"Some friendly sister hospital. It never did settle out. They made it quite clear that if they didn't get a piece of the action, they'd refer their cases out-of-state."
Chapter 3
When David got back to 10 Oak Lane, his favorite tree had offered silent support to his rhetorical question, "Not a bad spot for a single guy, right?" Inside, he tossed his case, Friday, on the sofa, ignored a blinking answering machine and circled around the four rooms which were laid out in an unimaginative square. He and Kathy had combined to dub the front living room: "Lush and Plush"; the den: "The Nest"; the rear kitchen: "Lean and Mean"; and the bedroom: "No Comment." A one-car garage was attached to the den.
Like a new buyer, he inspected each of three rooms and its contents before moving to the next: soft Drexel pieces before the living room's fireplace; the table-dominated kitchen surrounded by blue counter-tops and canary yellow appliances; the den with computer, martial arts trophies, miniature deer figurines and collection of opera CD's. There, piles and rows of books engulfed his computer corner: Bulfinch's Mythology, Police Procedural, Body Trauma, Scene of the Crime, Complete Crime Reference Book, and Dr. Henry Lee's Manual of Forensic Science.
Kathy's words, "the little house," rang in his ears. Little, but cozy. Maybe too dimly lit, even sloppy. She should sleep over more often.
There were nine phone messages from state newspapers. He decided not to answer any and vowed not to help sell newspapers, then or ever, having soured on the print media long ago. Something to do with misquotes and inaccurate reporting. He went to his computer in the pine-paneled den, one of two rooms separated from the main street by a thirty-foot-deep yard. He entered:
Tuesday, January 13.
MURDERS
Chas. Bugles-hacked in O.R.
Raphael Cortez-stabbed in surgeons' locker room.
Witnessed Bugles' killing from observatory balcony.
Both most likely killed by same person.
Killer knows some anatomy and? surgery. Blood trail leads to Tanarkle's dept.? suspect. Ambushed in parking garage.
Kathy and new supervisor assigned from Homicide. Gave me blank check incl. forensic support. Bowie County pissed we got Certificate of Need for transplant program.
David stopped short to listen to a car idling out front. He heard a thud against the house. He ducked. Again, the screech of tires. In one motion, he hit the floor and withdrew the Minx which was still holstered to his shoulder.
Scrambling to his feet, he dashed to the back of the house, his breath stalled in his throat. An eternal five minutes brought no explosion so he eased back through the den to the front door. He widened a crack slowly, looking from side to side, the grip of his pistol pressed against his chin. Slipping out, he maneuvered behind a foundation shrub to the base of his bay window where he spotted an egg-like object embedded in the superficial snow cover. He rolled it over with the barrel of the Minx, covered it with a handkerchief and picked it up. It was a rock bound by two crossed adhesive strips. In the light streaming from the window, he rotated the rock in his beefy hands as he read the precise lettering on one of the strips:
LET COPS HANDLE THIS
David felt a heat surge at his temples. Bullshit to you, buddy. He looked at the window and wanted to throw the rock through it himself. He ran to the street. Vague remnants of tire tracks had been obliterated by the persistent snow.
Inside, he put the rock in a plastic bag, placed it in Friday and marched with it to the basement. He stood thinking in the center of a room circumscribed by gun cabinets, their metallic odor unchecked by glass doors. All sizes. All heights. All filled. There was a cabinet for weapons according to manufacturer: Colt, Ruger, Smith and Wesson, Charter Arms, Dan Wesson. According to calibers:.25, 32, 38, 45. Cabinets for pistols, for revolvers, for rifles and carbines and machine guns and shotguns. One was engorged with spare parts and ammunition.
On a table near the Ruger cabinet, David opened Friday and replaced the.38 Special with a Super Blackhawk.44 Magnum.
Chapter 4
The following morning, Wednesday, David glanced at the tower clock as he rounded the entrance to the doctors' parking lot. It was eight forty-five.
