‘Why does he have to be strapped in?’ she asked.
Freda overheard her. ‘Just do what you’re told to do,’ Freda snapped and widened her eyes.
‘I’m only asking,’ Mrs Littleton said defensively. She looked at the attendant who avoided her and worked quickly. The moment he finished, he walked out, still without making a comment.
‘I swear, some of the people working here are actually mute,’ Mrs Littleton said looking after him. She stood beside Freda and watched the attendant join Laura Randolph. He said something to her and she turned and looked back at them.
‘You should take a lesson from them. I don’t know why you can’t keep your trap shut,’ Freda told her, ‘and stop asking questions.’
As soon as Laura Randolph and the attendant left, Shirley started down the corridor toward them.
‘First one under the age of eighty,’ Mrs Littleton quipped. ‘What’s his problem? We had to strap him in.’
‘He’s here for observation,’ Shirley said. ‘Just like the others.’
‘Observation,’ Mrs Littleton repeated to Freda. ‘What do they say? Some observation. It’s like watching paint dry.’
‘Let’s hook him up,’ Shirley said without comment. She entered Williams’ room and Freda followed. They worked quickly, efficiently and in minutes had connected him to the monitors.
‘He had to be strapped in. He’s either dangerous to himself, or to others, or both, I bet. What did they give him?’ Mrs Littleton asked.
‘Don’t you have things to do?’ Shirley asked her. ‘The other two are still alive.’
‘If you could call it that,’ Mrs Littleton said. She looked at them a moment and then left.
‘She’s going to get us all into trouble,’ Shirley told Freda. ‘I’m worried she’s talking to people on the outside.’
‘Oh, she’s harmless, just a busybody.’
‘Nevertheless, I’ve taken some precautions for us.’
‘Precautions? What do you mean?’
‘I told Mrs Randolph about our concerns.’
‘Oh boy. You’re going to get her fired for sure.’
‘Well, the attendant told Randolph she was asking too many questions about Brad Lords.’
‘Too many? She asked one question.’
‘Do you want to lose this money because of her or from defending her?’ Shirley fired back.
Freda shook her head. ‘Hey, I’ve warned her just as much as you have, if not more. She’s nothing more to me than a nurse’s aide. Worry not.’ She turned to Louis Williams. ‘What’s his chart say? How old is he?’
‘Fifty-two.’
Freda drew closer to Louis and looked at his neck. ‘See this?’ she asked. Shirley joined her. ‘Looks like he had a tattoo removed. I’ve seen what a mess these can be.’
Shirley shrugged. ‘That should be the least of his troubles.’
‘Why?’ Freda took the chart and read it. ‘These numbers aren’t terrible. He’s got better blood pressure than I do.’
‘Whatever,’ Shirley said.
They both turned sharply when Simon entered the room. Without a word, he went to Louis Williams and pulled back his eyelids to look at his eyes. Then he pinched his skin and took his pulse.
‘We have him on the monitors, Dr Oakland,’ Shirley said.
‘I want a report on him every hour on the hour,’ he said. ‘Just call the vitals down to me.’
‘Very good, Doctor,’ Shirley said.
‘Is there anything special we should look for when he regains consciousness, Dr Oakland?’ Freda asked him.
‘Yes. If he regains consciousness,’ he replied and started out.
‘Excuse me, Dr Oakland?’ Freda asked.
‘Yes, yes? What is it?’ he asked impatiently from the doorway.
‘I don’t understand. You said if he regains consciousness.’
‘What’s to understand? If he regains consciousness, let me know.’
He left. Shirley and Freda looked at each other, then looked at Louis Williams.
‘The man’s vitals are very good, but Dr Oakland made it sound as if he didn’t expect him to regain consciousness. And yet, they must think he will. Otherwise, why strap him in then? Sounds confusing. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think when I’m here,’ Shirley said. She nodded for emphasis and walked out of the room.
Freda hesitated and then hurried after her, her own heart thumping enough to have her wonder if she should hook herself to a monitor.
Six
Peter Crowley started his jog late that afternoon. He had just put on his sweatsuit and running shoes two hours earlier when the call came from the prison. If it was just another inmate, he was prepared to put it off until he had run, showered and dressed, but it was the warden who was complaining about heart palpitations and he couldn’t neglect the warden. This gig was too good to lose just so he could keep to his jogging schedule.
At fifty-eight, Peter was in remarkable health. He was as proud of his blood pressure, stamina, muscle structure and weight as a sculptor would be of his latest creation. In his mind the human body could be sculptured. He prided himself on being one of those rare doctors who actually practiced what they preached. When he bawled out a patient for being too heavy or smoking or just being a lazy son of a bitch and not exercising enough, the patient took it from him without that ‘look who’s talking’ expression on his face.
Once again a bachelor after a rather nasty divorce, Peter chose not to diagnose his marriage as a failure, certainly not a failure because of him, but rather as a relationship that had simply not had the fuel to carry itself any further. He and Vera had run out of love. He enjoyed applying the jogging imagery. So much of life was like a sporting event anyway. Vera couldn’t keep up with him so he had to leave her behind. It was as simple as that.
