TWENTY-ONE
Matt had assured Sandra there was no need for her to drive him home. When the taxi pulled up at the curb, he saw shreds and balls of yellow crime scene tape scattered about the lawn, but there were no cars and no people around. He let himself in the front door, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the area rug in his living room, where a rough body-shaped chalk outline circumscribed an irregular blot of dried blood. As Matt skirted around the spot, he wondered if he could ever get his home restored to normal. And even though his lawyer said he could start the cleanup process, he worried that anything he might do would cause problems for him later with the police.
Matt half-expected to find drawers left open, clothes and books on the floor, but other than dust left behind by fingerprint technicians, the remainder of the house looked pretty normal. He vaguely recalled that there were companies that specialized in cleaning up crime scenes. Not that he could afford it. For now, all he wanted to do was wash away the scent of jail that clung to him like a blanket. The house would come later.
But first he had to get back on his medication. He hadn’t had any more petit mal seizures, even though he’d missed several doses, but he couldn’t take any chances. He’d left his pill bottle tucked away behind glasses in his kitchen cabinet between bottles of Tylenol and Motrin. But when he looked, all of them were gone. Had the police taken them for analysis? With the drug charges against him, it made sense, he guessed.
Since Matt was a physician, it wasn’t an insoluble problem to replace the Ethosuximide, although it was a definite inconvenience. He made a trip to a drugstore, gave the pharmacist a prescription, waited impatiently for his medication, and drove home, all the while expecting to wake up finding that he’d suffered another absence spell.
In the kitchen, Matt spilled one of the red capsules into his palm and washed it down with a few sips of tap water. Please let the medicine keep working.
Matt took a long, hot shower, lathering and rinsing several times. The clothes he’d worn went into the laundry hamper. He liked the new shirt Sandra purchased for him. It was something he might have picked out for himself, and he’d definitely keep it. He made a mental note to pay her for it.
He hadn’t slept well in jail, so he decided to stretch out for a nap. When he woke, he looked through the window of his bedroom and saw lights going on in the deepening twilight.
He dressed in a clean golf shirt and jeans, and padded in his bare feet into the living room, giving a wide berth to the reminder of the murder that had taken place there less than two days ago.
He lifted the phone and heard the stutter dial tone that told him he had voicemail. The first two messages were hang-ups. Then he heard a familiar voice. “Matt, this is Rick. I’m assuming you won’t be able to work your ER shift tonight. I’ll cover it, but I’m worried. I’ve caught some flak already about hiring someone who’s under suspicion of murder. The whole time I was in the courtroom this morning I hoped I wasn’t going to have to get on the stand, because I didn’t know what I’d say. We need to talk. Call me.”
He erased the messages and looked at his watch. There were almost five hours to go before the shift Rick was working for Matt ended. Matt wanted desperately to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and try to forget the ordeal he’d just gone through. But Rick was a friend, and Matt wanted—no, he needed to make things right with him.
Half an hour later, Matt walked into the ER and looked around. As he figured, the place was abuzz with activity. He finally spotted Rick coming out of a cubicle, flipping off his gloves and reaching for a clipboard held out by a nurse. Behind the curtain, adult voices were bickering.
“Rick, can we talk for a minute?”
Matt couldn’t interpret Rick’s expression. “I’m sort of busy.”
“I know. I’m back, and I’ll take the rest of this shift if you’d like to leave.”
Rick scribbled on the clipboard and handed it back to the nurse. “Make sure she’s up to date on her tetanus shot. Follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon on call.” He jerked his head toward the break room. “And I’m going to take five minutes.”
Once inside the room, Rick closed the door and leaned against it. “Ten-year-old girl with facial lacerations. Fell off her brand-new bike.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She was a real trooper. Held still for the anesthetic shot, didn’t move while I sutured the lacerations. Now she’s sniffling because her parents are bickering. Dad wants to let her back on the bike, Mom wants to throw it in the Dumpster.”
Matt knew he didn’t have much time, so he jumped into the explanation he’d prepared. “Rick, I appreciate your filling in for me. When I came home Friday night . . . well, Saturday morning, I . . .”
Rick listened quietly as Matt went through the whole scenario: finding the body, being taken into custody by the police, his release on bail. He even shared what he and Sandra had discussed about the likelihood the narcotics had been planted in his bedroom.
“So someone is trying to frame you,” Rick said.
“You bet—for the Mendiola murder, for this murder, for a narcotics violation. I’ve got a real enemy out there somewhere. Fortunately, I have a good lawyer on my side, and I keep telling myself that God’s in control—He’ll take care of me. But right now I need to convince you that I’m innocent.”
Rick moved away from the door, drew a cup of coffee from the urn, and drained the cup in three quick swallows, grimacing after each one. “Okay. I can take the heat from the front office, but you need to keep me posted of new developments. If I get blindsided by something like this in the future, I’m going to have no choice but to cut you loose.”
Matt held out a tentative hand. Rick hesitated a moment before shaking it.
“Now, can I finish the shift for you?” Matt asked.
“I don’t have anyone at home to hurry to,” Rick said. “But it’s really busy right now. Want to hang around and work until things slow down?”
