Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  94.

  THREE HOURS UNTIL THE STEIGLITZ APPOINTMENT. I tried not to think about my now-defunct career. I wondered whether I should warn Kennedy.

  Of course I should.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to call him.

  I looked for some sand to bury my head in.

  I flipped open the laptop. Twenty-first-century sand.

  I googled Steiglitz. Eighty-eight hits. The guy got around.

  He published a lot of papers. Gave a lot of speeches. Was heavily involved in politics. Hung with movie stars and models.

  There were some lawsuits too. You can’t be a doctor in the United States of America and not get lawsuits. I counted nine. That didn’t seem to be a huge number, for a prominent addiction specialist. But medical malpractice was not my field. I made a note to check with Terry O’Reilly.

  Terry was an old law school buddy who did a thriving malpractice business. He made a hell of a lot more money than I did, and wasn’t half as smart. He’d asked me more than once to join him. I’d been tempted. All that dough. But I knew I could never bring myself to be an ambulance chaser. Too seedy. I knew they justified it as a crusade for the little guy. But that’s not how I saw them. Extortionists, they were to me. Find a victim. Drag out the boilerplate. Fill in the blanks. File the complaint. Wait for the settlement. Take thirty percent. Buy a new Bentley.

  I didn’t want any part of it.

  But that didn’t sour my friendship with Terry. He was a good guy. And a better golfer. We didn’t talk business.

  Most courts had websites. On many of them you could access the pleadings. The briefs, the motion papers. Some even had transcripts of trial proceedings. It took me a while, but I managed to track down some information on each of the nine Steiglitz cases. A couple were what you’d expect. Some poor depressive finally succeeded on his fourteenth suicide attempt. Great. Let’s sue everybody. Steiglitz was named in the complaint, along with every other doctor, nurse and orderly and the hospital involved. Plaintiffs’ lawyers liked to cast a wide net. Haul in as many insurance companies as they could. Spread the pain. Make settlement more palatable. Take their thirty percent. Buy another yacht. Upgrade the summer castle in Bordeaux.

  A couple of the other cases were also routine. Bad reaction to drugs. Sue the drug company, the doctor who prescribed it. The pharmacy. The maker of the bottle it came in. Whatever.

  One caught my eye, though. Jane Doe v. Steiglitz. No other defendants. Records sealed.

  Interesting. It was very rare that a judge would agree to seal the records. Litigation in America was supposed to be open, public. Justice in secret was justice denied. Where minors were involved, or rape victims, their identities could be protected. Here, the ‘Jane Doe’ on the caption indicated something of that sort. But the whole file sealed? Well. Must be something there worth finding out about.

  I called Terry. He commiserated about Melissa. I brushed it off. I’m okay, I said. Let’s play golf.

  It’s the middle of winter, Rick.

  Right. You know a Dr. Hans Steiglitz?

  Sure. Big mover and shaker in addiction. Had him as an expert witness once.

  Really? Not a client though?

  Not a client. Why, you want to sue him?

  Not yet. Just wanted to find out something about him. He treated Melissa.

  Ah. Finally you’re coming around.

  I didn’t say that.

  I can hear it in your voice. He’s like all the rest. All talk and fucking up everything he touches. You want to sue him?

  I said no. I want to find out some stuff. You think you can help me?

  Depends on what it is.

  I told him about the sealed file.

  Damn. That’s a tough one.

  I’m not asking you to steal the file. I’ve got other guys for that.

  He laughed.

  Just ask around. See if you can find out what the case was about. It could be nothing. I don’t know. I just need to know enough to see if it’s worth following up.

  Sure. But it’ll cost you two strokes on Sunday.

  It’s the middle of winter, Terry.

  Right.

  Like I said. A good guy.

  95.

  IT WAS RAINING. My stomach was hurting. My scalp was tingling. I knew these feelings. They were the same ones I got on the way into court. Butterflies, but worse. Stage fright, but more extreme.

  It was too much. I had to have a cigarette to calm it down. I had to have a lot of cigarettes to calm it down.

  I asked the driver if I could smoke.

  Sure, he said. No problem. Then I can too.

  Relief. It was a long ride out to Westchester. Smoke-free, it would have been interminable.

  So many times I’d been there. The first, the second time, I’d paid attention to every detail. I’d talked endlessly with the staff. I’d read and reread the pamphlets. I’d wanted so badly to make it work. To get the old Melissa back.

  By the third or fourth trip the cynicism had set in. Going to the clinic after every new relapse became a depressing routine. There was nothing I could do. It was up to her. If she didn’t really want to stop, it wasn’t going to happen. They told me that. But it still was hard to take. The helplessness.

  I’d begun to wonder whether it really was possible. To slay the Monster.

  The well-manicured grounds came into view, discreetly separated from the surrounding stately homes by a rustic stone wall.

  It all looked gray in the rain.

  My heart went cold.

  Not a bad thing, actually, for the job I had to do. Squeezing information from a reluctant witness. No room for extraneous emotion.

