An Arm and a Leg

by Olive Balla

  How was it that Tim could joyfully show up every day to a place that smelled of antiseptic, cleaning solution, despair and human suffering? Hospitals were populated by people who fell into one of three categories: those trying to get well, those trying to die, and those whose job it was to help everyone achieve their goals. Call her vapid, insensitive, or just plain chicken, but she’d never felt the remotest desire to face down the Grim Reaper day in and day out. Still, she’d been supremely proud of Tim’s commitment to do just that.

  A pink-smocked matron sat behind the information desk immediately inside the front door. As Frankie approached, the cotton-fluff-haired woman looked up from her paperwork and smiled. Frankie identified herself and asked directions to the surgical floor.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” the woman said, “Doctor O’Neil was already gone when I began working here, but I’ve heard so much about him. He must have been a wonderful man.”

  Frankie smiled. “Thank you.” She took a step closer to the counter. “I’ve come for my brother’s things. Can you direct me to his office?”

  “I can do better than that.” The woman pointed to a row of chairs along a wall to her right. “Have a seat while I make a call.”

  After settling into a brown, vinyl covered chair, Frankie selected a dog-eared health magazine from a pile on a low table in front of the seats, and thumbed through it. She’d just finished reading a paragraph touting the virtues of psyllium fiber, when an elevator bell dinged somewhere. She looked up as a man walked out of the hall behind the information desk. He came toward Frankie, his right hand extended.

  “Good morning Miss O’Neil. Doctor Reynold Bellamy at your service. We cannot tell you how very sorry we were to hear about Tim’s accident.”

  Frankie shook the proffered hand. “Thank you. I apologize that it’s taken me so long to get around to this, but I’d like to pick up whatever personal items my brother may have left here.”

  “Of course.” The doctor stared into her eyes like a hunting dog on point. “After Tim’s passing, we had a staff member clean out his desk and locker and put his things in a storeroom.”

  “I was also hoping to speak with Mina Landowski, if she’s available.”

  “Mina Landowski?” Dr. Bellamy pursed his lips as an unfathomable look flitted across his face. He instantly replaced it with a smile. “We believe Mina is working today. If you would be so kind, please come with us.” Bellamy turned and headed down the hall.

  The doctor’s gait reminded Frankie of the goose stepping soldiers she’d seen on Uncle Mike’s collection of old war news reels. And Bellamy’s habit of referring to himself in the first person plural seemed a strange affectation. If his goal was to distance himself from the rest of humanity, he’d certainly achieved that.

  Dr. Bellamy opened a door bearing a brass nameplate etched with his name and title. He motioned for Frankie to go into his office, closed the door behind them, and pointed toward two chairs in front of his desk. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Frankie sat while the doctor walked to his desk, picked up his phone and punched in a number. While waiting for someone to pick up, he absent-mindedly straightened papers on his already immaculate desktop.

  Bellamy’s office was a study in what Frankie thought might be characterized as medical-eclectic. A mass-produced poster of a pastoral scene hung beside huge colorful prints of dissected bodies, one male and one female, complete with labeled parts. Predictably, one wall was fronted by a bookcase filled with thick medical tomes such as Gray’s Anatomy and the latest iteration of the Physician’s Desk Reference. A lighted display case along the opposite wall held various oddly shaped bones, jars of pickled growths, and what appeared to be a calcified lung. Frankie shuddered at lumps of what she suspected were petrified vital organs. One large jar of yellowish liquid held a light gray human brain, its lobes, fissures and folds smooth but for a dark yellow growth on one side the size of a golf ball. On the wall behind the desk, in a tight, perfectly symmetrical grouping, hung the doctor’s medical pedigree beside a photo of him in pristine surgical garb.

  But what most intrigued Frankie was the human skeleton that stood suspended from a metal frame in one corner. Tim once commented that a complete skeleton made of plastic resin would cost less than a real human skull. He said whole skeletons, especially those from some third world countries, were often of sketchy origins so now most doctors contented themselves with the man-made replicas. But instead of the stark white typical of the facsimiles Tim had used in school, Bellamy’s life-sized marionette bore a shiny, deep ochre patina. Frankie shivered.

  Dr. Bellamy lowered the receiver to a position just under his chin. “I see you’ve met Barbara.” He showed his teeth as a bizarre chuckle escaped through his nearly closed lips. “A disgruntled employee.” He winked. “Just kidding, of course.”

  A hinky feeling hit Frankie a glancing blow between her shoulder blades. She took a deep breath, told herself to stop imagining things, and smiled back at the doctor.

  “Please feel free to browse this small portion of my collection of medical oddities. All are unique, and some are quite rare.” Bellamy re-positioned the phone and spoke into it, “Ah, good. Doctor O’Neil’s sister is here. Would you please ask Mina to bring the box containing his personal effects to our office? Thank you.”

  The doctor hung up the phone and turned back to Frankie. “Would you care for coffee or water? Juice perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” No way her stomach could keep anything down in these surroundings.

