Malpractice in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  The orderly looked panicky as I emerged from the dusty tunnel and paused to brush dust off my shirt. “¿Es todo aceptable, señorita?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  No doubt visions of deportation were flashing before his eyes. I nodded and said, “Everything’s okay, thank you.” I continued across the room in the direction of the suites. Here the hallway was bright, well-lit, and squeaky clean. I tapped on Dr. Dibbins’s door, then eased it open.

  He was standing in front the window, gazing at the driveway and the gate. Without turning, he said, “To what do I owe this honor, my lovely handmaiden of law and order? Are you here to read me my rights and haul me to your local jail? Does it have a cash bar, along with the iron ones? Or better yet, a piano bar?”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Merely a process of elimination.” Dibbins sat down on the sofa and gestured at the easy chair. Once I was seated, he continued with the pomposity of a professor at a lectern. “Shortly after ten o’clock this morning, Dr. Zumi left the premises in a body bag, and Dr. Stonebridge is in too much of a dither to come by for a visit. The boorish Brenda Skiller barges into the room without considering the possibility she might catch me in a moment of indiscretion. No, I retract that. She dearly hopes to catch me in such a moment, but I rarely comply. Walter’s sandals flap when he walks. Whenever Dawn drops by, she doesn’t hesitate to launch into a litany of her woes, as if she alone is subjected to injections of vitamins and a few green morsels for meals. She is very disturbed. If I were a compassionate man, which I am not, I might feel an occasional pang of sympathy for her.”

  “And your other fellow inmates?”

  “Toby Mann has never knocked on a door in his life. Although I do not believe in the paranormal, the boy’s ego seems to suck in all the oxygen wherever he goes. I find myself gasping whenever I’m in proximity to him. Furthermore, he continually curses under his breath.” He arched his eyebrows and smirked unpleasantly. “Senator Swayze is no longer here, but I believe you already know that.”

  “Just how the hell do you know about Randall Zumi and the senator?” I demanded, exasperated. “Where are you getting the information? Why do you think I’m a cop, for that matter?”

  “We’ve already had this conversation, if my memory serves me. It certainly should; I’ve been sober for eight days, which is an impressive feat in itself. When I had gallbladder surgery two years ago, I was sipping brandy in the recovery room.” His lips puckered as he regarded me, clearly enjoying himself. He allowed me to fume for a minute, then said, “It’s amazing what one can learn by judiciously analyzing human behavior. My diet books were not written without careful consideration. I observed the hostesses in West Palm Beach as they nibbled lettuce for lunch. Their bright smiles were forced and their eyes despairing with each measured dollop of fat-free dressing. I knew they were dreaming of lasagna and creamy risotto, of flaky croissants and pastries. I simply forbade them to eat the foods they’d grown to despise and gave them license to indulge in what they craved.”

  “Even at the risk of their health?”

  “I feel their pain each time my broker parks in front of my seaside mansion to discuss mutual funds. I really do.”

  “And what means of judicious analysis led to your conclusion that I’m a cop?”

  Dibbins chuckled. “You drove up the driveway this morning in a cop car. As for my other sources, I stand by my position of yesterday. If you make it worth my while, I’ll reciprocate. Until then, you really should run along and pester someone else. I’m planning to listen to Antonio Salieri’s Europa Riconosciuta, which I’m sure you know was performed at La Scala’s opening night in 1778. You’re welcome to join me, but I regret to say that champagne will not be served during intermission.”

  I was too pissed to be dismissed. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a three-month supply of forbidden fruit.”

  “Let me assure you that I did, and I was not alone. Brenda not only had a maid unpack my things, but she personally inspected each potential hiding place and confiscated the contraband. Our little Hollywood princess was livid, since she’d brought an expensive cache of cocaine. Alexandra hid her prescription pills in the toes of her shoes with wadded tissues to keep them in place. I’m not sure about Toby, but he’s so profoundly stupid that he probably just tossed his drugs in the bottom of his bag. I shudder at the thought that he was accepted at any college. His SAT scores must have rivaled his IQ.”

