by Mike Stewart
Dr. Reynolds nodded and turned his attention to Scott. The young psychologist's always tousled hair was now spread into a fanned turkey's tail at his crown, and his skin seemed drained of blood. Reynolds offered a weak smile. “Scott, why don't you step into the bathroom and comb your hair.”
The officer with the notebook, a muscular Irish stereotype of a Boston cop, said, “We don't care about his hair, Doctor.”
The elevator cop nodded at the Irish cop and motioned for him to step outside. Both detectives left the room.
Scott looked at Reynolds. “What happened?”
Reynolds shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well, the police said not to say anything”—he paused—“but that's nonsense. The truth is that Mrs. Hunter has been . . . well, someone apparently crept into her room tonight and smothered her with a pillow.”
Scott felt his stomach tighten in on itself. “Do they know who did it? I mean—”
The detectives came back into the room. “Let's all have a seat and talk a little.” He asked Scott and Dr. Reynolds to sit in a pair of chairs, while he propped one butt cheek on the conference table. Scott pointed discreetly at the cop, and Reynolds nodded.
The Irish cop asked, “What?”
Reynolds said, “Sorry?”
“What's Mr. Thomas pointin' at?”
The older shrink nodded to Scott, who explained. “You're establishing a position of superiority for the interview. You know, you're looking down on us. We're looking up to you.” He paused to examine the policeman's passive face. “Sorry, this is what we do.”
He seemed unimpressed. “I am Detective Tandy. That”—he pointed to the elevator cop, who looked vaguely Mediterranean—“is Lieutenant Cedris. We're just after a little preliminary information here. You don't have to talk with us, but things'll go a lot quicker if you're willing to cooperate.”
Scott nodded, trying to project professional competence despite a hard fist of pain in his gut. “Sure. Absolutely.”
“Doctor?”
Reynolds nodded. “Only we prefer to speak with you together.”
Tandy turned to Scott. “Is that right?”
Scott's eyes moved around the room as he ran Reynolds's statement over in his mind. A few seconds passed before he simply said, “Yes.”
“We would rather speak separately—”
Reynolds interrupted firmly. “No, Officer. I'm sorry, but hospital policy is never to let an employee submit to an interview without a hospital representative present. Here I guess Dr. Thomas and I can serve that purpose for each other. Unless you plan to arrest one of us.”
The officer shook his head. “No. Not at this time.” He pointed at Scott. “Your boss just called you ‘doctor.' Is that how I should address you?”
“No. I'm third year in the doctoral program. The title is more or less complimentary.”
Tandy grinned. “Helps not to scare the patients.”
“Something like that.”
Tandy looked behind him before pushing back onto the tabletop and letting his feet dangle. “You don't know this, Dr. Thomas, because you just got here, but Dr. Reynolds here has been violating hospital policy for most of the last hour. Seems like he can talk all he wants without a representative present.” He pulled out his little notebook and flipped it open. “Lemme see. I got about nine, maybe ten, pages here of Dr. Reynolds's statements that he made outside the presence of any kind of representative.” He flipped the little book closed. “What's that tell an educated man like yourself, Dr. Thomas?”
“What are you getting at?” Scott ran his fingers though the turkey tail on his crown. “Look, I've had about three hours' sleep and just found out that one of my patients was murdered. So”—he searched for the right words—“stop talking in circles and ask what you want to know.” He heard his voice rising in pitch and made a conscious effort to slow his breathing.
The officer shrugged. “I ain't talkin' in circles. Just pointin' out that Dr. Reynolds's bullshit hospital policy—”
Reynolds interrupted. “Now see here.”
“That this alleged policy about havin' a representative present only applies to you.” He paused, but Reynolds kept silent. “What I'm wondering is why you got your own little policy there. What is it makes you so special?”
Scott shook his head. “I'm not special.”
“Where are you from, Dr. Thomas?”
“All over. I've been in school, boarding schools, since I was ten.”
