Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  “Sure. Not a problem. Call me Marty. Everyone does. What do you need?” He sat and gestured to us to do the same.

  “We’re here about the Arlen Hagerty murder, earlier this week.”

  He looked puzzled. “Yes, how can I help?” Stenhouser was tall, maybe six three or four. He had a long face ringed by an explosion of curly white hair and a full beard. He wore rimless glasses, high powered, that made his eyes look even bigger than they were. He was wearing a cheap polyester sport shirt, short sleeve, exposing his thin, hairy arms.

  “We want to talk about your new professor, Lakshmi Kumaraswamy.”

  He sighed. “Get in line. That’s what I’m doing about half the time these days.”

  “Really? Why is that?” I said.

  “Well, we’ve had national media here to talk about why the brilliant biologist turned down two Ivy Leagues to take a job at a humble working-class state university. Then there’s my other faculty, who aren’t thrilled she has a lighter teaching load and all kinds of perks they don’t get.”

  “We’d like your take on those two questions. I don’t mean to be insulting—I’m sure this is a great place to work and everything—but why did she take this job?”

  Marty laughed. “You’re not insulting me at all. Academia is a class system, just like the military. I know we’re Central Montana State, not Stanford.”

  “So how did you land her?”

  “I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. We were surprised as hell when we got an application from her. You know, like it was some kind of clerical error, you know what I mean? Some candidates just use a shotgun to send out applications, but with her credentials, we didn’t expect a letter at all. We assumed she would have worked out which school she was going to choose without formally applying. So, anyway, I phoned her, just to be sure she had in fact intended to apply.”

  “And she had?”

  “Indeed she had. She said she’d had informal talks with our president. You know, President Barnum is working real hard to bring up the reputation of the whole university. He wants us to become a Carnegie research university, which calls for a certain number of students in a certain number of doctoral programs.”

  “So you think the president greased the wheels for her?”

  “I think the way I’d put it is the president asked me to come over and chat with him about her application. He outlined the ways I could be instrumental in putting us on the map—you know about her work in stem cells—and how this is a great opportunity, and so forth.”

  “In other words, he helped you pony up for her?”

  “As chair, I have a budget for the hire, and I’ve got to cover so many courses, et cetera.”

  “Bottom line, what kind of deal did he authorize you to make?”

  “Bottom line,” Marty said, shifting uneasily in his chair, “she’s making forty percent more than anyone else in the department, including me. And she teaches one course per year.”

  “What’s the typical teacher do?”

  “Five or six per year.”

  “That would explain why some of them are stopping by to talk with you, right?”

  “It’s the salary, the teaching load, three grad assistants she brought with her from back East. And one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A job for her husband.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “First time we’ve done it at this university.”

  “He brilliant, too?”

  “How do I put this?” He paused. “Off the record?”

  Ryan said, “Off the record.”

  “Let’s just say some people would be surprised he earned a PhD,” Marty said.

  I said, “Maybe he didn’t earn it, just got it.”

  “I like that,” he said, laughing. Then, he turned serious. “I need your word you won’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “You have our word,” I said, looking somber. What the hell, I thought. He wants me to give my word, I’ll give my word. “What are you getting from hiring her, besides national press and pissed-off faculty?”

  “In all honesty, we’re getting exposure we couldn’t have gotten any other way. Lak is definitely brilliant. That’s the only person in the whole department—including myself, of course—that I or anyone else would say that about. She’s working on eight million dollars in grants, with twenty percent filtering down directly to me. I bought one point five in equipment—”

  “That’s one and a half million?”

  “That’s right. A good young biologist can cost a university from half a mil to a mil in equipment, for starters. So I saved us a bunch we can spend on other people. That’s a point, by the way, I try to make to my other faculty when they complain to me about her salary and so forth.”

  “Anything else you’re getting?”