  “He makes a lot more money than you do,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, I must admit he does, but only so long as he doesn’t sustain an injury that ends his career. And even if he avoids injuries, he’ll reach mandatory retirement within a decade. I invest prudently and diversify my portfolio with long-term, reliable investments. He has a reputation for spending his money in a reckless and carefree manner. By age thirty-five, if he’s lucky to survive that long, he’ll end up peddling time shares to retired couples from Iowa and Nebraska.”

  I vowed to diversify my portfolio as soon as I had one. At the moment, I had a few hundred dollars in a savings account and no foreseeable windfalls. I’d been so frantic to get the divorce over with that I’d literally packed my bags and walked away. Well, taken a cab to the airport, anyway.

  “Listen, Dr. Dibbins,” I began, making no effort to disguise my dislike of him, “this is not some little stage play performed for your enjoyment. Molly Foss was murdered two nights ago. I am not going to bribe you with chocolate. What I will do is have you transported to the county jail as a material witness. You will not be detained in a suite with a private bathroom and a CD player. The mattresses are an inch thick and reek of urine and vomit. You’ll be fingerprinted and booked, and your mug shots won’t be airbrushed. The media will pick up on it, so you’ll be getting some unwanted publicity. The good news is that there are vending machines in the break room. How badly do you want a candy bar?”

  His face turned red and he began to wheeze. “I shall sue you for false imprisonment.”

  “And you’ll most likely win.”

  “Get out of my sight, you contemptible fascist! I must consider my options. You may return later if you wish, but do not allow yourself to be too confident that I’ll meekly acquiesce because of these threats. You are not dealing with some illiterate redneck whose knowledge of the law is limited to DWIs and brawls.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said grimly, then returned to the hallway. Dibbins was worse than a meth addict going through cold-turkey withdrawal in a corner of his cell. The medications he was receiving seemed to prevent any overt physical symptoms, but I’d never encountered anyone quite so desperate for a sugar fix. If Molly had tucked a roll of hard candies in her purse, I could easily imagine Dibbins stalking her in the garden, his mouth salivating with anticipation.

  Shuddering, I put aside the idea, at least for the moment. I went into the suite with a card on the door that read “Mrs. S.” The sitting area and bedroom were immaculate. A biography of John Adams was on the table next to the bed, along with a pair of reading glasses and a box of tissues. The towels in the bathroom were dry, which meant she had not come back to her suite for a shower—unless a maid had already replaced them. Unfortunately, that minor question could not be resolved until the translator arrived. I opened all the drawers in the dresser and looked through the few clothes in the closet. Nothing caught my attention until I opened the bedside table drawer and found a spiral notebook.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. The first entry had been written on the day of her arrival at the Stonebridge Foundation. It had an undertone of bitterness, but a certain air of resignation. The next few entries described her sessions with the various doctors, her aversion to the food, her sense of isolation without access to a newspaper or cable news channels. She maintained in each entry that she was not addicted to the prescription pills and could stop whenever she chose. However, with each day, the entries seemed more disjointed and fragmented. She railed against Randall for his s
ly attempts to trick her into an admission of weakness. She loathed Brenda for installing hidden cameras in her suite. Molly was a spy for the ACLU. The employees were Marxists. The chef was poisoning her food. Dr. Stonebridge was determined to subject her to shock treatments. The last entry, written the previous night, was chilling:

  Lloyd, should you ever read this, you must report to no one but the President himself. Not a joke—no! Clearly a plot to undermine the legitimate authority of the government. They think they’re clever—the bastards—but I see them oh yes I see them clearly. They have only one goal—to use me as an agent of evil. After I’ve been brainwashed, they’ll send me back to Washington. Inside my brain will be a microchip that has been programmed for only one mission—to assassinate the President of the United States of America! In the ensuing chaos, their troops will overpower the military, seize control of the media, and eventually subdue the entire nation.