  Bellamy gave a slight shrug. “As you wish.” He sat down behind his desk, winced at the resulting loud squeak, and again pasted the rictus smile on his face. “It is so nice to meet you in person, Miss O’Neil. We had the very great privilege of hearing you in concert at the Cathedral in Santa Fe last fall. We especially enjoyed your interpretation of the Bach Toccata and Fugue.”

  “Thank you. Bach’s one of my favorites.”

  “Just out of curiosity, your hands are so small, and many of the passages so intricate, how do you—?”

  Both Frankie and Bellamy turned their heads as a petite blonde stepped into the office. She placed a cardboard box on top of the doctor’s desk, and turned to look at Frankie.

  “Miss O’Neil, this is Mina Landowski, our head nurse.”

  A brilliant smile lit up the nurse’s face. “It’s so good to meet you. You look a lot like your brother. Except for your eye color. I mean…”

  “No need to apologize. I’ve considered wearing a contact lens in one eye so they’d match, but I could never decide which color to go with.”

  Dressed in the standard nurse’s uniform of white slacks and vee-necked pullover, Mina wore her thick blonde hair swept back and held in place with two large starburst-shaped barrettes made of a silvery metal.

  Frankie must have been staring, because Mina raised her hand to touch one barrette. “My parents brought these back from one of their many trips abroad. I probably wear them too much, but they’re the only things I’ve found heavy enough to control this mop.”

  Frankie smiled. “I think they’re beautiful.”

  Bellamy cleared his throat. “Well, as lovely as this little tête-à-tête has been, our presence is required elsewhere.” He turned to Frankie. “Please feel free to call in the event we may be of further assistance.”

  The doctor walked to his door, opened it and stood to one side. The unspoken message for the two women to clear out hung in the air. Frankie picked up the box of Tim’s things and followed Mina out of the office. Bellamy barely gave the women time to move through the door before closing it firmly behind them.

  “How well did you know Tim?” Frankie said as she and the nurse walked toward the exit.

  “Pretty well, we often worked together in the operating room. He was the best anesthetist I’ve ever worked with. That’s why I was so shocked when Dr. Bellamy let him go.”

  Frankie checked her forward movement and turned toward the
nurse. “Tim was fired?”

  “Yes. In fact, it wasn’t long before he died. He and Doctor Bellamy got into an argument, and Bellamy fired him on the spot.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I was on rounds, so I didn’t hear the fight. But the rumor mill had it that Tim looked like he was going to throw a punch at Doctor Bellamy.”

  “That’s unlike him. Any idea why?”

  “Most likely he didn’t agree with something Doctor Bellamy did in surgery. That kind of thing happened a lot. They yelled at each other for a while, and then Doctor Bellamy told Tim to leave. He wasn’t even allowed to get his stuff—security escorted him off the grounds right then and there.”

  “Wonder why Doctor Bellamy didn’t say anything about firing Tim? He acted as if Tim worked right up until his death.”

  “No idea,” Mina said. “Maybe he just didn’t want to have to deal with any questions you might have about it.”

  When the two reached the exit, Mina stopped. “I’m still on my shift, but I’d like to talk to you when we have more time. Maybe we could get together for coffee?” She pulled a marker from a side pocket and jotted two phone numbers on the box lid. “Landline and cell numbers. This week I’m working the three to eleven shift, so call me any time between eight in the morning and two in the afternoon.” Mina pursed her lips. “Maybe it would be a good idea for us to talk.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As soon as the two women disappeared down the hall, Dr. Bellamy opened his desk drawer and pulled out a burner phone. He punched in a number, put the phone against his ear, and drummed the top of his desk with the fingers of his free hand. When someone at the other end answered, he sat forward in his chair.

  “Did we miss your call, or have you made the mistake of blowing us off?”

  “I’ve been tied up. And I told you not to call me on my car phone, it’s too easy to trace.” Though muffled, the voice sounded loud, as if the phone was resting against the speaker’s lips.

  “Your cell is off,” Bellamy said.

  “I forgot to turn it on.”

  “Your memory lapses are becoming problematic. But if anyone checks, we’re chatting about your grandmother.”

  There was no response from the other end.

  “Pardon our chuckle. We can wax witty, don’t you think?”

  “What do you want?”

  “We need information, and we need it now. The sister is snooping, and we’re getting nervous.”

  “What kind of snooping?”

  “She and the head nurse just left our office in deep conversation.”

  “Does your nurse know anything?”

  “We don’t think she has a clue as to the true nature of our business.”

  “Then why in God’s name are you calling me?”

  “We need to know what Miss O’Neil is telling the police.”

  “She’s not one of their favorite people right now. She calls every other day, bugging the police both in Albuquerque and Colfax County. And last night she called the police out to her place on some trumped up break-in false alarm.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Who knows? But she’s looking more and more like an attention-grubbing neurotic.”

  “That could work in our favor,” Bellamy said. “If the police came to believe she is non compos mentis, she could be written off as a nut. That would support the idea that Tim was actually killed in a tragic hunting accident and help settle this poo storm.”

  “It might.”

  “What would happen if further evidence came to light indicating Miss O’Neil is indeed mentally vacationing in another reality from time to time?”

