An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller

by Martin Sherwood

  Johanna was lying on the floor beside me, on the other side of the bed. Her head was twisted at a sharp angle, her neck stretched back. Her teeth chattered and air escaped between them with a loud groan. Her eyes were open so wide as to create a complete circle of white within their rims. One leg was flexed off the floor, the other hyper-extended, perpendicular to the bedrail.

  I crawled to her on my elbows, raised her head off the floor, and let her wonderful blond hair spill over my cheek. Her body continued to convulse, then fell limp between my hands.

  I looked straight into her eyes, and knew she was no longer there.

  Someone turned on the light in Room 22, and I blinked at the discomfort of the fluorescent glare.

  Mrs. Hertz hovered above us. In her hands she held the defibrillator handles.

  59

  I awoke in Mrs. Hertz’s office, lying on a black leather sofa, covered to the tip of my chin with a duvet.

  Someone had removed my shoes, stripped me of all my clothes, and left me with only Schlosser’s undergarments. Even my socks were gone, replaced with a long woolen pair, like those freebees given to business class airline passengers.

  I reached out and palpated a gauze bandage on my skull.

  A nice bald man rocked in the chair before me. Noticing my completely open and alert eyes, he reached for my wrist and took my pulse.

  “Eight stitches in the forehead,” he announced, beaming.

  The tag attached to his coat pocket said Dr. Vu Nguyen. He had a double chin and friendly brown eyes and was proud of his stitching, which had been done while I was still under the influence. Not much chance to practice trauma in this geriatric environment.

  “A large wound to the head,” the doctor elaborated and demonstrated a deep hole with his chubby palms. I took the hint. In the coming week it would be advisable to wear a wide-brimmed hat and to expect severe headaches.

  I was wondering how I could read the titles of the books in Mrs. Hertz’s library, then realized that someone had found my crushed glasses, wrapped scotch tape around the left lens frame, and put them on my swollen nose.

  “Zoe found them on the floor, near Zelda and Marijuszka’s room.”

  I nodded gratefully but had a dizzy spell as I tried to rise. “What time is it?”

  “Almost twelve.”

  “Like… midnight?”

  Dr. Nguyen smiled indulgently. The things a good drug cocktail could accomplish! He had surely adopted the idea for some of the deranged tenants at Blue Meadows who screamed all night. After all, everyone—including the doctor—deserved to dream a little dream when everything was quiet.

  I was elated to wake and see I was still alive. But the joy of my revival was dimmed by the fading effects of the anesthesia and the resulting paresthesia, nausea, and the return of pain.

  I became instantly lucid and tried again to stand on my own two feet, but the kind doctor planted me back on the sofa. His hands continued to rest on my shoulders till he was convinced he’d gained my full attention. “Not like this, not so fast.”

  “Grandma,” I groaned anxiously, dry-mouthed.

  “She is fine.”

  “I want to see her. Now!”

  The doctor regarded me with a sour look, doubting the wisdom of my impulse. “But, like this?”

  He had a point. Standing me up like a crutch, he led me to the mirror above the sink, where a stranger returned my glance. I took off my glasses, turned the tap on, and washed my face and mouth. I gargled and spat saliva residue that had hardened in my pharynx. My tongue probed my mouth and became lodged in a new groove in my gums.

  I donned my glasses carefully and tightened the strip of tape around the missing edge of the frame before stretching the arms behind my earlobes. I blew on the mirror, hoping to smell my breath, and got a cloud of vapor in return. Holding up my palm didn’t help; my swollen nose and the crooked cartilage that whistled with each inhale blocked any olfactory sensation.

  My left upper lip was still swollen from Gibbons’ slap, and a blue crescent appeared under one nostril. It reminded me of Johanna’s mole. I wondered abstractly if she had ever considered plastic surgery. The more I pondered, the greater an enigma she became.

  I gazed around. Mrs. Hertz indulged herself with a carved mahogany desk, an antique telephone, a sophisticated multimedia system, and a new computer—still in the box. I recalled her saying once that she was a bit of a technophobe.