He chanced that Virginia Baldwin, the Surgical Nursing Supervisor, was in her office. David had a thing against calling ahead, anywhere, unless it involved traveling great distances. When reminded by whomever-family, friends, colleagues, teachers-of the virtue of courtesy or, at least, of good time management, he would respond, "Courtesy's in my family's genes. So, big deal, a generation was skipped." It had some bizarre connection with nature. Unannounced keeps everything natural. No pretense. No makeup. Nothing staged. Of course, they don't have to receive me. It's their choice, not mine. But then they're the discourteous ones, right?
It might not have been entirely germane, but, somehow, he used house calls as an illustration. That's why I like to make them. The patient and the family are in their natural setting. I get to see how they live. That might help in my counsel even though I'm nobody's primary care physician.
Nurse Baldwin was in. She sat at a desk besieged by papers, folders and schedules. She looked less massive without surgical cap and gown. Glasses were perched low on a thin nose, unsuited for a puffy face, as if she had forgotten to take a diuretic pill.
"I'll tell you, David, I never want to see another day like that again. Never."
"Amen. You were up close. Can you remember how tall he was?"
"Well … not your size, that's for sure. Average, I'd say, maybe five-ten or so."
"That certainly narrows the field."
She thinned her lips.
"Sorry Ginny, just thinking out loud. Was there anything distinguishing about him?"
"Only that he was so quiet. I remember thinking how different that was. Usually, the big shots who come through here can't stop talking, you know."
"You make up the daily schedules, right?"
"Right."
"There were no other cases at three-thirty?"
"Not starting then. The G.I.s and neurosurgicals started early but were over by then. We had a couple hips but they were over, too. E.N.T., some vein stuff-they were on at two-thirty and were still going."
"So, most likely no one else was in the locker room just before three-thirty?"
"Most likely."
"Ginny, thanks-see you."
"Wait. Are there any suspects?"
"Not yet, but I think I've ruled out a couple."
"Oh, who?"
"You and me. By the way, have the police talked to you yet?"
"Last night-not today. They cut it short, though. I was too upset."
David sauntered through the administrative offices of the O.R. wing, speaking briefly with nurses, unit clerks and orderlies. He wrote their names on a pad. Next to each he added a zero.
He had more to do at the hospital but decided to make a quick run to the Hollings Police Department. He wanted to deliver the taped rock to Sparky for analysis and perhaps have the results by noon.
Ten minutes later, David pulled into the department's parking lot and climbed the steps of a new prefabricated entranceway, harsh against walls of blanched brick and pitted mortar. He tucked Friday under his arm like the guardian of a kryptonite sample. He greeted friends at the dispatch window and was buzzed into a maze of hallways and interconnecting rooms. Steam radiators banged, and the floor creaked beneath half partitions and shiny modular furniture as employees traipsed about their filing cabinets and worked their computers. David proceeded directly to the Lilliputian crime lab, past benches of microscopes, chemical bottles, latent fingerprint equipment and the brothy smell of petri dishes. He entered the criminalist's corner office without knocking.
Sparky sat at a king-size desk inspecting a piece of cloth. He wore plastic gloves. Various wire baskets, magnifying tools and paper stacks seemed arranged for a neatness contest. A lamp dangled on a cord from the ceiling above the dead center of the desk. The lamp's green metal shade matched Sp
arky's visor.
The criminalist was a forty-some-odd throwback to a Western Union clerk in a 1940's B movie: slicked down black hair parted in the middle, wire-framed glasses, gartered shirt sleeves.
David snapped Sparky's suspenders and said, "Morning, my friend, I have a little something for you."
"Hey, David. I thought you'd be phoning me." Sparky popped up briefly to shake hands.
"Hope you're not too busy." David took off his scarf and gloves and placed them over the back of a chair. "It's no problem. I'm always too busy."
David opened Friday, draped a handkerchief over the taped rock and deposited it on the desk.
"This was tossed toward my window last night. Lousy shot. Can you run it through the usual checks? I can call this afternoon if that gives you enough time."
"Late afternoon should be fine." Sparky read the message and shook his head. "Did you see the guy?"
