“It won’t affect your judgment on this case, will it?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you certain?” She challenged him with a gaze he found irritating. He was not easily irritated, and he had to ask himself now why this woman so annoyed him.
Lundquist chose that moment to walk past the desk, and he flashed what could only be characterized as a sympathetic smirk. Lundquist should have interviewed this woman. It would have been good for him, an exercise in polite restraint, which Lundquist needed to develop.
Katzka said: “I always try to be objective, Miss Hainey.”
“Then you should take a close look at Dr. DiMatteo.”
“Why her in particular?”
“She’s the one who wanted my aunt dead.”
Brenda’s charges struck Katzka as improbable. Still, there was the matter of that note and who had sent it. One possibility was that Brenda had sent it to herself; stranger things had been done by people hungry for attention. That was easier for him to believe than what she was claiming had happened: that Mary Allen had been murdered by her doctors. Katzka had spent weeks watching his wife slowly die in the hospital, so he was well acquainted with cancer wards. He had witnessed the compassion of nurses, the dedication of oncologists. They knew when to keep fighting for a patient’s life. They also knew when the fight was lost, when the suffering outweighed the benefits of one more day, one more week, of life. There had been times toward the end when Katzka had wanted desperately to ease Annie across the final threshold. Had the doctors suggested such a move, he would have agreed to it. But they never had. Cancer killed quickly enough; which doctor would risk his professional future to hurry along a patient’s death? Even if Mary Allen’s doctors had made such a move, could one truly consider it homicide?
It was with reluctance that he drove to Bayside Hospital that afternoon after Brenda Hainey’s visit. He was obligated to make a few inquiries. At the hospital’s public information office, he confirmed that Mary Allen had indeed expired on the date Brenda said she had, and that the diagnosis had been undifferentiated metastatic carcinoma. The clerk could give him no other information. Dr. Wettig, the attending, was in surgery and unavailable for the afternoon. So Katzka picked up the phone and paged Abby DiMatteo.
A moment later she called back.
“This is Detective Katzka,” he said. “We spoke last week.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I have some questions on an unrelated matter. Where can I meet you?”
“I’m in the medical library. Is this going to take a long time?”
“It shouldn’t.”
He heard a sigh. Then a reluctant: “Okay. The library’s on the second floor, administrative wing.”
In Katzka’s experience, the average person—provided he or she was not a suspect—enjoyed talking to homicide cops. People were curious about murder, about police work. He’d been astonished by the questions they asked him, even the sweetest-faced old ladies, everyone longing to hear the details, the bloodier the better. Dr. DiMatteo, however, had sounded genuinely unwilling to speak to him. He wondered why.
He found the hospital library tucked between data processing and the financial office. Inside were a few aisles of bookshelves, a librarian’s desk, and a half dozen study carrels along one wall. Dr. DiMatteo was standing beside the photocopier, positioning a surgical journal on the plate. She’d already collated a number of papers into piles, and had stacked them on a nearby desk. It surprised him to see her performing such a clerical task. He was also surprised to see her dressed in a skirt and blouse rather than the scrub clothes he’d assumed was the uniform of all surgical residents. From the first day he’d met Abby DiMatteo, he’d thought her an attractive woman. Now, seeing her in a flattering skirt, with all that black hair hanging loose about her shoulders, he decided she was really quite stunning.
She looked up and gave a nod. That’s when he noticed something else different about her today. She seemed nervous, even a little wary.
“I’m almost finished,” she said. “I have one more article to copy.”
“Not on duty today?”
“Excuse me?”
“I thought surgeons lived in scrub suits.”
She placed another page on the Xerox machine and hit the Copy button. “I’m not scheduled for the OR today. So I’m doing a literature search. Dr. Wettig needs these for a conference.” She stared down at the copier, as though the flashing light, the machine’s whir, required all her concentration. When the last pages rolled out, she took them to the table, where the other stacks lay waiting, and sat down. He pulled out the chair across from her. She picked up a stapler, then set it back down again.