  Like Efron, she had no personal effects on her desk. I recalled her admitting once that Blue Meadows was her whole life. The name Beatrice Hertz was engraved elegantly in a stone at the far corner of the table.

  The mirror reflected items not visible from the sofa. On a bookshelf behind the door, there was a small picture of soldier with a golden-haired girl on a motorcycle, against a background of Amsterdam. Two framed pictures hung over the bar, with dedications from relatives of deceased residents, thanking her for her devoted care of their loved ones.

  Next to them hung a class picture—three rows of teenagers in front of tents and barracks at what looked like a lakeside summer camp. Both boys and girls wore bright swimming gear, with wet hair and healthily tanned skin, exuding an aura of happiness.

  The heading was shaped as a rainbow with the title Desert Island Summer Camp, Maine, under which someone had added a diagonal dedication, “To B, our beloved counselor.”

  I approached the picture and focused on the smiling girl at the extreme left of the middle row. The gap between her incisors seemed familiar. I searched for a list of names, but it had been scraped off.

  60

  Dr. Nguyen strode up to me, realigned the bandage over my head, and nodded approvingly.

  We walked out together into the hallway—directly into a big commotion. The front door of Blue Meadows was wide open. Despite the late hour, the parking area was lit up and bustling with people as if in midday. Rain, slanted by wind, created a slippery puddle at the bottom of the steps.

  Flashing lights from squad cars pulsated inside the lobby. Two ambulances and a CSU van occupied the front lots. A patrol car blocked the access road to the electric gate, behind which loomed satellite dishes on mobile TV units, broadcasting live news. Uniformed officers scurried up and down the hallway. I saw two people, both with Forensic on the back of their rain jackets, exiting the building with their gear and specimen containers. Behind them paramedics pushed two stretchers carrying black body bags.

  Dr. Nguyen grabbed me by the elbow. I wanted to run to my grandmother, but he made me slow down, to prevent dizziness.

  We walked by the nurses’ station, all the staff piercing my back with their gazes. I looked for Mrs. Hertz, but she was not around. Several electrocardiographs flew silently across the monitor screens, with lights flickering. The drug room door was open, and I could see it was empty.

  A few yards away from Grandma’s room, I heard a familiar grinding sound from behind.

  Another Ricola candy was crunched into dust.

  “Mr. Butterfly, it seems bodies keep popping up wherever you appear.”

  I paused and looked down. Were I not concerned about my fresh stitches, I would have swung and hit him.

  Instead, I said to Dr. Nguyen, “Let’s go. I want to see my grandmother.”

  The doctor nodded and gently hugged my waist, and we moved away. As we reached Room 22, Nurse Zoe came out holding a tray. She smiled brightly and pointed at the empty plates. “She awoke starving. We told her it was past midnight, but she insisted, and finished all the porridge.”

  Zoe backed into the alcove, opened the door again with her free hand, and let us in. She wiggled and gave me a wink. “She is in good spirits, your grandmother. Started to watch TV without her glasses and even hummed a tango.”

  ***

  Grandma was engrossed in a TV reality show rerun, but her gaze drifted away from the screen as soo
n as she noticed us.

  There was no trace in the room of what had taken place just a few hours earlier. Everything was in order. The curtain was rolled up and a light breeze traveled through the window, which was flanked by a giant philodendron. The treatment cart and the defibrillator unit were back in place. The IV had been disconnected, leaving only a tightly capped blue butterfly needle for quick access to a venous line should the need arise.

  Despite the late hour, Grandma was in complete control of her faculties. An expression of amazement spread over her face when she saw me, as if she had just met Little Red Riding Hood.

  I had already concocted a convincing cover story as I’d limped my way down the hall to her room.

  “Minor accident,” I muttered, trying to smile as wide as the cheek swelling allowed me. Actually, I had a fixed grin on my face, caused by muscle spasm and taut tissues. One eyeball was hidden behind a circular puffy subcutaneous hemorrhage, so I winked with the other eye. “Nothing serious. I slipped in the lab.”