  “It would have to be pretty convincing. But at this point, both Colfax County and APD would like to get this off the books, one way or another.”

  “What would it take to convince them she’s lost it?”

  “I’d have to think about it.” Pause. “What’s your point?”

  “Time to pay the piper,” Bellamy said.

  “You want me to set her up?”

  “How nice to work with such a quick study.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’ve proven to be quite creative in the past, you figure it out.”

  “When?”

  “Within the next twenty-four hours would be fine. Of course, you’ll take the usual precautions, so nothing might be traced back to us.”

  “Or to myself.”

  “A laudable sense of self preservation. Keep us informed.”

  ****

  Frankie’s phone rang just as she pulled into her therapist’s drive. She tapped the ear bud, allowing Nick Rollins’ smooth voice to slide into her ear.

  “I just got your message,” Rollins said. “Have you remembered something?”

  “No, but I’ve found Tim’s journal.”

  “Anything that sheds light on his death?”

  “Not directly, no. But when I went to the hospital to pick up his things, I found out he was fired just a couple of days before his murder.”

  “Miss O’Neil, it sounds like your brother was going through a rough patch. But unfortunately, every day thousands of people lose their jobs and millions are chronically depressed.”

  “But not all of those people get shot and their apartments demolished.”

  “True,” Rollins surprised Frankie by saying.

  “So tell me why no one is trying to find the men who killed him?”

  “It’s not that no one is trying. In fact, I looked over the report on the break-in at his apartment. No fingerprints were found, so whoever it was knew enough to wear gloves. I believe the break-in is related to your brother’s shooting, but so far we just haven’t been able to find anything that would get us off the dime.”

  “Maybe that’s because you haven’t looked in the right places.”

  The line went silent for several beats before the deputy answered. “If you’re holding something back that has to do with this investigation, I’d encourage you to rethink that.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think, I think if anyone’s going to find my brother’s murderers, it’ll have to be me.” Frankie tapped her ear bud, cutting off the deputy’s protests.

  Immediately, Uncle Mike’s voice rang in her head: Careful Frances, careful not to overload your hummingbird butt with your alligator mouth.

  “Mind your own business.” Frankie got out of her car, careful to lock it behind her and headed into Angela’s office, where she sat waiting for her appointed time.

  In a few minutes, a depressed-looking fellow exited the inner office. He mumbled a greeting in Frankie’s general direction and seemed to be relieved to make it to the outer door.

  Angela smiled from the doorway to her office and motioned her in. Frankie took her usual seat—what she called the hot seat—still warm from the body that had just vacated it. Angela handed Frankie a chilled bottle of water, clicked on the recorder, and sat back in her chair.

  “How has your week gone?” the therapist said.

  “Jenny hasn’t spoken to me since our last session, but my nightmares have started up again.”

  “Nightmares? Tell me about them.”

  “Most of them are variations of the same dream I’ve had since I was a kid.” Frankie clenched her hands together, kneading her fingers. “I’m in a dark place, I hear a baby crying, I’m worried about the baby, but I’m stuck in the darkness and can’t find my way out. I try to yell, but when I open my mouth no sound comes out.”

  “People often dream of being unable to speak when they feel something is out of their control in their waking lives, when they feel they have no voice. Is there something going on with you that feels like that?”

  “My whole life feels like that.” Frankie told Angela about finding the adoption papers, about learning that her uncle and nanny had lied to her, and about discovering that Tim had become involved in something for which he felt ashamed. “What good are my dreams if I can’t understand
what they’re saying?”

  “That’s why you’re here. It takes a lot of mental energy to repress memories, so the psyche starts sending out little snippets to get the ball moving. If you choose to swallow it rather than allow it to come out, own it, and let it go, you can be assured it will erupt in some other form. I deal with clients every day who suffer from all sorts of obsessive-compulsive behaviors rooted in their inability to let go of something from their past.”

  “Obsessive-compulsive behaviors?” The words erupted from Frankie’s mouth, scouring her tongue like a nettle as they escaped into the still office air.

  An inquisitive look flitted across Angela’s face. “Yes, behaviors people feel forced to perform. Eating disorders, rituals like hand-washing, hoarding, things like that.”

  “Ah.” Frankie picked at the chair’s fabric upholstery. For an instant she considered telling Angela about her food stockpile, but decided against it. There were too many other things she needed to get a handle on first. And too little time in which to do it. Besides, what she did couldn’t actually be called hoarding, could it?

  “Your assignment for next week is to get a book for journaling, if you haven’t already. Keep it with a pen by your bed. Every morning as soon as you wake up write down anything you can remember about your dreams. Pay special attention to any feelings associated with them. Bring the journal with you next time.”

  Frankie shifted her eyes to the pattern in the rug. “I might not be able to make it for a couple of weeks.”

  “I see.” Angela leaned forward and patted the top of Frankie’s hand. “What you’re feeling is typical. Your impulse is to avoid emotional pain. It’s your call, but if we stop digging now, things will only get worse.”

  “Okay.” Frankie ran the fingers of her right hand through her hair, pushing a wandering lock behind her ear. “I’ll see you next week.”