The cop leaned forward. “Mommy and Daddy didn't love you?”
“This interview is over,” Reynolds said, raising his voice.
Scott placed his hand over the older man's forearm. “It's okay.” He turned to face the Irish cop. “Mommy and Daddy loved me just fine until they both died in a house fire. After that, school was about the only place I had to go.”
The dark cop, Cedris, stepped forward from the back of the room. “Detective Tandy, wait out in the hallway.”
The Irish cop's cheeks glowed with broken capillaries. “You can't tell me what to do. Fine, the guy's parents died. Shit happens. Many's the time I wished my old man would drive off a cliff.”
Lieutenant Cedris turned to Reynolds. “Am I correct in stating that this interview is over unless and until Detective Tandy leaves the room?”
Reynolds smiled. “Perfectly correct.”
Tandy jumped down off the table, shoved his little notebook into a breast pocket, and slammed the door on the way out.
Scott said, “Good cop, bad cop?”
“Something like that. Different styles, anyhow.” Cedris circled the table and pulled a chair around with the others. He looked at the older man. “This okay?”
Reynolds nodded.
Cedris sat. Then he asked Scott, “Do you prefer doctor or mister?”
“You can call me Scott.”
“Okay, Scott. We're going to need you at the downtown precinct tomorrow for a full statement.” He opened a notebook. “For now, please tell me the last time you saw Patricia Hunter.”
Scott began with his arrival at the hospital Friday afternoon and told the officer everything he could remember about his brief meeting with Mrs. Hunter. He told about the inquisitive little girl; he detailed his brief conversation with Kate Billings; and he named when he could, and described when he couldn't, members of the cleaning staff who came around just after eight.
Toward the end of Scott's story, Detective Tandy opened the conference room door and stuck his head inside. The ruddy Irish cop looked full and satisfied. He shook his head at his partner and said two words: “Never happened.” Then he left Scott alone with Dr. Reynolds and Lieutenant Cedris.
When, at the cop's instruction, Scott had repeated everything he knew a second time, Cedris asked the question he'd been waiting to ask. “One more thing. How'd you know to come here tonight?”
“What?”
“Just now. Why'd you show up at the hospital at three-thirty in the morning?”
“I thought you knew. I got a phone call.”
“Yes.” He flipped back a dozen pages in his little notebook. “You said someone called at three A.M., stating that Mrs. Hunter had been murdered and asking you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“Exactly.”
Cedris smiled. “Okay. Fine. Who was it that called you, Scott?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“No, ah, it was just a quick message. Something like ‘Patricia Hunter is dead. She's been murdered. Come to the hospital as soon as you can.'”
“Anything else?”
“I'm not sure. The phone woke me from a sound sleep.”
“Of course it did. But no name?”
“No.”
“Man or a woman?”
“I'm not sure. A woman, I think.”
“You think it was a woman. No title? Nothing like that?”
Scott shook his head. Something was wrong.
“And it never occurred to yo
u to call the hospital and verify some of this before you got dressed and drove down here in the middle of the night?”
“Am I some kind of suspect?”
Cedris asked, “Should you be?”
“No.” Scott froze as the weight of the officer's inquiry sunk in. “I shouldn't.”
“That's strange, Scott. That's very strange since my partner, Detective Tandy, has been searching the hospital for anyone who might have called you about the murder. And guess what?” Cedris paused, but neither Scott nor Dr. Reynolds spoke. “‘Never happened.' That's what he said. ‘Never happened.' But you already knew that, didn't you, Scott? You know damn well that no one called you at—”
Reynolds blurted out, “That's it! No more questions until hospital counsel is present.” The old man stood. “Come on, Scott. We're getting out of here.”
Cedris blocked the two men's path. “Scott? Are you refusing to answer any more questions without a lawyer?”
“Yeah,” Scott said, “I guess I am.”
“You guess—”
“I refuse to answer any more questions until I confer with an attorney.”