  She wasn’t buying it.

  “Honestly, it’s nothing.” It was she who had taught me to doubt any statement beginning with “honestly.” I leaned gingerly toward her and we hugged and kissed.

  “What’s the bandage for?”

  “Just a little scratch. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  She met Dr. Nguyen’s slanting eyes for reassurance, but he avoided her gaze. Still, staring off, she pointed out, “You look pale.” Her eyes continued to scrutinize every bump that formed the new outline of my skull. “You neglect yourself. When did you last eat?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I lied again, which angered her further.

  “Milbert! You shouldn’t skip meals. You can’t go on like this!”

  Behind me I noticed Zoe returning with a tray. She pulled a shelf from Grandma’s night cabinet and removed the plastic covers. Dr. Nguyen’s pager buzzed, and he excused himself.

  “There wasn’t much left in the kitchen,” Zoe apologized, “but I arranged a little something.” I gazed at the door, and she added quickly, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone interrupt you.” Then she went out and closed the door behind her.

  “Such a pretty girl,” Grandma said, a wicked smile on her face as she watched Zoe leave. “Do you like her?”

  “I do,” I confessed.

  “Then why don’t you get her phone number?”

  “Grandma, most beautiful girls are already spoken for.”

  Grandma shook her head dismissively. “I saw how she looked at you.”

  I was astonished, but she squinted at me in despair—she was craving great-grandchildren.

  Lethargically, I set about eating half a cup of oatmeal, two slices of pumpernickel bread, low-fat cottage cheese, a quarter of a tomato, three slices of cucumber, and a hard-boiled egg. I tried to chew on the right side of my mouth, where the molars were less painful. The oatmeal went down so slowly that Grandma patted my arm in encouragement.

  Dessert was peach Jell-O—low cholesterol, low sugar, low everything, but still preferable to a gourmet dinner hosted by Inspector Ramzi.

  I was fantasizing about a hot bath and a full night’s sleep, but my grandmother had different plans for me.

  I struggled to my feet. “I need to go, Grandma.”

  But she was on a mission. Her eyes swayed with that momentary pseudo-grief of farewell. Milbert, you don’t really need to go. Those magnetic eyes, in her youth, had caught a lot of young men in her net.

  I knew when I’d lost. I helped her get out of bed, but when I reached to bring the wheelchair closer, she squeezed her eyebrows in fury.

  No, tonight there was definitely no need for it!

  Grandma pulled out a comb and fixed her hair. Then she smeared her lips with an excessive amount of lipstick. When she turned around, a pearl necklace—the one Leanira had bought before flying to Kenya—was glistening on her neck.

  I reminisced it all: my Bar Mitzvah celebration; my graduation party at school; the night I’d spent in a club before my Nepal trek. Before each and every event I’d spent hours in Grandma’s studio downtown, and later in Crescent Hill, where she had ‘prepared’ me for the unlikely accident of inviting a girl for a dance. Needless to say, I always got cold feet at the last moment.

  But tonight, in Blue Meadows Room number 22, my courage came back to me. A CD player lay on the blanket. I bowed to my partner. We stood close in a ‘diagonal’ position, counterclockwise, knees slightly bent, and straight back—my left hand half-angled, fingers interlaced with my grandmother’s, shoulder to shoulder. I pressed the button.

  We started moving around the perimeter, her eyes half closed, head drooping slightly back, a smiled wandering between her parted lips, fingers fluttering over my shoulder, playing an invisible accordion.

  “Adios muchachos companieros de mi vida—”

  She danced the Habanera splendidly. I kissed her on the forehead.

  “Tango is like life,” she reflected with eyes closed. “For every two steps forward there is one step back.”

  Part Two

  A Week Later

  61

  For Your Eyes Only

  I saw her even before she entered the café.