  Steiglitz showed me into his office. It was expansive, elegant. Just like he was. Or thought he was. He was his usual slick and unctuous self. His handshake was firm and dry. It lasted just the right amount of time to convince you of his genuine sympathy. He didn’t sit behind a desk. He ushered me into an armchair. Pulled one over for himself. Just two guys sharing their feelings. Open up. Share. Let’s make it all feel better.

  The first task was to make him comfortable in his assumptions.

  I told him that Melissa’s death had made me do some hard thinking. That I’d finally realized it. That I too had a drinking problem.

  He was solicitous. He questioned me gently, but extensively. My drinking habits. A little family history. My motivations. My rationale.

  That part required no mendacity. Fact was, I was getting out of control. I was more and more needing several drinks just to feel normal. I had the shakes in the morning. I was up to eight double Scotches a day, easy.

  Yes, I had a problem.

  In fact, so convincing was my story that I almost decided to admit myself into the clinic, right then right there.

  Steiglitz did not approve. Too many bad associations with the place, he said.

  That, I couldn’t argue with.

  My cell phone rang. Terry. I apologized to Steiglitz. Took the call. Terry told me what he’d found. Not a smoking gun. But maybe enough. Enough to make an educated guess.

  I hung up the phone. Apologized again.

  No, no, said Steiglitz, not a problem.

  He carried on where he’d left off. I should find a group in Manhattan I’d be comfortable with. He’d suggest a few. I could try them out. See if there was one I would respond to. They weren’t all clones of twelve-step hell. There had to be a group or two for cynical, successful guys like me. Guys who weren’t going to put up with the usual quasi-Christian pabulum.

  Sure, I said. Sounds good. I’ll try that. Thanks.

  I did not get up to leave. I pulled the silent thing on him. I looked him in the eye.

  I knew that if I was right about him, he’d be drawn in. A guiltless conscience would just say, ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve made some progress.’ Would get up, put out his hand. Whatever. Indicate the audience was over.

  Well, he said, I’m glad we’ve made some progress.

  He got u
p. Put out his hand.

  Damn. The guy was good.

  There’s something else I want to talk about, I said.

  Oh, he said with a broad smile. Of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.

  He sat back down.

  That’s okay, I said. I understand. You’re a busy man.

  Well, I guess I am, he said expansively, with a touch of pride. But I can always spare some time for an old friend.

  An old friend? Too big a stretch.

  The first crack in the facade.

  I wanted to ask you about something I came across, I said.

  Yes? he said, his head cocked to the side in a simulacrum of interest.

  Jane Doe.

  Jane Doe?

  Yes. Jane Doe.

  I’m afraid I’m at a loss.

  Jane Doe, I repeated once again. It’s a name the courts use to mean ‘anonymous.’ When there’s a confidentiality order. When to make the name public would cause so much harm that the public’s right to know is secondary.

  Silence.

  Do you follow me? I asked.

  Yes, he said. His smile had stiffened.

  You’ve got a Jane Doe case, don’t you?

  I do?

  You do.

  Ah.

  I was waiting for him to call Security. Have me thrown out. I could see him calculating the consequences. If Jane Doe were nothing, that’s exactly what he’d do. Call my bluff. Throw me out. But if there was something there, throwing me out would only delay the inevitable. He’d go for damage control.

  I had a big edge. He didn’t know what I had in my hand.

  I didn’t know what he had either. But he didn’t know that.

  And his next move was going to tell me.

  And what is it you’d like to know? he asked, as affably as he could manage.

  The fish was on the hook.

  I dropped the pretense. I put on my poker face. Impassive. Unreadable. I looked unblinking into his eyes.

  What’s the big secret? I asked.

  He paused. He considered his options.

  I’m not at liberty to say, he said.

  How’s that? I asked evenly.

  As you said, there’s a confidentiality order. I’d be in contempt of court.

  I see. But otherwise, you’d be happy to share it with me, of course?

  That re-raise he hadn’t expected. He paused again. Looked at his cards. He didn’t have the nuts, that was sure. Did he have something he could call with? Re-re-raise? Did he have enough to beat a bluff?

  No, he said, I don’t think I would.

  Why not?

  Because I have an obligation to my patients. To keep their affairs private.

  Even those who sue you? I asked, ignoring, for the moment, the interesting choice of noun: affairs.

  Even those.

  He sat up straighter. He thought he was getting the upper hand. He was reading me for a bluff.

  He was good. He was very good. If I was going to get anything out of him on this cold damp afternoon, I had to take it all the way. I had to tell him what he was holding.

  If I was wrong, the game was over.

  But it wasn’t really a bluff. It was a semi-bluff. Terry would get me something. I’d win this one in the end.

  But I didn’t want to wait. I wanted Steiglitz right then. I wanted to watch his tan go white. I wanted to watch him squirm. I wanted to make it hurt.

  Hell, what did I have to lose?

  I re-re-raised.

  Even those who sue you for sexual misconduct? I asked.

  It was only a moment. But it was the decisive moment. The microscopic, instant straining at the corners of his eyes.

  I’d got him. I’d figured his cards.

  I think this conversation’s gone far enough, he said.

  Okay, I said with a friendly smile. I understand. Patient confidentiality. I wouldn’t want to make you breach your patient’s trust.

