’s okay.”
“Certified?”
“It was delivered a few minutes ago. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Who sent it?”
There was a sound of shuffling papers. Then, “It’s from Hawkes, Craig and Sussman. Attorneys at Law.”
Abby’s stomach went into free fall. “I’ll be right there,” she said, and hung up. The Terrio lawsuit again. The wheels of justice would surely grind her to dust. Her hands were sweating as she rode the elevator to the administrative floor. Dr. DiMatteo, known for her calmness in the OR, is a nervous wreck.
The residency office secretary was on the telephone. She saw Abby and pointed at the mail cubicles.
There was one envelope in Abby’s slot. Hawkes, Craig and Sussman was printed in the upper left-hand corner. She ripped it open.
At first she didn’t understand what she was reading. Then she focused on the plaintiffs name, and the meaning at last sank in. Her stomach had ended its free fall. It had crashed. This letter wasn’t about Karen Terrio at all. It was about another patient, a Michael Freeman. An alcoholic, he had unexpectedly ruptured a swollen blood vessel in his esophagus and bled to death in his hospital room. Abby had been the intern on his case. She remembered it as a shockingly gruesome end. Now Michael Freeman’s wife was suing, and she had retained Hawkes, Craig and Sussman to represent her. Abby was the defendant. The only defendant named in the lawsuit.
“Dr. DiMatteo? Are you all right?”
Abby suddenly realized that she was leaning against the mail cubicles and that the room wasn’t quite steady. The secretary was frowning at her.
“I’m . . . fine,” said Abby. “I’m okay.”
By the time Abby made it out of the room, she was in full retreat. She fled straight to the on-call room, locked herself inside, and sat down on the bed. Then she unfolded the letter and read it again. And again.
Two lawsuits in two weeks. Vivian was right. Abby would be in court for the rest of her natural life.
She knew she should call her attorney, but she couldn’t bring herself to deal with that right now. So she remained sitting on the bed, staring at that letter on her lap. Thinking about all the years, all the work it had taken, just to get to this point in her career. She thought about the nights she’d fallen asleep on her books while everyone else in the dorm was out on dates. The weekends she’d worked double shifts as a hospital phlebotomist, drawing tubes and tubes of blood to earn her tuition. She thought about the hundred and twenty thousand dollars in student loans she still had to pay off. The dinners of peanut butter sandwiches. The movies and concerts and plays she had never seen.
And she thought about Pete, who’d been the reason for it all. The brother she’d wanted to save, and hadn’t been able to. Most of all, she thought of Pete, eternally ten years old.
Victor Voss was winning. He’d said he would destroy her and that was exactly what he was going to do.
Fight back. It was time to fight back. Only she couldn’t think of any way to do it. She wasn’t clever enough. The letter burned like acid in her hands. She thought and thought about how to stop him, but she had nothing with which to fight back except that shove he’d given her in the SICU. A charge of assault and battery. It was not enough, not nearly enough to stop him.
Fight back. You have to think of a way.
The beeper went off. It was a page from the surgical ward. She was in no mood to take any goddamn calls. She reached for the phone and stabbed in the numbers. “DiMatteo,” she snapped.
“Doctor, we’re having a problem here with Mary Allen’s niece.”
“What is it?”
“We’re trying to give the four o’clock morphine dose, but Brenda won’t let us. Maybe you could
—”
“I’m on my way.” Abby slammed the receiver down. Fuck Brenda, she thought, shoving the attorney’s letter in her pocket. She used the stairwell, running the two flights down. By the time she emerged on the ward she was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from rage. She stormed straight into Mary Allen’s room.
Two nurses were inside, talking with Brenda. Mary Allen was awake in bed, but she looked too weak and in pain to contribute a word.
“She’s doped up enough as it is,” Brenda was saying. “Look at her. She can’t even talk to me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you,” said Abby.
The nurses turned to Abby with expressions of relief. The voice of authority had arrived.
“Please leave the room, Miss Hainey,” said Abby.
“The morphine isn’t necessary.”
“I’ll determine that. Now leave the room.”
“She hasn’t got much time left. She needs all her faculties.”
“For what?”
“To fully accept the Lord. If she dies before accepting Him—”
Abby held her hand out to the nurse. “Give me the morphine. I’ll administer it.”
At once the syringe was handed to her. Abby stepped over to the IV line. As she uncapped the needle, she saw Mary Allen’s weak nod of gratitude.
“You give her that dope and I’ll call an attorney,” said Brenda.
“Do that,” said Abby. She slipped the needle into the IV injection port. She was just pushing the plunger when Brenda surged forward and pulled the catheter out of her aunt’s arm. Blood dribbled from the puncture site onto the floor. Those bright red drops spattering the linoleum were the final outrage.
A nurse clapped gauze to Mary Allen’s arm. Abby turned to Brenda and said: “Get out of this room.”
“You left me no choice, Doctor.”
“Get out!”
Brenda’s eyes widened. She took a step backward.
“Do you want me to call Security to throw you out?” Abby was yelling now, moving toward Brenda, who continued to back away into the hall. “I don’t want you anywhere near my patient! I don’t want you harassing her with your Bible bullshit!”
“I’m her relative!”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are!”
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