Cedris smiled and stepped aside. “That's all I wanted to know. Have a pleasant evening, Scott.” He turned and nodded at the older man. “Dr. Reynolds.”
The cops left around 5:00 A.M. Scott left a few minutes later, after receiving an awkward bear hug from Dr. Reynolds—a strange and unprecedented act that, more than anything else that happened that night, frightened Scott so deeply that the simple embrace sent waves of nausea rolling through the pit of his stomach.
CHAPTER 8
A tiny red light blinked in the dark of Kate Billings's bedroom. She stirred inside flannel sheets, glanced at the incoming-call light, and rolled onto her side. Kate had already turned off the phone's ringer, and she'd switched off her pager the minute she got home. She was off duty, she was exhausted, and whoever wanted her could damn well call back in the morning.
As sleep settled over her like a warm blanket, she realized that there was something wonderfully delicious about ignoring someone rude enough to interrupt her sleep.
Scott punched the OFF button and dropped the receiver on his bed. He spoke to the room. “You should've answered the phone, Kate.” He shook his head at the bedspread. “You really should have.”
Worry churned the hospital coffee in his stomach as he climbed back into bed a few minutes before sunrise. Finally, exhaustion overtook misery and he descended into the comparative comfort of a fitful sleep.
Less than an hour passed before Scott sensed some vague and whispered movement inside the room. Too exhausted to move—too tired to want to—he opened his eyes.
The morning sun cut through drawn miniblinds, slicing dark furniture and flooring into intersecting bands of light. A shadow flitted across drawn blinds. Scott's breathing came faster. He tried to concentrate, but the room was empty and he was just so tired. Sleep had begun to take him under again when floorboards creaked in the outer sitting room. Moving slowly—moving, he hoped, like a man turning in his sleep—Scott once again scanned the bedroom. Still he was alone. But the sound had been real.
He flipped the covers away, pivoted, and planted his feet on cold floorboards. Grabbing his glasses off the bedside table, he stepped to the closet and reached inside for the only weapon he owned. As his fingers closed around the leather grip of a softball bat, a hushed metallic sound sent something like an electric shock across his shoulders.
The bedroom doorknob was turning. The sleepy ex-wrestler sprang across the room and flattened against the wall before his mind had finished processing what was happening. He raised the bat overhead, but it occurred to him that bashing in a burglar's skull was more violence than he was willing to do. Shifting slightly to the right, Scott assumed a batter's stance, staying as close to the wall as possible. The old door popped and shuddered a little as it cleared the frame, and the white kid in rapper duds who'd broken into his apartment the day before stepped into the bedroom.
A jumble of thoughts tumbled through Scott's mind. He recognized the intruder; he understood that the second burglar from the day before was probably following the first into his room; he thought of what the second burglar might do if he pounded the first one with a bat. He swung hard at the intruder's stomach.
The kid twisted instinctively backward as the bat came around. Scott felt the soft thud of contact a split second before the tip of his bat slammed against the door frame. And he heard pain in the grunt that followed. Seconds passed. Only the soft rush of labored breathing came from the outer room.
Scott called out. “Who's there? Listen. The cops are on the way. I called 911. You'd better get the hell out of here.”
“You wouldn't be lying to us, would you, jack?”
Scott could feel the soft thump of his heart in his neck and temples. “What?”
The same man's voice said, “You didn't call the damn cops.” The speaker made a repeated humming sound, like an old lady disapproving of an unruly grandchild. “Kick the door shut. Go ahead, Scotty. Kick the mother.”
Scott pushed the door shut with the thick end of his bat. “Are you leaving?”
“Soon.” The man's voice was muffled now. “Go ahead. Call the cops. Whatever you want. We'll be gone before they get here.” A loud crash came from the living room. “That's my partner. You pissed the boy off with that bat shit.” A series of thumps and bangs echoed through the door. “Up to you, but I'm saying better make that call. You don't got the cops coming, hell, I may not be able to keep my boy out of there.”