Still not looking at him, she asked: “Have there been new developments?”
“In regard to Dr. Levi, no.”
“I wish I could think of something new to tell you. But I can’t.” She gathered up a few pages and stapled them together with a sharp snap of the wrist.
“I’m not here about Dr. Levi,” he said. “This is about a different matter. A patient of yours.”
“Oh?” She picked up another stack of papers and slid it between the stapler teeth. “Which patient are we talking about?”
“A Mrs. Mary Allen.”
Her hand paused for a second in midair. Then it came down, hard, on the stapler.
“Do you remember her?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I understand she died last week. Here, at Bayside.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you confirm that her diagnosis was metastatic undifferentiated carcinoma?”
“Yes.”
“And was she in the terminal stages?”
“Yes.”
“Then her death was expected?”
There was a hesitation. It was just long enough to notch up his alertness.
She said, slowly, “I would say it was expected.”
He was watching her more closely, and she seemed to know it. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Silence, in his experience, was far more unnerving. Quietly he asked: “Was her death in any way unusual?”
At last she looked up at him. He realized she was sitting absolutely still. Almost rigid.
“In what way unusual?” she asked.
“The circumstances. The manner in which she expired.”
“Can I ask why you’re pursuing this?”
“A relative of Mrs. Allen’s came to us with some concerns.”
“Are we talking about Brenda Hainey? The niece?”
“Yes. She thinks her aunt died of causes unrelated to her disease.”
“And you’re trying to turn this into a homicide?”
“I’m trying to determine if there’s anything worth investigating. Is there?”
She didn’t answer.
“Brenda Hainey received an anonymous note. It claimed that Mary Allen didn’t die of natural causes. Do you have any reason, any reason at all, to think there might be substance to that?”
He could have predicted several likely responses. She might have laughed and said this was all ridiculous. She might have told him that Brenda Hainey was crazy. Or she might show puzzlement, even a flash of anger, that she was being subjected to these questions. Any one of those reactions would have been appropriate. What he did not expect was her actual response.
She stared at him with a face suddenly drained white. And she said softly: “I refuse to answer any more questions, Detective Katzka.”
Seconds after the policeman left the library, Abby reached in panic for the nearest telephone and paged Mark. To her relief, he immediately answered her call.
“That detective was here again,” she whispered. “Mark, they know about Mary Allen. Brenda’s been talking to them. And this cop’s asking questions about how she died.”
“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
“No, I—” She took a deep breath. The sigh that followed was close to a sob. “I didn’t know what t
o say. Mark, I think I gave it away. I’m scared and I think he knows it.”
“Abby, listen. This is important. You didn’t tell him about the morphine in your locker, did you?”
“I wanted to. Jesus, Mark, I was ready to spill my guts. Maybe I should. If I just came out and told him everything—”
“Don’t.”
“Isn’t it better to just tell him? He’ll find out anyway. Sooner or later, he’ll dig it all up. I’m sure he will.” She let out another breath, and felt the first flash of tears sting her eyes. She was going to be sobbing in a minute, right here in the library, where anyone could see her. “I don’t see any way around it. I have to go to the police.”
“What if they don’t believe you? They take one look at the circumstantial evidence, that morphine in your locker, and they’ll jump to the obvious conclusion.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Wait for them to arrest me? I can’t stand this. I can’t.” Her voice faltered. In a whisper she repeated, “I can’t.”
“So far the police have nothing. I won’t tell them a thing. Neither will Wettig or Parr, I’m sure of it They don’t want this out in the open any more than you do. Just hold on, Abby. Wettig’s doing everything he can to get you reinstated.”
It took her a moment to regain her composure. When at last she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady. “Mark, what if Mary Allen was murdered? Then there should be an investigation. We should bring this to the police ourselves.”
“Is that what you really want to do?”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking it’s what we ought to do. That we’re obligated. Morally and ethically.”