  “The most important thing is we’re being mentioned in the same breath as places like Stanford, Johns Hopkins, UT Austin. The big boys. And if she comes through, the benefits will just multiply. More young faculty, more grants, maybe a research center. She can fast-forward us twenty years.”

  “What do you mean ‘if she comes through’?” I said.

  Marty Stenhouser said to Ryan, “Would you mind closing the door, Detective?” Ryan did it. “The stuff she’s working on is cutting edge. If she can come up with a vector for delivering cells where she wants them, or a cell line that’s easy to program and get to multiply or won’t cause rejection …”

  “We’re talking about patents?” I said.

  “The dollars would be unbelievable.”

  “Who’s funding her grants, the ones she has now?”

  “They’re private grants. Henley Pharmaceuticals. They gave us the equipment, too.”

  Ryan said, “If a faculty member gets a patent on something she invented while working for the university, how’s the money split up?”

  Marty Stenhouser said, “Across the country, the rate varies. The university gets the biggest portion, the researcher a smaller portion.”

  I said, “What’s the standard rate for the faculty member here?”

  “One third.”

  Ryan said, “What’s Lakshmi’s rate?”

  Marty paused. “Half.”

  I said, “Did you work that percentage out for her?”

  He shook his head. “Much higher up the food chain.”

  “If she worked for Henley, what would her cut be?”

  “Industry people don’t get any cut at all. They get high salaries and other perks. But they don’t earn patent royalties. The company does.”

  “Ryan, you have any other questions?” I said.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Dr. Stenhouser—Marty—thanks very much for helping us understand the situation here a little better.”

  “Sure, Detective. But please remember: We’re all thrilled Dr. Kumaraswamy has joined our staff.”

  “Thrilled,” I said. “You got that, Ryan? Dr. Stenhouser is thrilled.”

  “Thrilled. Got it,” Ryan said.

  * * *

  “Ryan, did you get a chance to finish up those loose ends from the crime scene and the other details?” We were back at our desks.

  He took out his notebook. “Yeah, nothing of interest. Nothing on the CCTV. The uniforms didn’t find a weapon, the dry cleaner didn’t get any clothes from the hotel during that period, Housekeeping has no record of any contact from his room, the kid who worked the reception desk has no memory of anyone asking for any special arrangements for the four rooms when the debate people checked in, and Jon Ahern’s story about working for that legislator in Georgia checked out.”

  “Okay, so except for the DNA under Hagerty’s fingernails, the only thing we still need to track down is this Henley Pharmaceuticals thing, right?”

  “One other thing,” Ryan said, looking at his notebook. “We wanted to find out whether Margaret knew how sick her husband was.”

  “Yeah, okay. You got calls from Hagerty to a
doctor?”

  Ryan scanned Hagerty’s phone log. “There’s a number of calls to a Dr. Jeffrey Jameson in Colorado Springs.” He tapped a few keys on his desktop. “Give me a second to see if he’s a cardiologist.” He waited a moment for a page to load. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Let’s try him now,” I said. Ryan circled the number on the phone log and passed the sheet to me. I dialed the number and hit Speaker. I got a recorded phone tree, the velvet female voice suggesting I dial 911 if this is a life-threatening emergency, 1 if I was calling from another physician’s office. I pushed 1, and was routed immediately to a person. I identified myself and asked to speak with Dr. Jameson.

  He picked up. “Dr. Jameson, this is Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department, calling from Montana. Can you give me a minute for a question about Arlen Hagerty?”

  “Yes, one minute, Detective. I’m with a patient now.”

  “I’ll be real quick,” I said. “The autopsy on Arlen Hagerty showed that he was terminally ill with heart disease. You diagnosed that, am I correct?”

  “Well, Detective, I’m not at liberty to disclose the details of any of my patients’ conditions. Confidentiality.”

  “I understand that, Dr. Jameson. But since he’d dead, you’re free to break confidentiality. When my Medical Examiner looked at his heart, it was twice the normal size. You’re a cardiologist. You knew about his disease, right?”