“Sure,” Matt said. “Let’s get to it.”
It was time to do something he’d learned early in his medical training: compartmentalize. For the next three hours, Matt put his problems aside and concentrated on one thing—the practice of medicine. The variety of patients flowing through Metropolitan Hospital’s emergency room that night was enough to test him, and he found himself searching his memory banks for the answer to a particular diagnostic or therapeutic dilemma. But each time, he was up to the task. And not once did he think of the charges hanging over him.
“It’s an ear infection,” Matt counseled a young mother who bounced her almost-two-year-old daughter in her arms. “I’ll have the nurse give you a sample of the antibiotic, and you can get the prescription filled tomorrow.” He rummaged through a cabinet until he found an instruction sheet. “This tells you how to handle fever and pain. She should be better in a day or so, but if you have any problems, call your pediatrician.”
A nurse stuck her head through the opening in the curtains surrounding the cubicle. “Excuse me. When you’re through, Dr. Pearson asked me to tell you that it’s slowing down, and you can head home.”
Matt nodded and turned back to make sure the mother had no other questions. As he left, he grasped the cuffs of his blue exam gloves and flipped them into a trash can in a gesture he’d repeated countless times. That action triggered a thought, but it danced just outside Matt’s consciousness, harder to grasp than a drop of quicksilver. Oh well. It would come to him.
Sandra looked up from the law books and files on her desk when she heard her secretary’s voice on the intercom. “Dr. Gordon on line one.”
She punched the button. “Ken?”
“Hi, Sandra, I, uhh . . . ,” he said. He paused awkwardly, as if he didn’t know how to proceed. “Listen, I was calling because you’re representing Matt Newman.”
“That’s right. Why?”
“He missed an appointment recently, and that worries me a bit.”
Did docto
rs get that concerned when patients failed to follow up? Maybe this was a special case, since the patient was also a colleague. “There are lots of reasons why he could have missed the appointment.” Like being held by the police. “I’ll see him soon, and I’ll ask him to call and reschedule.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, long enough for Sandra to wonder if the call had been disconnected. Finally she said, “Is that all?”
Ken cleared his throat. Sandra had learned this meant he was about to embark on a subject that made him uncomfortable. “I guess I should come clean about the real reason I’m calling.”
“That might be good,” Sandra said. “I’m no expert on the way doctors run their practices, but I figured you have secretaries to make calls like this.”
“You always could see right through me,” Ken said. “It’s true that Matt missed an appointment. However, when I last saw him he was doing pretty well. I’d like to see him one more time, but this gave me an excuse to talk with you.”
There it was. Sandra thought there’d been a clean break, but this was Ken’s second attempt to re-establish their relationship since that dinner at Reunion Tower. Gently but firmly, she told him that wasn’t going to happen.
Ken’s voice was tinged with hurt. “Didn’t Jesus say something about forgiving? What was it? Seventy times seven?”
“Don’t try to quote the Bible to me,” Sandra said. “As I recall, you pooh-poohed my dependence on faith. Seems you told me you only believed in things you could prove scientifically.”
“Maybe you could convince me otherwise. I think we should get together and talk about it.”
A cramp made Sandra realize she was holding the phone in a death grip. She switched hands and took a deep breath. “Ken, I’m not ready to have this conversation. Not today. Not right now, with one of my clients—and one of your patients, I might add—facing murder charges.” She grabbed a pen and scribbled a note. “I’ll mention the follow-up appointment to Matt. Thanks for calling.”
So there it was. She thought the breakup was behind her. She was trying to move on, and had hoped Ken would do the same. At the time he seemed to accept the fact that her faith and his lack of it was reason enough for them to split. Obviously he was having second thoughts. Was she? She wished she knew.
Deep in her heart she realized she was developing feelings for Matt. Matt was a doctor like Ken. Did that mean he only believed in things he could see and feel and prove? Actually she had no idea about his relationship with God. Was she setting herself up for another fall? She’d have to cross that bridge soon.
Sandra reached for the Bible she kept in her office. It had belonged to her grandparents, both of whom were now dead, and she’d vowed that if she ever attained a public office, she’d be sworn in with her hand on that Bible. For now, though, she needed a word of direction. And what better place to find it?
She was still looking when Elaine tapped on her open door. “Your client Mr. Johnson is here. Shall I send him in?”
“Give me five minutes, please.” Sandra reluctantly put the Bible away, shuffled through the files on her desk, and pulled out the one she needed, breathing a quick prayer for guidance—not only in her professional life, but in her private life as well.
After he awoke the next morning, Matt took a circuitous route through his living room, avoiding the spot where the murder victim’s body had been. When he came in last night from the ER, he was too energized to sleep, so he’d decided to take back his home. The area rug stained with the man’s blood was in a Dumpster now. The bloodstains on the hardwood floor yielded to vigorous scrubbing with cold water and hydrogen peroxide. Fingerprint powder had been wiped away. All traces of the crime and the police presence that followed were gone from his house. Still, the memories lingered.