  I had chosen a table near the entrance, overlooking the comings and goings, as well as the traffic in and around the square. After spending most of the week undergoing blood tests, urinalyses, and having half of my stitches removed, being in a café was a refreshing change.

  Outside, the sun rejoiced. Children romped on the swings and merry-go-rounds. The sky was a perfect cloudless blue.

  Inside, an antique ceiling fan spun slowly and the mirror behind the bar sparkled. A light breeze ruffled the tablecloth every time a customer opened the door, bringing in the outside din.

  She looked around, then noticed me. I saw that her eyes were glassy, that she had difficulty focusing. The table I had chosen was deliberately remote. Three empty tables separated us from the other diners.

  She took the empty seat beside me. An agile waiter brought us each a glass of water. People came and went. Next to us, it was relatively quiet.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I offered.

  The waiter also tried to address her, but she ignored him completely. Finally, as he was about to give up on her, she ordered a macchiato.

  It was then that she seemed to actually notice me. She tensed in her chair and fiddled nervously with the locket at her throat. Did it contain a tiny photograph? Of whom? When she noticed my interest her hand slid over her lap, and she crossed her right leg over her left, inadvertently kicking a table leg.

  “I don’t have much time,” she said, looking at her watch. “I have a meeting with social services in thirty minutes.”

  The federal building was just around the corner. I promised to keep it short. “I guess the fact that you haven’t asked about my reason for this meeting is that you’ve already figured it out.” Although she remained impassive, I was convinced she had heard me. “How long have you known Luminica Efron?”

  “More than thirty years. Changed her name when she emigrated from Romania. Lucy in the sky with diamonds…” she said, with a soft laugh.

  “And you were her counselor at the ‘Scientist of the Future’ program?”

  She nodded. “Lucy arrived in the States on her own, a frightened sixteen-year-old, all alone in the world. In her bag she had the address of a so-called distant relative in Boston. But this turned out to be a hoax. When I collected her at the shelter, I was only two years older, volunteering for a welfare community agency. We communicated in garbled Latin, but mostly in pantomime.”

  I sipped my water and waited for her to continue, but she just stared, unfocused, into the distance.

  Finally I said, “And the penniless young girl becomes a scientist, an accomplished cataract researcher?” Beatrice Hertz be
amed like a proud parent. “And you kept in touch throughout the years?”

  “Not as much as we wanted; it wasn’t easy with people like us. Lucy had a crazy schedule and we’re both workaholics. Eventually it was reduced to weekly phone calls, then we lost touch for a while. My fault. I was in the middle of a… personal crisis.”

  I recalled the picture of the motorcyclist in her office.

  “We were about to get married. I was accepted to med school in Rochester. We took a trip to Amsterdam. My folks still lived there and wanted to meet him. We had a pre-honeymoon sort of thing, thank God, because after the accident…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t go into details—no need. Beatrice Hertz was a one-man woman. “I dropped out of school, my ambition gone. I spent a year with my parents in Wassenaar, went on long bike trips, pottered, painted, got medical help, but nothing worked. So, when my parents no longer knew how to deal with me, my mother sent me to my older sister Juliana in Vienna, hoping the change of environment would recharge me with new energies. Julie was a chemist in a pharmaceutical company. A newlywed. She had lived in Vienna for about a year.”

  She paused, then said, “You’ve done a lot of digging, Milbert, so you already know my background, don’t you?”

  I did. Her father was a distinguished anthropologist and a professor of anatomy at the University of Amsterdam. One of his pretty daughters had dropped out of the city’s nightlife and fallen in love with an Austrian pharmacist twenty years her senior. The younger sister had excelled in her studies and was sent to summer camp in the US, later to be accepted to the University of Rochester’s medical school and to meet her one and only love—”both on the same beautiful summer’s day.”

  She had decided to stay in Boston, where she sang in a choir, played tennis, volunteered in a community shelter—where she’d met Greg—and even started looking for a place in Rochester for the following year. He considered a job with Kodak. Everything seemed bright and promising.

  But less than three months later her life was in pieces.