“It’s your decision. But I want you to think long and hard about the consequences.”
She already had. She’d thought about the publicity. The possibility of arrest. She’d gone back and forth on this, knowing what she should do, yet afraid to take action. I’m a coward. My patient’s dead, maybe murdered, and all I can worry about is saving my own goddamn skin.
The hospital librarian walked into the room, wheeling a squeaky cart of books. She sat down at her desk and began stamping the inside covers. Whap. Whap.
“Abby,” said Mark. “Before you do anything, think.”
“I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to go now.” She hung up and went back to the table, where she sat down and stared at the stack of photocopied journal articles. This was the extent of her work today. This was what she’d spent all morning doing, collecting this pile of paper. She was a physician who could no longer practice, a surgeon banished from the OR. The nurses and house staff didn’t know what to make of it all. She was sure the rumors were already swirling thick and furious. This morning, when she’d walked through the wards looking for Dr. Wettig, the nurses had all turned to look at her. What are they saying behind my back? she wondered.
She was afraid to find out.
The whap, whap had ceased. She realized the librarian had stopped stamping her book covers and was now eyeing Abby.
Like everyone else in this hospital, she, too, is wondering about me.
Flushing, Abby gathered up her papers and carried them to the librarian’s desk.
“How many copies?”
“They’re all for Dr. Wettig. You can charge them to the residency office.”
“I need to know the exact count for the copier log. It’s our standing policy.”
Abby set the stack of papers down and began counting pages. She should have known the librarian would insist. This woman had been at Bayside forever, and she’d never failed to inform each new crop of interns that, in this room, things were done her way. Abby was getting angry now, at this librarian, at the hospital, at the mess her life had become. She finished counting the last article.
“Two hundred fourteen pages,” she said, and slapped it down on the pile. The name Aaron Levi, M.D., seemed to jump out at her from the top page. The article’s title was “Comparison of Cardiac Transplant Survival Rates Between Critically Ill and Outpatient Recipients.” The authors were Aaron, Rajiv Mohandas, and Lawrence Kunstler. She stared at Aaron’s name, shaken by the unexpected reminder of his death.
The librarian, too, noticed Aaron’s name and she shook her head. “It’s hard to believe Dr. Levi’s gone.”
“I know what you mean,” Abby murmured.
“And to see both those names on the same article.” The woman shook her head.
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. Kunstler and Dr. Levi.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know Dr. Kunstler.”
“Oh, he was here before you came.” The librarian closed the copier log and primly slid it back onto her bookshelf. “It must have happened six years ago, at least.”
“What happened six years ago?”
“It was just like that Charles Stuart case. You know, the man who jumped off the Tobin Bridge. That’s where Dr. Kunstler jumped.”
Abby focused again on the article. On the two names at the top of the page. “He killed himself?” The librarian nodded. “Just like Dr. Levi.”
The clatter of Mah-Jongg tiles being stirred on the dining table was too loud to talk over. Vivian shut the kitchen door and went back to the sink, where she’d set the colander of bean sprouts. She resumed snapping off the shriveled tails and throwing the tops into a bowl. Abby didn’t know anyone bothered to snap off bean sprout roots. Only the goddamn nitpicky Chinese, Vivian told her. The Chinese spent hours laboring over some dish that’s devoured in minutes. And who noticed the tails, anyway? Vivian’s grandmother did. And her grandmother’s friends did. Put a dish of bean sprouts with the tails still attached in front of those ladies, and they’d all wrinkle their noses. So here was the obedient granddaughter, the gifted surgeon soon to be opening her own practice, concentrating on the weighty task of snapping sprouts. She did it swiftly, efficiently, every movement vintage Vivian. The whole time she listened to Abby’s story, those graceful hands of hers never fell still.
“Jesus,” Vivian kept murmuring. “Jesus, you are screwed.”