First, she couldn’t stand that he was in better shape than she was and that she looked older than he did, even though she was actually five years younger. She did all the right cosmetic things: forbidding the suggestion of gray in her hair; had a personal trainer weekly; and after a second face lift, bathed in miraculous skin creams, but there was just something about the way she aged. Like some creeping crud, it moved up through her legs and into her face, shading and darkening, wrinkling and leaving shadows that wouldn’t be washed out by any surgery, laser or otherwise.
It was her personality, he thought. She was too dark to start with, always looking pessimistically at things and people, dripping with cynicism, jealous of everyone and anyone, even her own daughter, and especially her younger more jovial sister. If there was ever anyone who lived believing the grass was always greener somewhere else, it was Vera. There was no better living illustration of Shakespeare’s Othello syndrome, jealousy eating away at someone, than his ex-wife, he thought.
He was happy he had a profession, a job that took him away from home as much as it had these past years, especially the last five. And, Vera had no idea how much money he really had. Thank goodness for those offshore accounts, especially recently. He smiled to himself about it, thinking about the next vacation in Europe, one he would take alone, or … maybe not. He was thinking seriously about that young nurse at the prison. She was a bit of a wallflower, but oh how ripe and ready. He fantasized showing her the world, opening up new experiences to her, establishing new feelings, all because of his guidance. He needed someone to worship him again.
He shot down the driveway, sucking in the remarkably warm air for September in the Catskills and slowly increased his pace. He loved the way he could rise out of his body when he ran. He could feel his legs, powerful and long, carrying him on the wind, but his mind could break free and he could think and dream and not even realize how far he had already gone. He took long, even strides, moving his arms in synchronization, holding his head perfectly. At six two, one hundred seventy, he was really a natural runner, a fucking human cheetah, for Christ’s sake, and he had the trophies from college to prove it.
> He never noticed the hills and he ran smoothly down the other side of them. Occasionally, someone would beep a horn at him or wave and he would just lift his right hand without even looking to see who it was. He wasn’t very interested in his neighbors anyway. His closest ones were businessmen, boring and self-absorbed, and there were actually prison guards living on this road as well. He didn’t want to socialize with anyone from work. He was a little embarrassed by it. He knew some thought he was looking after convicts because he couldn’t make an attractive physician’s income in the outside world, but little did they know how good this job turned out to be. No, there was to be no hesitation when Warden Watson called for him.
He and Vera had gone to dinner a few times at Watson’s home and they had the warden over at least twice at theirs. Michael Watson was a real politician, smooth – greasy smooth, – careful about what he said to people who mattered and even diplomatic with those who wouldn’t have any direct effect on his life and career. He was just fifty, with a paunch and a face like a boxer, his nose a little flat, his lips a little too thick, his chin chiseled with a small, thin scar along the jawbone, and his balding head on a thick neck that ran smoothly into big shoulders. He had been a wrestler in college, but had been neglecting his health and gained too much weight ever since. His paunch was deceptively hard and seemed to be expanding daily. He drank too much and smoked. Peter was always warning him so it didn’t surprise him to hear he was having some sort of a health issue.
When he had arrived at the prison, he had discovered Michael sprawled on his sofa, a cold cloth on his forehead. He took his blood pressure and found it far too high. His pulse was strong but too fast and he didn’t like the color in his face. He was sweating profusely.
‘Did you take any medications today, Michael?’
‘Medications? Medications? No, no, no. Nothing.’
‘You better go in, Michael,’ he told him.
‘The hospital?’
‘You need tests run. Something’s cooking here and I don’t want to miss anything.’
‘Jesus, I have so much on my plate today and tomorrow. Jesus,’ he said.
Peter didn’t like the way his pupils were dilating. He was scratching himself, too. If he didn’t know him, he’d think he was on drugs.
‘Listen, Michael, you may not have any plate tomorrow if you don’t take care of yourself today. When did you start feeling like this?’
‘Not until this afternoon. I got up, stopped at Willy’s for breakfast as usual on the way in and …’
‘Eggs, bacon, bagels?’
‘No, actually. This morning I had oatmeal.’
‘Oatmeal? You?’
‘Mark Lewis, that BCI investigator I know, was there and he had just had it and recommended it highly. He sat while I ate and we talked about some of the crimes he’s been investigating. Then I came to work.’
‘And you had your lunch as usual.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You really think I need to go in?’
‘Yes, Michael.’
‘I’ll think about it. Nothing to take for now?’
‘Not without some testing, Michael. I could give you exactly what you don’t need and cause even more problems. Are you going to listen to me and go in?’
‘Oh, sure, sure.’
‘Listen, Michael, we both know this would be a bad time to cash in your chips.’ He winked. ‘We’ve got lots of living to do and we’re bankrolled to do it.’
‘You’re not talking about any of that, Peter, are you?’
‘Of course not. Have someone drive you, Michael …’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to drive you?’
‘No, no, no, I’ll get there. Damn it.’
Peter left him hoping he’d be listened to. He’d better, he thought. He sure had the symptoms of someone in a drug overdose, but he dared not even ask, even though so many people were closet addicts, taking too much of this or that. Somehow they thought because a doctor prescribed it, it was always safe, even when abused.