"Nope. And there were no tracks in the snow just acceleration gauges. Sure as hell sounded like … " David caught himself. Don't want to mention the garage incident, right? Almost blew it, pal. He launched into his next sentence without missing a beat. Sparky seemed preoccupied with the rock, anyway.
"Look, Spark, if I ask you for another favor and you can't do it, would you have to mention to anyone that I asked you for it?"
The criminalist removed his visor and, leaning back, said, "I never breach confidences. How can I help?" "Don't tell Kathy or Nick about the rock, okay?" "I suppose, but why not?"
"My first murders, my first ultimatum-you know-I don't want them tightening the reins."
"I won't say a word, but don't be silly. If you want the truth, we're so damned busy around here, they think you're a godsend. Really. I've heard them say it."
"Thanks, that's what I needed to hear." He sat on the edge of the desk. "Now, about Bugles and Cortez …" Sparky didn't let him finish.
"David, I dusted and sprayed and dipped and fumed. I couldn't bring out any prints other than their own except probably the locker room attendent's. His-I assume his-are all over most of the lockers. I'm checking it out. But nothing on the dagger. Or on Cortez's skin, so far. I had to act fast on trying to lift there. I used x-rays and I've got a call in to the Tokyo Police Department to see where we go from here. They've perfected the technique. The blood-I'll have all that by the time you call about the rock. I've got to warn you, though, David, prints rarely come through from rock or stone. Brick, for that matter. And incidentally, I found a couple blood smudges on the shelf in the locker." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I'll know whose by noon."
"Good. And the dagger?" David moved away, hands on hips.
"I've never seen one like it. The blade's ten inches. Steel. I'm still checking on the handle and, sorry, I can't release it to you but here are some photocopies plus a few stills from both scenes." He pulled out a batch of photographs from a drawer and handed them to David who put them in Friday without examination.
"What about the trajectory of the stab wound? From above, right?"
"The chest wound-correct. The abdominal one-you saw that?"
"Yes."
"It was shoved in most likely underhanded, just to stun the guy."
"I figured." David put on his scarf and gloves and expressed his thanks. "I'll call you later today, then," he said.
"I should have it all put together."
"Great. And one last thing, Spark. If a guy puts a piece of tape on a rock from, say two o'clock to eight o'clock, and then crosses it with another piece from ten to four, what would you conclude if the second piece was the top piece?"
The criminalist frowned. "Sorry, David, I don't quite follow. What are you getting at?"
"Just this. It seems to me that's what would happen if someone right-handed put the tape on.-But for a left-hander, that top strip-the one from ten to four-would be on the bottom. See, look here." David picked up the rock and pointed to the top strip. "See, ten to four. This bastard could be left-handed, wouldn't you say?"
The criminalist put his visor back on as if it imparted greater lucidity. He examined the rock, twisting it around with one hand while making crosses in the air with his other. Finally, he said, "By golly, I think you're right. I've never had evidence like this before, but I think you're onto something. Of course we've had things tossed through windows-mostly bricks-but never with messages on adhesive tape. Usually on paper secured with rubber bands. Sometimes twine. Come to think of it, maybe the way rubber bands are put on could tell us the same thing."
"It could. Just work backwards … I guess." David added the last two words to soften any perception of up-staging. For good measure, he called on humor: "I won't charge you for any of this, you know."
"Wait'll you get my bill" They both smiled.
"But seriously," David said, "even though what I said about the tape strips could be possible, wouldn't you agree this right-handed-left-handed stuff isn't foolproof?"
"No."
"No, it's foolproof or, no, it isn't foolproof?" "Sorry. Yes, it's not foolproof."
David left the crime lab and thought of visiting with Kathy and Nick several suites away but was anxious to question Ted Tanarkle in Pathology and the hospital's administrator, Alton Foster. Buoyed by Sparky's assurance that he was considered a member of the investigating team-if not, the team, he thought-he swaggered from the building more aware of his surroundings. Looking around and recalling the crime lab, he imagined Methuselah trying to catch up to Bill Gates.
