Susan just snorted and Julia smiled as she slit envelopes with a marble-edged opener, quickly skimming the notes and placing them in a neat pile.
“I wonder if Dr. Mike left a will,” Susan said.
My god the girl is shallow. Has she always been like this?
“Any news from Bethesda—did Dr. Bodian find anything?” Julia asked.
“Don’t know,” Linda said. “It would be awful if things had to stop.” At Susan’s quizzical look, Linda gave the girl the explanation. Susan’s mouth dropped open, and she reddened. “Dr. Mike didn’t have nothing to do with the polio,” she said indignantly, as if the killer had made an outrageous mistake.
Julia picked up an envelope with strange, boxy lettering on the front. Sometimes children wrote the letters themselves, either pleading their own cases or those of their siblings. Julia frowned, prepared to read a sweet if poorly spelled cry for help.
Instead, her eyes widened as she looked at the note. She took in a quick breath.
“Oh my God!”
“What?” Linda said.
“This is…vile,” Julia said, putting the letter down as if it were something rotten and moldy. “I can’t believe someone would—”
“Julia, what in the world is it?” This from Susan.
“Listen—‘Soon the whole world will know that the Jew doctors are once again trying to infect our children. This Jew plan has been going on for far too long and must be stopped. I have friends in important positions who will aid in the fight against the…” Julia’s voice petered out, and she turned to her officemates. “It’s really too much. I can’t believe someone would send something like this.”
Susan’s face paled and she sat straight and still. “Dr. Mike got them all the time.” She pursed her lips, her eyes darkening with the rage of the falsely accused. “He wasn’t involved in the polio research!” she repeated.
Julia’s head shot up. Was Susan upset because of the anti-Semitism in the notes or because it was directed at the wrong man when Dr. Lowenstein received such letters?
Linda came back over to Julia’s desk and stood reading over her shoulder. “Dr. Jansen’s not Jewish, is he?”
“What does it matter?” Julia asked, indignation crawling up her throat. “This is despicable! A Jewish conspiracy? It’s just the sort of thing that happened—”
“You should give it to the police.” Linda put her hands on Julia’s shoulders. “That letter.” She turned toward Susan. “And any you received.”
“I didn’t keep them,” Susan said in a small, whiny voice, as if being accused of incompetence and feeling the need to defend herself. “Dr. Lowenstein wasn’t involved.”
“Give what to the police?” a strong male voice asked. Sean Reilly stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand at his side. He wasn’t wearing his wool coat, and his face was ruddy from the cool air.
A blush coursed over Julia’s own face as she looked up at him.
“Letters,” she explained, handing over the one she’d just received. Julia studied him while he read. His eyes were shadowed by half-circle smudges, and his thick, wiry hair looked as if he’d forgotten to comb it.
In a tumble of overlapping conversation, the three women shared with Sean what they’d just discussed, with Susan annoyingly repeating in grave tones how Dr. Lowenstein was not involved in the polio research. To Julia it sounded as if she were really saying, “Dr. Lowenstein was not involved in this Jewish conspiracy.” An inarticulate worry smoldered to life in Julia’s mind, something she couldn’t define, a thought she put away for consideration later. Dr. Lowenstein was dead. A Jewish doctor. The letters. The mishap at the Parke, Davis lab…
“Do you know if any of the other doctors received these?” Sean asked, pocketing the letter.
“Mrs. Wilcox would know,” Julia said. “The office manager.” She reached for her cane and stood. “Here, I’ll show you to her office.”
***
Sean knew where the office was but he followed Julia all the same. Maybe he’d grab the opportunity to talk with her. He’d come to the hospital that morning with the intention of interviewing Susan Schlager and Dr. Jansen, both of whom had been out the previous day. He’d especially wanted to get there early to try to talk to the Schlager woman alone. He’d gotten the impression from the telephone conversation that she wasn’t a woman who talked freely when others were present. He wanted to go over this with Sal, but his partner had been out by the time he’d gotten started on the day.