  Just two professionals understanding each other, we were.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t say a thing.

  There’s just one other thing, I said.

  Yes? he said, with a distracted air.

  He was deflated. I saw it in his shoulders. He was resigned to it.

  It was going to be worse than he thought.

  I wondered, I said, if you might not mind giving a DNA sample.

  Pardon me?

  A DNA sample.

  Whatever for?

  Well, I said. I think it’s time for me to lay my cards on the table.

  He stared at me. His jaw was clenched.

  There was an autopsy. Of course, you know that.

  An autopsy?

  Of Melissa.

  The muscles in his jaw let loose. His mouth hung open, just a bit, as though about to speak. But he didn’t.

  And there was a curious result.

  He gathered himself. He got up from his chair. He went to the window. His back was to me. He looked out at the rain.

  Semen, I said. There was semen.

  He said nothing.

  It wasn’t mine, I said to his silent back.

  And it’s been remarked, I continued, that you were the last man she was seen with. Other than myself. Before her death, that is.

  He slowly turned around. His eyes were full of tears.

  A most peculiar sight.

  He walked slowly back to his chair. Sat down. Looked straight at me.

  All right, he said. You know.

  I do now.

  He looked startled. It dawned on him: he’d been outplayed.

  He shrugged.

  She was a very special woman, he said.

  I know that. I married her.

  I wanted to spit at him.

  You don’t have to do a DNA test, he said.

  I know that too, I said with conviction. Now.

  But you don’t think …

  I don’t think anything. I want to know. I plan to find out.

  He sat in thought. He looked up. He looked me in the eye.

  Her death was exactly what it seemed, he said.

  He’d recovered some of his poise. His gaze was level. His voice sincere.

  But that was not enough for me.

  How do you know that? I asked.

  I don’t know that. But I knew her.

  My eyes narrowed.

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to ask the next question.

  But I had no choice.

  The game had gone that far.

  They said there was evidence of – I hesitated at the word – forcing.

  He didn’t flinch. He shrugged, apologetically.

  I’m sorry, he said. I know how it sounds. But you understand, I’m sure.

  I did. I didn’t want to. But I did.

  Show me who’s a man, she’d say.

  I hung my head.

  I heard his voice from far away.

  I was her …well, I was more than her doctor, of course. But the end was inevitable.

  I said nothing.

  You knew that, he said. You know that.

  My body lost a fraction of its tension. There was truth in what he said.

  I looked into his eyes.

  He didn’t look away.

  We were two men in a room.

  Two men alone.

  96.

  I’D HAD THE FORESIGHT to have the car wait for me. I got in.

  What was I going to do?

  Nothing. I wasn’t going to do anything. What was there to do?

  My forehead felt like bent nails.

  A few Scotches at the Wolf’s Lair would help, I thought.

  I was right.

  Four Scotches in, my cell phone rang. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I ignored it.

  Thirty seconds later it rang again. I was about to pitch the phone at the men’s room door when I noticed the number: Dorita. Shit. What did she want now?

  I answered.

  Rick, she said, breathless.

  I’m busy, I said.


  Something’s happened.

  I’ll call you back.

  FitzGibbon’s dead.

  Jesus Christ. How? What?

  We don’t know yet.

  Jesus Christ. Where are you?

  There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. Be there.

  Where?

  The office. Ten o’clock. The real office.

  The real office? I’m not allowed to go to the real office.

  It’s a new and different world, Ricky. Be there.

  Where are you?

  There’s nothing to do right now. Be at the meeting.

  She hung up.

  I tried to make sense of the news. I couldn’t get my mind around it. I tried to remember why FitzGibbon was important to me. The fat blowhard. What did I care? Steiglitz, on the other hand, I couldn’t get out of my head.

  I tried to stop thinking altogether.

  I was more exhausted than I thought a man could be.

  I staggered home.

  I wasn’t sure I could negotiate the stairs.

  I didn’t try.

  I fell into the armchair. I slept.

  The sleep was deep and dark and dreamless.

  When I awoke the sun was streaming through the window. It hurt my eyes. I turned over. My head hurt. My back hurt. My right elbow hurt.

  I heard Kelly come into the room.

  Daddy? she said.

  Yes my angel, I mumbled into the cushions.

  What’s going on?

  I turned my head. I squinted into the barbarous light.

  Steiglitz. Shit. What was I going to do?

  My instinct was to tell Kelly the truth. The whole truth.

  So help me God, I thought.

  I thought again. She was so abominably young. I couldn’t inflict this nightmare on her.

  Nothing, I said, I just didn’t have the energy to climb the stairs.

  Oh, she said. Okay. I’ll make some coffee.

  You are so impossibly good to me, I smiled weakly.

  I know, she said. Don’t get too used to it.

  I dragged myself to my feet. Took a quick shower. Put on some clean clothes. Went to the kitchen.

  Kelly was pouring the coffee.

  I found myself enjoying the sharp rich stimulating scent of good Jamaican Blue. The quiet company of Kelly.

  Maybe life was worth living after all.

  The phone rang.

  It was Dorita.

  Get the hell over here, she said.

  I looked at my watch. Shit. Ten o’clock.