  “Really, Detective, I see nothing to be gained from discussing this. He was murdered. What difference does it make to you if he had heart disease?”

  “All right, Doctor. Let me explain how this works. I’m in charge of the murder investigation. One of the things we try to figure out is why someone would want to kill him. That’s called motive.”

  “Detective, don’t take that tone with me. I’m familiar with the concept of motive, but my obligation is to protect the confidentiality of my patients’ medical information.”

  “All I’m asking you is if you diagnosed his heart disease.”

  “Why don’t I put it this way, Detective? If a person came to my office and presented with Arlen Hagerty’s symptoms, a first-year intern would have automatically done an ECG, a holter monitor, or an echocardiogram and diagnosed the heart disease.”

  “Okay, Doctor, we’re communicating now. I don’t mind you calling this hypothetical if it makes you more comfortable. But now I have to ask you another question: Did Arlen Hagerty’s wife, Margaret, know of this diagnosis?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not going to answer that question.”

  “Here’s where I’m going, Doctor. Let’s say, hypothetically, there’s this guy who’s got this real bad heart disease. His wife finds out he’s been doing something horrible. It’s so horrible, she wants to kill him. If she doesn’t know he’s gonna die soon, she might be motivated to kill him ’cause of this horrible thing he’s been doing. But if she knows he’s gonna die real soon without her having to do anything, she might decide to just wait a little bit so she doesn’t have to risk killing him. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, Detective, I’m capable of following that logic, but I’m not going to divulge any information about Margaret Hagerty’s knowledge of her husband’s condition. My decision on this is final.”

  “Okay, I understand, Doctor. Let me just check on one other detail. Your address is 3200 Westmore Avenue, Suite 104, correct?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “I need it for the paperwork. I’m gonna bring this to my boss for an authorization to fly down Monday to talk with you.”

  “You can talk with me Monday, but I’m not going to tell you anything I didn’t already tell you.”

  “I get that, but I might need to bring you back here to Rawlings, Montana, to make a statement to that effect.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  I held out my hand, palm down, and fluttered it back and forth. Ryan shook his head sadly. It was a judgment call.

  “Doctor, I’m getting some real pressure to close this case. We’re pretty sure Margaret Hagerty killed her husband. We’re gonna bring you up to Rawlings to make an official statement. We’ve got a helluva prosecutor up here. I can’t quite quote the law, but I think there’s something about you having to make the statement and testify in a criminal case if your testimony addresses a tangential fact that does not directly get at the medical facts. I don’t know, I could be wrong. But the prosecutor just loves to play the obstruction-of-justice card. He’s done it three or four times on doctors. We could have you back in Colorado Springs in a week. Two weeks, tops.”

  “Okay, Detective, I see how you’re going to play this. Let’s speak in hypotheticals.”

  “Great, there’s this guy with the bad heart disease, his wife wants to kill him ’cause of some horrible thing he’s doing. When you talk with this guy, is his wife in the room with the two of you?”

  “Yes, this guy’s wife is in my office with us and is fully aware of his medical condition. So even if this guy is Adolph Hitler, the wife is aware of the seriousness of his heart disease.” He paused. “Can I expect a visit from you on Monday, Detective?”

  “No, Dr. Jameson, I don’t think we’ll need to disturb you on Monday. Thanks very much for your cooperation.” The click on his end was forceful.

  “See, Karen, sometimes your manner is a little brusque,” Ryan said, smiling.

  “Yeah, well, if that jerkoff can’t figure out I’m not asking him to violate any sacred confidentiality—and if he tells me Margaret already knew her husband was a dead man anyway, which would clear her as a suspect so she doesn’t go to jail and she can tell all her friends what a wonderful doctor he is and he’ll keep making three or four hundred K a year—if he can’t figure all this out, he’s too damn dumb to be in practice. And he deserves to have me talk to him like he’s an idiot.”