Scott glanced at the phone on the bedside table. If he moved to pick it up, he would be out in the open, unable to get the first shot with his bat at anyone coming through the doorway. His eyes scanned the room. “Okay. Send him in.”
“You think you gonna Sammy Sosa his ass again? Shit won't work twice. Told you once, Scotty. Telling you again. Better jump on 911 before my boy here jump on you.”
Scott's heel bumped the Gateway CPU on the floor next to his desk. Turning, he eased backward. Keeping his eyes on the closed door, he grabbed the mouse on the desk and double-clicked the telephone icon on his computer desktop. A number pad popped up on screen. He punched 911 on the keyboard and hit ENTER.
Two long rings buzzed through his computer speakers, and one of the intruders in the other room said, “'Bout time.”
“Emergency services.” The voice sounded dangerously loud coming through his speakers.
Scott turned to speak into the little microphone stuck to the base of his monitor. He gave his name, phone number, and address. “Someone's in my apartment. Two burglars, I think.”
“We'll send someone around.” The operator paused. “Uh, sir, are you there, sir?”
“They're here now.”
“I understand, sir. I'm having trouble hearing you.”
“I said, they're here now.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. Get out of the apartment if you can. Find a place of safety if you can't. A patrol car is on the way.”
Scott reached back to click on the DONE button. As he did, the same burglar said, “I guess you're all safe now.”
Scott stepped quickly back to the side of his door and readied the bat. “Kiss my ass.”
The two men in his tiny living room were speaking quietly to each other—their indistinct words nothing but a low, unsteady rumble. Scott leaned against the door to listen, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He glanced back again at the computer, tried to remember how to record through the microphone onto the hard disk, and cussed in the dark. The soft rumble of voices ceased and started up again.
Scott reached back to feel for the microphone. It was shaped like a small disk and glued to the base of his monitor by one of those sticky foam-rubber things that came with the computer. He got his fingernails under it and ripped the plastic disk loose.
Pulling slowly, testing the length of the wire running from microphone to computer, Scott stretched the tiny mike to th
e base of the door. He leaned down and silently pushed the plastic disk under the corner of the door separating him from the burglars.
Scott glanced again at the keypad on the computer screen. He punched the first digit of his office phone number at the hospital, and the speaker let out a loud beep.
From the other room, “You callin' yo mama now?”
“Why don't you come in here and find out?”
“You keep talkin' tough, we might have to do that.”
As the burglar spoke, Scott repeatedly punched the leftmost button at the top of keyboard. The green volume indicators on his screen retreated to nothing, and the speakers were off.
He punched in the remainder of his office number and waited. If the system was working right, if no one happened by his tiny cubicle and picked up the receiver, if the thing worked the way it usually did, the phone would ring four times, automated voice mail would answer, and the call would be recorded.
A lot of ifs, he thought, to record a lot of mumbling.
But then he heard the soft beep of numbers being dialed again, only this time the sounds emanated from the living room side of the door. When the beeping ended, Scott said, “You calling your mother now?”
“No, bitch. I'm callin' yo momma.”
Scott was quiet. Listening. Louder mumbling was followed by the click of a flip phone snapping shut. Lower now, the mix of the two men's voices hummed through the wooden door. Scott was almost certain he made out the word “done” just before he heard the familiar, homey sound of his front door opening. A puff of frigid air rolled across the living room floor and brushed Scott's bare feet as it passed beneath the bedroom door.
“Got one more thing before we step out, Scotty.” An unnatural pause lingered as cold air continued to wash over Scott's bare feet. “We killed her. We killed Patricia Hunter in her hospital room. Tell the police that.”
The door slammed shut. Scott turned and reached for the mouse to click the DONE button on his telephone program.
Imagination wrung hours out of the next six minutes. Time slipped back into gear only when the faint swirling sounds of police sirens filled Scott's ears. But still he didn't move. He followed the dispatcher's instructions. He stayed in his place of safety until he heard a loud knock on the front door. “Police! We're coming in.”