He hadn’t actually seen the body—just the bloodstains and the chalk outline—but there was no question that this room would never be quite the same for him. Matt wondered if he should consider moving. He was turning over the economics of selling this place and buying another versus renting something smaller, maybe even an apartment, when it hit him. He couldn’t afford to commit to the purchase of another house. Besides, it was foolish for him to make any long-term plans. There were still people out there who obviously wanted to kill him, or failing that, to put him out of circulation for a long time. Why consider where you’re going to live when the State of Texas might be providing your room and board for the foreseeable future?
He checked the time: five minutes until noon. Last night, Rick’s parting comment to Matt was, “Call me about noon tomorrow. There are some other things I want to talk about—but this isn’t the time or place.”
Had Rick changed his mind while they were both working? Was he going to fire Matt after all? If that happened, what else could Matt do? He could try some of the other emergency rooms in town. Maybe catch on at a walk-in clinic, the ones he and his colleagues jokingly referred to as “Doc in the Box.”
Matt was well aware that his legal fees were piling up. His income from ER work was barely enough to meet his expenses, but eventually there’d be a day of reckoning. And if he was arrested again, there was the question of bail. Would Mrs. Penland feel the same way if he were charged with murder? Would she guarantee his bail a second time?
One problem at a time. Matt sat at his desk, reached for the phone, and punched the number for Rick Pearson’s home. At the fourth ring, about the time Matt figured the call was going to voicemail, he heard a husky voice. “Dr. Pearson.”
“Rick, it’s Matt. Did I wake you?”
“No, I just haven’t talked since I went to bed last night.” He cleared his throat. “Let me turn on the coffee.” After a few moments, Rick came back on the line, sounding more normal. “Thanks for calling.”
Matt felt his own coffee moving back up into his throat, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah, but it would probably be better face-to-face. Can I come over? Or maybe we could meet somewhere for lunch.”
They settled on a place and agreed to meet there in half an hour. As Matt shaved and dressed, he imagined all sorts of scenarios, none of them good.
Virgil Grimes sat hunched over his desk and read through the notes scribbled on the pad in front of him. Around him, the squad room was relatively quiet today. He hoped it would help him concentrate better. The information he had wasn’t all he wanted, but it was a step in the right direction.
First there was the gun: a snub-nosed .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver found in a storm drain two blocks from Newman’s house. Ballistics tests were still pending, but Grimes was willing to bet this was the weapon involved in the murder at Newman’s house. No fingerprints on it, of course. Serial number erased with acid. The lab geeks could work on bringing it out so the gun could be traced, but dollars to donuts it would prove to be a dead end.
Then there were the gloves found lying with the gun in the same storm drain. Of course, there was gunshot residue on the gloves. That was to be expected. But more important, the gloves matched the size 8 latex surgeon’s gloves found in Newman’s garage, still in their paper wrapper.
Grimes tapped the pages, grinned, and said, “Newman, you’re going down.”
The detective pushed back from his desk, grabbed his coat, and hurried out onto the street. He walked a quick block away and ducked into a coffee shop, where he paid for a cup and took it to a booth in the back. He looked around and made sure there was no one he recognized around him before pulling out his cell phone and punching in a number.
“It’s me. We’re getting close to having something that will tie Newman to the killing at his house.”
“Keep me informed.”
“I will.” He ended the call and blew across the surface of his cup. Might as well enjoy the coffee before heading back to the squad room. As he sipped, he hoped this latest turn of events would ease some of the pressure on him. Of course, it was increasing on Newman, but
that wasn’t his worry. Right now Grimes’s major concern was himself. Look out for number one. And the only way number one could get out of trouble was to make sure Newman was in it—deep.
TWENTY-TWO
Matt scanned the little café and saw no sign that Rick had arrived before him. He checked his watch, discovered he was a couple of minutes early, and took a table that promised a degree of privacy.
A waitress hurried over. She placed a glass of ice water and a napkin-wrapped set of silverware in front of Matt. “Menus are over there.” She pointed to a stack of laminated cards, book-ended on one side by salt and pepper shakers and on the other by bottles of ketchup and hot sauce. “Something to drink?”
“I’ll have a Coke.” Before she could turn away, Matt told her he was expecting someone to join him shortly. She nodded absently and scooted away, returning in less than a minute with Matt’s drink as well as another set of silverware.
While he waited for Rick, Matt freed a menu from the stack and considered his lunch selection. Maybe a ham and cheese, although the tuna melt sounded good too. As Matt thought about it, his mind kept going back to a glass of Kool-Aid and a cold bologna sandwich on soggy white bread. He heard again the trustee’s words, “That’s what you’ll get, lunch and supper most days. Get used to it.”
No, he had to put that out of his mind. He was out of jail. He was innocent of any charge the police might bring against him. He had a good lawyer on his side. Don’t make plans about going back to jail. Make plans to live your life to the fullest after you’ve been cleared. Memories of Gordon Seagrave’s captivity and words about freedom flooded Matt’s mind.
Matt turned his attention back to the menu, but looked up when Rick took the seat opposite him. “Sorry, I’m a little late.”
“No problem,” Matt said.
After they ordered, Matt took a deep breath and jumped right into it. “I guess you want to talk about the legal problems I have. Are you under pressure to fire me?”
Stress Test Page 20