Sean had been delayed, as usual, by tending to his boys. Robby was still not rousing, which troubled Sean more than usual because of all this polio business. But this morning, Mrs. Buchanan had caused the problem, showing up late, complaining of “biliousness” in accusatory tones. She’d repeated an often-uttered threat about “only agreeing to help him out for a little while,” urging him to talk to the Sisters again for names of ladies who could care for the boys.
He’d tried teasing her out of her ill humor by saying he’d never find anyone as skillful or as lovely. She’d risen to the bait—somewhat—by patting her tightly curled hair and saying that maybe what he needed was a new wife and not a hired hand.
Yes, well, wouldn’t that be fine—if the good Sisters of St. Benedict’s could find him a woman willing to jump into his bed as well as his children’s lives. He’d like that. He’d not had a woman in that way since—since long before Mary had died, since illness had stolen her as a lover before death robbed her as a companion.
While he followed Julia Dell through the Hopkins labs, images returned. He’d paced hallways like this too many times, stepping outside Mary’s room to get some air. A lie, that was. The hallways weren’t the place to get fresh air. They were a place to stop aching, to breathe naturally, and then to brace himself to go back in again and hold her hand, pretending she would be coming home soon to see her boys. They both had known she wouldn’t, yet they’d both kept up the pretense.
It troubled him now how hard that had been for her. They’d have been better off sobbing in each other’s arms and cursing the heavens together. Instead, she’d lain quiet, afraid to look at him for too long. Oh, he’d caught her on occasion. When he’d fallen asleep in the chair, he’d awakened to see her staring at him. And in that brief moment, only truth had spoken, and it had been hard and empty. The truth had been she knew she was leaving him, and he’d known it as well, but to say it would have been to give up on God. And they couldn’t betray God in front of each other, no matter what went on in their hearts, because they’d both hoped the other had enough faith for the two of them.
Those memories were more vivid to him now than all his war years, and they stung him more deeply. You expect death in battle after a while. Coming home from the war, he’d expected what every other GI thought he was entitled to—peace.
He should have asked Sal to do this interviewing. He could have gone to Homeland to look into the deceased’s background. But Sal had already left for Homeland when he’d arrived at the office, leaving a discreet note tucked just under his telephone saying he’d told O’Brien, their boss, that they were working the case together.
Julia and Sean’s pace was slow—not because of Julia’s bad leg so much as because of the slim skirt she wore. It restricted movement, a problem for her more than most. Poor gal. Her good leg was shapely enough, and she had a pretty cupid-like face and sweet figure. She dressed well. Her creamy blouse with full sleeves reminded Sean of something from older times, something distinctly soft and feminine. She would have looked like a real sophisticate in fancy shoes with little heels. But instead, she had to wear heavier footwear, something akin to what the nuns, or Mrs. Buchanan, wore.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked as they walked.
“Five years.”
“For Dr. Jansen all that time?”
“No, I started for a Dr. MacIntyre. He retired last year.”
“So you’ve only been working for Dr. Jansen for a year?”
“That’s right.”
He’d already determined that Jansen was a difficult man. A lab assistant of some sort had given that up yesterday.
“Do you like it?”
She turned and smiled. “Yes, I do. He’s a challenge but Dr. MacIntyre was, too, in his own way.”
“How so?”
“He would hardly say a word if I made a mistake, and I made quite a few when I first came here. I’d only find out he was displeased later—when I asked for a day off or something like that.”
“You prefer a man to just yell at you outright.”
She laughed but didn’t look at him. “I prefer directness. Dr. Jansen is direct.” She pushed through double doors, and they entered another long hallway.
“How about Dr. Lowenstein?”
She looked at him curiously. “He wasn’t my boss but I occasionally did things for him when Susan was out. He was a nice man.”
“The call he got yesterday—was it someone you recognized?” He’d been over this somewhat, but now that she was calmer, maybe she’d remember something.
“I could barely hear him, to tell the truth.”
“Did Lowenstein get many calls?”