In the next room the clatter of tiles had stopped, the new round of play begun. Every so often, through the buzz of gossip, there’d be a clunk as someone tossed a tile into the center.
“What do you think I should do?” said Abby.
“Either way, DiMatteo, he’s got you.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you. You’ve been screwed by Victor Voss. You know what he’s capable of.”
“Yeah.” Vivian sighed. “I know too well.”
“Do you think I should go to the police? Or should I ride this out and hope they don’t dig any deeper?”
“What does Mark think?”
“He thinks I should keep my mouth shut.”
“I agree with him. Call it my inherent distrust of authority. You must have more faith in the police than I do, if you’re thinking of turning yourself in and hoping for the best.” Vivian reached for a dish towel and dried her hands. She looked at Abby. “Do you really think your patient was murdered?”
“How else do I explain that morphine level?”
“She was already getting it. And probably tolerant enough to need sky-high levels just to stay comfortable. Maybe the doses finally accumulated.”
“Only if she got an extra dose. Accidentally or intentionally.”
“Just to set you up?”
“No one ever checks morphine levels on terminal cancer patients! Someone wanted to make sure her murder didn’t slip by unnoticed. Someone who knew it was murder. And sent that note to Brenda Hainey.”
“How do we know Victor Voss did it?”
“He’s the one who wants me out of Bayside.”
“Is he the only one?”
Abby stared at Vivian. And wondered: Who else wants me out?
In the dining room, the thunderous clatter of mah-jongg tiles signaled the end of another round. The noise startled Abby. She began to pace the kitchen. Past the rice cooker burbling on the counter, past the stove where steam wafte
d, spicy and exotic, from cooking pots. “This is crazy. I can’t believe anyone else would do this, just to get me fired.”
“Jeremiah Parr’s got his own neck to save. And Voss is probably breathing down it right this minute. Think about it. The hospital board is packed with Voss’s rich buddies. They could have Parr fired. Unless he fires you first. Hey, you’re not paranoid, DiMatteo. People really are out to get you.”
Abby sank into a chair at the kitchen table. The noise from the game in the next room was giving her a headache. That and all the old-lady chatter. This house was full of noise, visitors talking Cantonese at a near shout, friendly conversation raised to argument pitch. How could Vivian stand having her grandmother live with her? The din alone would drive Abby crazy.
“It still all comes back to Victor Voss,” said Abby. “One way or the other, he’ll have his revenge.”
“Then why did he drop those lawsuits? That part doesn’t make sense. He sends steamrollers coming right at you. Then suddenly, they all stop.”
“Instead of being sued by everyone, I’m accused of murder. What a wonderful alternative.”
“But you do see that it doesn’t make sense? Voss probably paid a lot to get those lawsuits rolling. He wouldn’t just drop them. Not unless he was concerned about some possible consequence. A countersuit, for instance. Were you planning something like that?”
“I discussed it with my lawyer, but he advised against it.”
“So why did Voss drop the lawsuits?”
It didn’t make sense to Abby, either.
She considered that question all the way home, driving back from Vivian’s house in Melrose. It was late afternoon, and the traffic was heavy as usual on Route 1. Though it was drizzling outside, she kept her window open. The stench of rotting pig organs still lingered in her car. She didn’t think the smell would ever disappear. It would always linger, a permanent reminder of Victor Voss’s rage.
The Tobin Bridge was coming up—the place where Lawrence Kunstler had chosen to end his life. She slowed down. Perhaps it was a morbid compulsion that made her glance sideways, toward the water, as she drove onto the bridge. Under dreary skies, the river looked black, its surface stippled by wind. Drowning was not a death she would choose. The panic, the thrashing limbs. Throat closing against the rush of cold water. She wondered if Kunstler had been conscious after he hit the water. Or whether he had struggled against the current. She wondered, too, about Aaron. Two doctors, two suicides. She’d forgotten to ask Vivian about Kunstler. If he had died only six years ago, Vivian might have heard of him.
Harvest Page 22