  Ryan smiled. “Agreed. So we scratch Margaret?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He was telling the truth. She knew Arlen was a goner.” I picked up my phone and hit Robin’s number in the lab. “Robin, any idea on when you can get me the DNA on Hagerty?

  “I just checked. They’re up to the Polymerase Chain Reaction. They should be able to start typing on Monday. Should have it ready late Monday, early Tuesday.”

  “Okay, thanks. Let me know as soon as you get it, would ya?”

  “Sure, Karen. Have a good weekend.”

  “I already have other plans. Talk to you Monday.”

  Chapter 8

  “Pediatric ICU.”

  “Hello, yes, my name is Karen Seagate. I wanted to inquire about the status of one of your patients, Annie Pritchard.” I heard the nurse talking with someone in the background. The voices were muffled, as if the nurse had her palm over the mouthpiece.

  “I’m sorry. Mrs. Pritchard has asked that information about her daughter not be made available. I hope you understand.”

  Yes, I understood. “Thank you,” I said, pushing the Off button on my phone. If I were the girl’s mother, I thought, I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me, either. All I wanted was to learn the girl was getting better, so I wouldn’t have to worry about her dying. But I realized it was a little late to be thinking about the girl’s welfare. A better time would have been before I got in the car drunk, or right before I ran the stop sign. Yes, I understood.

  My hands shook as I looked at the glass of Jack Daniel’s in my hand, the glass I wasn’t going to pour because I wasn’t ever going to drink again. I knew I had to tell Tommy. How do you call your son and tell him something like this? It’s really quite easy. You pick up the phone and watch your finger hit the speed dial. Then, when he says hello, you tell him what happened.

  It will confuse him, hurt him, too. Everything will be different forever. Someday, he might be sufficiently mature to pretend he doesn’t think about it, or that he understands how it happened, that he forgives you. He might try to hide it, might even be able to fool you. But he will always know what you did, what
you are. It will be there. Forever. Where else could it go? I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” It was my ex-husband.

  “Hi, Bruce. Is Tommy in?”

  “No, he’s not here.”

  Apparently he didn’t know about the accident. He wouldn’t have been able to resist offering an insight or two about it. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Not really. He’s out,” Bruce said. “With Angela.”

  “He’s out with Angela?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Angela took him. She’s got a driver’s license and everything.” Bruce had told me, a couple or maybe eight times, his girlfriend was only twenty-seven.

  “What’d you want to talk to him about? Is something wrong?”

  Annie has a cat named Marmalade. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you, Bruce.”

  “You sure you’re okay? You sound kinda screwed up.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, my voice distant. “Just tell him I called, please.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Bruce said. I heard the click as the line went dead. This was best, I thought. Tommy should be with him and Angela. She would work out fine. Any girl willing to take on a guy with a fourteen-year-old boy had to be more mature than a typical twenty-seven-year-old. A lot of things for her to learn about being a mom, but no reason she couldn’t learn. If she loved Bruce she would love Tommy, too, eventually. He was a good boy, full of promise. She would see that in him. Bruce and Angela—that would be best.

  Having made the decision—a rational decision, my first selfless one in a long, long time? ever?—I felt better. I was calm and free, liberated. Picking up my glass, I took a deep breath.

  I waited around Friday night for Tommy to return my call. I waited all day Saturday, too. He wouldn’t have decided not to call me; he always returned my calls. Maybe Bruce had decided not to tell him. I wouldn’t really blame him. Or maybe Bruce had forgotten.

  I wanted to tie up the loose ends. I wanted to tell him what had happened, let it sink in, give him time to get used to it, start to understand what I had become. But it didn’t really matter. Having decided to let him go, I realized there was no need to carry out the ritual of self-humiliation. One way or another, sooner or later, Tommy would learn what he needed to know about me. If I merely let him drift farther and farther out of my orbit, he might still retain some loving memories of me, back from when he was little and I was still an adult. Why not let him keep those memories? They were the best he was going to get from me.