“I don’t know. I never counted them. Maybe less than what Dr. Jansen or Dr. Morton received.” Soon they were outside a closed door and she stopped.
“You felt sorry for him?”
“I guess I did. Thought he was lonely.”
“Did he seem unhappy?”
She paused, thinking. “Maybe. Like someone who’s got a big cloud over him all the time because something happened to him…”
Like you, he thought. The cloud was there, despite her cheeriness. It was her eagerness, he decided, that gave it away, as if every new face, every new encounter would be the one that solved something for her, or returned something lost.
“But he impressed me more as a man who’d come to peace with a problem in his life.”
“Is that so?”
She straightened, aware that he might be mocking her. He saw her pretty face redden. It was so pale that blush easily painted her feelings there. Poor girl.
“Dr. Lowenstein was a talented doctor,” she said.
“Did it bother you then that he didn’t use that talent on polio?”
Her blush deepened, but he had to pursue every lead. How did she react when she was angry—did she lash out? Would she have lashed out at Lowenstein?
“They all have different talents,” she said, turning and walking the few steps left to Wilcox’s office where she stopped. Her eyes moved away from his scouring gaze, and she stared at his chest.
He preferred directness, too. “Is something wrong?” He looked down. His blue-green tie sported a dark stain the size of a dime. Another thing he didn’t do well without a wife—take care of laundry. One of the boys had rubbed a greasy finger there the last time he’d worn it. Damn. He liked to present a good face to the public. He pulled out a handkerchief and started rubbing it for show. Then, to make sure she knew he wasn’t the slob, he offered an excuse. “My son, he isn’t the most careful.”
When he looked up at her, he noticed her smile freeze for a second before relaxing into a more natural line. “You have a boy? How nice.”
“Two boys. Twins.”
“You and your wife must be very proud.”
“My wife’s—I’m a widower.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Really sorry.” She did sound sorry, he thought, but in an odd way, as if she were convincing herself she had compassion.
***
At the end of the morning, Sean had a stack of the threatening letters in a big file folder and the only contact information Mrs. Wilcox had for Lowenstein—his lawyer at the firm of Patelson and Moore, a tidbit she’d pressed the payroll department for, knowing the police would want to contact somebody. Mrs. Wilcox had saved and catalogued all the letters, complete with envelopes, what mail shipment they’d arrived in, and any other notable features.
Organized and meticulous, she answered his new questions with care. She seemed surprised, in fact, by how little she had to tell him about Dr. Lowenstein and he sensed this embarrassed her, that she felt she should have tried to know him better. She’d pored through files, she said, looking for next of kin, and found no one to contact. Dr. Lowenstein wasn’t especially close to anyone at the lab. He worked on muscular reactions unrelated to the polio research, had specifically said he didn’t want to be involved in it when he was interviewed. As far as she knew, he took all his vacations at a lake house in New York. She knew he lived somewhere near her, she told Sean, but wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood or “what type of people” lived there. From that, Sean assumed she, too, was surprised to find a Jewish man in insulated Homeland.
While visiting with Wilcox, Sean was set upon by a gruff doctor in lab coat and thick spectacles. Dr. Morton, the other researcher on Lowenstein’s floor. First he’d gone after Wilcox, in a soft but insistent voice, pressing her for information on a “Dr. Bodian” and admonishing her for not letting him know when Bodian had left. Then Wilcox had introduced Morton to Sean.
“Do you need to talk with me?” the doctor had asked quickly. “We can do it right now. Mike was a decent sort but kept to himself. I didn’t know him well. He was doing interesting work on muscles that might help people like Jansen’s gal. So it would be good if you could open up his office. Maybe somebody else can pick up where he left off and that upstart in Pittsburgh won’t get all the glory.”
The upstart in Pittsburgh? Dr. Salk, Mrs. Wilcox explained after Dr. Morton had rushed away. And then she’d repeated Morton’s question about allowing people into Lowenstein’s office.
“As soon as I can,” Sean had said.
“Everyone’s racing against time now,” she said.