At least I did what I should, Peter thought. I’m a good doctor, he told himself. I’m a good man and I’m a good father. I was as good a husband as I could have been for twenty-two years. I have no regrets.
He ran on. Another horn sounded. He raised his hand, but this one didn’t just go by.
When the car hit him from behind, he was well off to the side of the road. The moment he fell, he thought, Hey, this isn’t fair. I’m doing everything right. I’m over enough to the side of the road.
His body sailed and when he came down, he landed on his head and slapped his torso on the macadam. He was able to get out one groan and even start to turn before the wheel hit him in his ribs and the car rode over him, crushing him into the street, squeezing the life out of him.
He died thinking this is not fair. I have all this opportunity and all this new money. I’m just about to start a whole new life.
Palmer and Tucker drove into the hamlet of Woodbourne and turned down Church Street just as the paramedics were loading Peter Crowley’s body into the ambulance. Four township policemen were assisting and directing traffic around the scene. Off to the sides of the road, people had gathered in clumps and were watching and speaking softly, as softly as they did when they attended funeral services in church. After all, the air of something as solemn as death had fallen over the neighborhood. Even dogs hovering close to their owners seemed subdued, curious and a bit timid. Their instincts told them something very frightening and threatening to life had just passed through here. The sorrow it left in its wake was as dense as a humid summer’s day.
Palmer slowed down and lowered his window. To illustrate that he and Tucker were not just curiosity seekers, he showed the patrolman his detective’s badge before asking what was happening.
‘Hit-and-run,’ the patrolman said.
‘Ah … sorry to see it. Maybe you can help us. We’re looking for Dr Peter Crowley’s house.’
The patrolman literally recoiled and then leaned forward. ‘You’re looking for Dr Crowley?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘That’s him being loaded into the ambulance. He was the victim. He jogs on this road and someone struck him and then ran over him.’
‘Ran over him?’ Tucker asked, leaning over Palmer. ‘Ran over him?’ he repeated to be sure he was hearing right.
‘Yes, sir. He died on the spot. There are no skid marks. Whoever did it, didn’t try to stop. A neighbor noticed his body when she pulled out of her garage and called on her cellphone, but it was too late to do anything for him.’
Palmer and Tucker looked at each other.
‘Any ideas on the driver?’ Palmer asked him.
‘Not yet. No one saw it happen. These are normally pretty quiet neighborhoods, safe to run in. Hell, most of the time, a dog could sleep in the center of the street and not be disturbed for hours.’
The ambulance doors were shut and the paramedics went to the cab and got in to start away.
‘He was the prison physician,’ the patrolman said watching. ‘Just got divorced recently.’
‘Really?’ Tucker said. ‘Divorced, you say?’
‘Yeah. There’s one child, a daughter who just recently got married herself. Lives in Monroe. Married an advertising executive.’ He smiled after relating all this detail. ‘Small-town life. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘She moved down to Monroe, too. Lives near her daughter.’
‘How long have they been divorced?’ Palmer asked.
The ambulance started away and the small groups of people watching began to disperse.
‘I think about four months. Something like that. My brother is a corrections officer at the prison and knew him better than I did. You better move on or pull over. Traffic’s starting again, people coming home from work.’
‘Thanks,’ Palmer said and drove slowly forward.
‘Even I, a non-believer in intuition and psychic vision admit this is a helluva co
incidence,’ Tucker said.
‘Um. A little too helluva. Let’s get up to the prison and see if we can talk to the warden. His signature is on these documents.’ He shuffled some papers. ‘Name’s Michael Watson. He was warden when Bradley Morris supposedly was killed and when the man who killed him was killed.’
‘I have to also admit that it’s one thing to accidentally hit a jogger, but to run him over as well? What the hell’s going on here?’ Tucker muttered as they headed for the prison.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Palmer said smiling.
For the remainder of the ride, they were both deadly silent, but when they reached the prison and found out that Michael Watson was in the hospital with an apparent heart attack, their silence went so deep, it reached depths visited only by mutes. They got directions to the hospital and drove as quickly as they could, neither knowing what they expected to discover when they arrived.
What they discovered when they entered the hospital and asked after him was that Michael Watson had expired. They stood there in the lobby looking at each other, both feeling as if they had experienced a combination of punches in the face.
‘Bradley Morris’ criminal records are non-existent except for his death and the surrounding events at the prison; there are no fingerprints on file; his mother, who claims to have seen him, drops dead before we can follow up; Father Martin, a priest who apparently knew Morris and ran a clergy visitation program at prisons was murdered by a man who fits the description of the man Mrs Morris claims is her son; Dr Crowley was just killed in a hit-and-run and the warden gets a fatal heart attack,’ Palmer summed up. ‘I feel like I’m in one of those houses on the side of a mountain with the earth below quickly sliding away.’
‘Can we see the doctor who was treating Watson, please?’ Tucker asked the nurse in the ER. She told them to wait. Nearly twenty minutes later, the ER doctor approached them. His name was Friedman and he looked no more than thirty years old at most.
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