  My finger will be on the trigger. Bang, bang! Who has easier access to the Oval Office than I? Who attends more state functions? Who joins the President and First Lady for meals in their private living quarters? They want me to kill him!

  My only hope is to escape before I’m whisked away during the night for the implantation. I’ve stopped taken their medications by pretending to swallow the pills then spitting them out. I’m not as stupid as they think. The murder of Molly Foss has caused confusion, which makes it all the easier. They’re pretending she was drowned in a fountain for an unknown reason. But I know she had to be eliminated before she could inadvertently expose this vile conspiracy. She did so prattle on, much like Patricia—blah, blah, blah, until I thought I’d scream! She was a threat, and now she’s dead. She used to come into my room when I was napping. I never let on I was watching her, but I was. A common little tramp who stole my money and jewelry. The maids did too. I hear them whispering in the hall outside my room. Plotting.

  I shall escape at my first opportunity. If I am thwarted, you and you alone will have the burden on your shoulders to save this country from the godless liberals.

  “Oh dear,” I murmured to myself. I’d been telling myself Senator Swayze was currently attempting to buy a copy of the Washington Post at the supermarket. Idalupino would have a hard time trying to explain why they didn’t sell such highfalutin newspapers and suggesting she might prefer the current edition of TV Guide.

  Now it seemed I had a full-blown case of paranoia on the loose in a town that was ankle deep in illegal handguns. The ramblings in Senator Swayze’s notebook made her seem more disturbed than the beady-eyed survivalists who live in remote compounds in the mountains. I replaced the notebook and went out to the hallway, unsure what to do. If I called Harve and clued him in, he might be able to send out a deputy with a dog to try to pick up her scent. I didn’t know enough about abnormal psychology to predict her behavior. If her delusions came and went, she could be sitting on a gravel bar alongside Boone Creek, dangling her bare feet in the water. But if with each day that she failed to take the meds that Randall had prescribed, her paranoia deepened, she could be taking hostages by now. The entire membership of the Missionary Society could be in the back room of the Assembly Hall, bound with duct tape.

  I finally decided to get Stonebridge’s opinion, then call Harve. I’d taken a couple of steps when Toby Mann came around the corner from the reception room and blocked my way. Considering his height and bulk, this did not require any effort on his part. He had a towel draped around his neck, but water dripped on the floor and his hair hung in his eyes, partially hiding what I’m sure was a well-practiced twinkle on his part.

  “You’re the cop, right?” he said, scowling.

  13

  Harve bellowed for LaBelle, then realized she was off duty for the weekend. It was a mixed blessing. She annoyed the hell out of him every damn time he told her to do something, and more often than not she simply ignored him and went back to painting her nails or reading a magazine. On the other hand, her replacement was a mousy little woman whose name he never could recollect. She scurried around so quietly that he never knew where she was or what she was doing. Every once in a while, he’d look up and find her standing in his office, too timid to open her fool mouth. He was getting used to it, but it was still unnerving.

  Cussing under his breath, he pushed his chair away from his desk, struggled to his feet, and lumbered down the hall to find her. Her desk was vacant. He frowned before remembering he’d sent her out to pick up sandwiches for lunch.

  He snatched up the Rolodex and returned to his office. After some fumbling, he found the telephone number of the Maggody PD and dialed it. Nobody answered, which meant Arly was still out at the loony bin like she damn well was supposed to be—or on her way back to Missouri. He left a message that it was real urgent that she call him, then banged down the receiver and listened to his stomach growl.

  As much as he would have liked to walk across the street to the café at the bus station for a bowl of chili, he figured he’d better wait by the phone. If Arly didn’t call pretty damn soon, he was gonna have to drive out there to tell her what all the FBI had to say about the fingerprints they’d run through their fancy database.

  She wasn’t gonna like it one bit.