“I’m doing the best I can, ma’am,” he said, not hiding his irritation. Christ, it’d only been a day.
She stiffened. “Do you know how many children were struck with polio last year, Mr. Reilly?” When he didn’t respond, she answered. “Nearly 36,000. And that wasn’t a bad year compared to the one before. In ’52, it was nearly 60,000.” She stood, walking to a filing cabinet to put away papers from her desk. “The season keeps getting longer, too. It used to be we didn’t see cases until summer. Now they crop up in the spring and continue sometimes as late as November.” From another drawer, she pulled a file and opened it on her desk, splaying out several black and white photographs.
“This is what you could be delaying—something to prevent this sorrow.” She pointed to the pictures, each filled with images of children and young adults working with therapists or in the living coffin of iron lungs. These weren’t the smiling posters of the March of Dimes campaign, filled with sunny optimistic children whose upbeat attitude shamed you into parting with your coins. In these pictures, faces were grim and gaunt, some even pained as muscles were stretched or time crept by while motion ceased.
He looked at them quickly, only long enough to let her know he’d gotten the message. Dammit to hell. Now he had to solve a murder in time for polio research to go forward. He wouldn’t be shouldered with that burden.
“I thought this lab wasn’t as involved…”
She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Maybe not as much as Pittsburgh but it’s all important work. Dr. Bodian, for example, is one of the country’s preeminent experts.”
He gritted his teeth and kept his thoughts to himself. “We’ll open up the scene soon.”
After leaving her, Sean tried to talk to Dr. Jansen but once more was thwarted. The man had gone to a meeting at the university campus by the time Sean checked in again with Julia, probably off to that important work saving babies from infantile paralysis. He did manage to speak with Susan Schlager, though. She was still as high-strung as a scared kitten, so he suggested a stroll for a breath of fresh air.
But it was more of what Adelaide Wilcox had offered up, slim details filled out just a wee bit with some color that painted a
clearer portrait of Susan than of Dr. Lowenstein. Susan had liked her boss—but it was in spite of the man’s creed. He was the best of the three of them—the bosses of the secretaries who shared an office—and this was a point of pride with her. She was never distressed by the anti-Jewish letters, she told him, because “Dr. Lowenstein wasn’t in with that kind.” When pressed, she observed that he didn’t take off for the holidays the way the other Jewish doctors did. And she’d seen him eating bacon in the cafeteria. She nodded her head in approval at this. Once, he’d driven her home when Steve, her husband, couldn’t pick her up when they only had the one car, and he was “the perfect gentleman,” walking her to her door and making sure she was in safely before returning to his car and driving away. Sean got the impression that was more than Susan’s husband would do under similar circumstances. She ended their talk by assuring Sean in conspiratorial tones that Dr. Lowenstein wasn’t pushy at all, “like them.”
When he stopped back at the station before heading out to meet Sal’s sister for coffee, Sean learned just how “unlike them” Dr. Myron Lowenstein really was. He checked in with the coroner’s office for their report. They confirmed the first findings—a blow to the man’s head had killed him. But there was other news—if Myron Lowenstein was a Jewish male, he’d left the world uncircumcised. Maybe they’d put too much assumption on his name. A Lowenstein didn’t have to be Jewish, right? Sean didn’t know.
A few seconds after hanging up the phone, Sean saw Sal return.
“Our fine old Doc—” Sal began.
“—isn’t Jewish,” Sean finished for him.
Sal threw his hat and notebook on his desk while Sean gave him the coroner’s report.
Sal nodded. “He might be Myron Lowenstein at the lab. But he’s Mike Lowe to his upstanding Homeland neighbors.”
“I wondered how Lowenstein would get in that neighborhood,” Sean said. “I think others did, too,” he added, thinking of Mrs. Wilcox.
“He wouldn’t,” Sal said, sitting in his chair. “It’s some sort of protected neighborhood, some covenant or something controls who can buy in. But Mike Lowe fit in just fine. Went to church at the Cathedral of the Incarnation.”
LOST TO THE WORLD Page 6