As he approached the pathologist's office back at the hospital, David spotted a familiar figure down the hall. The director of the Emergency Medical System was struggling with a bulky carton at the door aside the old dispatch window.
"Vic," he hollered, "hold on, I'll give you a hand." He quickened his step and helped unwedge the carton from the door, guiding it to the floor." He felt his knee complain.
"Thanks, David. Haven't seen you in a long time. What are you up to these days?"
Victor Spritz. Smooth-faced, fashioned hair, shorter than David by a hand, and older by a decade. Roots unknown. Etched smile. Coppery hair. Angles at the wrists. Elbows exaggerated laterally. A twenty-year veteran at Hollings and a loner, he headed up the city's Emergency Medical System which was administered from the hospital. Despite Spritz's medical care orientation, David believed he had the personality of a hornet in a Mason jar.
"Oh, not much. Still making house calls and sleuthing on the side, but I'm thinking of reversing that."
"Because of the murders?"
"Because of the murders."
Spritz shook his head. "How God-awful."
David peeked behind Spritz into the EMS office. He saw chairs stacked on tables, books piled on the floor, papers strewn about. The room beyond an archway appeared undisturbed, a space he'd heard Spritz call his "Ambulance Without Wheels" with its spare stretchers and benches of masks, aspirators, oxygen tanks, splints and canisters. "What's going on?" he asked.
"I'm moving out." It was uncharacteristic of Spritz to wear a blue denim shirt and tattered jeans while in the hospital. Rarely was he in coat and tie, but usually, as a hands-on director, he sported the customary uniform of the EMS paramedics in Hollings: dark blue trousers, white shirt-open at the collar-with insignia on the sleeve and name pin over the left breast.
"Moving out? Why?"
"Haven't you heard? I lost the contract. As of the first of the month, I'm terminated. Out of here."
David understood the awarding of the EMS contract had been a yearly problem not only for both city hospitals but also for rival companies. He, himself, had once lobbied for Spritz among the joint oversite committee members of both hospitals.
"I'm sorry to hear that." He put his arm around Spritz's shoulders which stiffened. David was momentarily lost for words. He managed, "So what happens to your fleet?" The ambulances were maintained in a bank of garages two streets away. EMS crews occupied quarters upstairs at the same site.
Spritz unetched his smile. "It's not
mine. The fuckin' hospital owns it. Except for the defibrillator van-that stays with me. Shit, who do you think started the cardiac defib program around here? I probably shocked more hearts into normal rhythm than anyone in the city's history."
"Who's on the committee these days?"
"Foster-that chairman wimp; Coughlin, across town; the prick next door … " He motioned toward Tanarkle's office. "And Bugles-at least he was." Spritz's eyes had turned to pinpoints of fire.
David deliberated. Our administrator, their Chief of Staff. Sounds logical. But why our pathologist? What's he doing on the committee?
"Well, no sense crying over you-know-what," Spritz said. He checked his watch. On his right wrist, David noticed. "I've got to get going. Sure hope you make your catch." He returned to his outer office and began packing another carton.
David watched for a moment and wondered whether most southpaws wore their watches on their right wrist. "See you around, Vic," he said.
In Dr. Ted Tanarkle's reception room, he stared at the secretary's wrists without saying a word.
"David, you're back."
He tried to finish his thoughts without delaying a response. Everyone wearing watches on right wrists? What difference does it make anyway-wasn't the imposter a male? Christ, what are you supposed to do-go through life checking people's wrists?
"David?"
"Marsh, I'm coming right out and asking you a direct question."
"Sure, but …"
"Are you right-handed or left?"
"Right. Why?"
"Curious, that's all." He stood at her desk and looked vacantly at the diplomas, citations and group pictures on the wall behind her. "Then why wear your watch on your right wrist?"
Marsha looked puzzled but spread out her left hand. "See, just to balance these."
"Nice rings," he said. There were four of them. He ground his teeth.
"David, are you all right?"
"What? Yeah, I'm all right. Just mulling over some things. Is Ted in?"
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