  I looked up at Toby Mann, who was a good five or six inches taller than I was. I didn’t even want to think about the number of pounds he had on me. “Yes,” I said evenly, “I’m the chief of police.” Just to annoy him, I added, “And you are?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Everybody knows The Man.”

  “I know a lot of men,” I said, shrugging.

  “I’m Toby Mann. I won the Heisman when I was in college, and some sportswriters claim I’m the best quarterback in the history of football. You want to know how many touchdown passes I threw in the last Superbowl? I’ve been on the cover of Sports Illustrated four times.” He thumped his chest. “I am The Man.”

  “I don’t pay much attention to football, but if you say you’re Toby Mann, I guess you ought to know. Do you want to speak to me?”

  He gaped at me, still unable to believe I’d never heard of him. He finally pulled himself together and said, “Yeah, but not here. Let’s go in my suite.”

  I trailed after him, since he was the only patient I hadn’t interviewed. He continued into the bedroom and yanked off his swimsuit, no doubt thinking he could win my undying adoration with a stolen peek at his manhood (aka The Manhood). I averted my eyes and picked up a creased copy of a sports magazine that did indeed have his picture on the cover. His blond hair was tousled, his face streaked with sweat. The black smudges under his eyes made him look like a raccoon, but I decided not to point it out, since I was already pressing my luck.

  When he joined me, he was wearing a short robe and boxers. “There’s something I got to ask you,” he said as he sat down on the sofa.

  “Have at it.” I sat down on the easy chair and mentally measured the distance between us. My chances of making it to the door were not good.

  “I saw you talking to Dawn yesterday. I want to know what she said about me.”

  I thought for a moment. “She said that you were horny and had a thing for Molly Foss.”

  “The fat cow’s jealous. Yeah, Molly was pretty enough, and this stinking place is making me crazier than when I got here. There are a couple of maids I wouldn’t mind banging, but they’re terrified of getting caught with their apron strings untied. As for Brenda—you met her?” I nodded. “If there was an uglier, bossier woman, I sure as hell haven’t met her. Brenda should go off to Africa and mate with a gorilla.”

  “I gather you’re not fond of her.”

  He gave me a perplexed look, then relaxed. “That was a joke, right? So anyway, maybe I flirted with Molly out of boredom. I led her on, just for the hell of it.” He paused. “Look, if Dawn said something about what happened the other night, she was lying through her teeth. She’d say anything to get back at me for not falling down and kissing her feet because she was in some stupid sitcom.
She’s all washed up, and she knows it. I’m the one with the screaming fans and the big bucks. Those women reporters who come into the locker room can’t keep their hands off me. The talk show hosts all beg me to come on their shows. ESPN did a feature on me after I was named MVP at the Superbowl.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “I remember now—I have seen you on TV. Don’t you do commercials for Drippers or whatever those diapers are called?”

  “That was my agent’s bright idea. They pay me a lot of money,” he said, flustered. “I’ve got a lot of expenses, you know. My fans expect me to drive expensive cars and be seen in the right clubs.”

  “Let’s go back to what Dawn said about the other night,” I suggested, as if she had said something. Which she hadn’t.

  “Yeah, well, whatever she said was a bunch of lies. She’s made too many crappy cable movies about teenage girls who run away from home and become hookers. You ever seen any of them? One of the guys on the team had one on tape, so we watched it in the locker room after the coaches and trainers left. Turns out she was all fucked up because her sister got better grades and was a cheerleader. It should be a cult classic.”

  “Thank you very much!” snapped Dawn as she came into the suite. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you and your teammates enjoyed the movie. I guess you know all about underage hookers, don’t you? That woman you raped in the hotel—was she a pro or just a high school girl that you got drunk in the bar?”

  I remembered what Randall had told me about the less than successful anger management role-playing session earlier in the week. “Dawn, if you want to talk to me, why don’t I meet you out by the pool in a few minutes?”