Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  "Yes, but he's on the phone with Dr. Coughlin. He called him on some slides. I'll go put a note on his desk." She opened Tanarkle's office door. "Oh, you're off. Dr. Brook's here to see you."

  "I'll see him." David heard the words run together, closer then usual-and feebler. Dr. Theodore J. Tanarkle had been Holling's chief pathologist for over three decades. Best known visually for an engaging gap between his two upper front teeth and professionally for his clinical acumen without ever seeing the patient, staff doctors would feed him signs and symptoms which invariably initiated, "Have you thought of'? He had married late, to a woman a generation younger. Soft-spoken, his sentences were, nonetheless, blurted not spoken, as if he had to get rid of them.

  David thanked Marsha and walked in. It was one of those offices that swallowed you up, that made its nine-by-twelve Oriental carpet look puny, its ceiling-to-floor bookstacks of no great account.

  He saw Tanarkle standing, arms locked on his desk, his head a tomato covered with dew. When he straightened, David measured his height by noting he could see directly over the head of the pathologist.

  Dr. Tanarkle sat clumsily and, running his hands through the last vestiges of hair at his temples, said, "The son-of-a-bitch threatened me!"

  "Coughlin? What did he say?"

  "That the patient on the table yesterday should have been me, but that he'd settle one way or another."

  David knew the background: fiery Dr. Everett Coughlin, the mover and shaker pathologist at Bowie Hospital; Ted Tanarkle, his counterpart at Hollings; the bitter battles over which hospital should be granted state certification for the city's first organ transplantation program; the late Charles Bugles and his dollar-splendored petitions at the state capitol.

  "Keep it cool, Ted, you know Coughlin."

  "Yes, that's the problem. He still can't accept the transplant decision." Tanarkle shook open a neatly folded handkerchief and wiped his brow and the back of his neck with his right hand. "And another thing, David-stranger than hell. He wanted to know if you're still on the case."

  "Did he say it like that? Still on the case or just case?"

  Tanarlde stroked his forehead. "You know, I can't remember. He meant the murders. Is it important how he said it?"

  "It could be. What was your answer?"

  "I simply said, `As far as I know.' Jesus, my head is hot. Do I look like a beet?"

  "No, a tomato. A tomato in a gray lab coat." Tanarlde seemed to loosen up.

  "Ted, I realize you're miffed and probably in hypertensive crisis, but do you mind if I ask you a question or two?"

  "Ahh … no, that's fine."

  "I could come back later."

  "No, go ahead, it's okay."

  From a table submerged in medical journals, manuscipts, trays of specimen slides and boxes of projection slides, David pulled out and sat on the only chair not itself submerged. He opened his notepad.

  "For starters, do you know of anyone who might want to knock off Bugles?"

  "Charlie? Plenty of guys. He got things done over twenty years, I guess, but you've got to admit, he was a detestable sort. Even when you were here with me, you must have seen how he barged in and threw his weight around."

  "You willing to name some names?"

  "Sure. Coughlin hated his guts probably more than mine. Marsha out there couldn't stand him. Foster upstairs-even some of his associate administrators. By the way, you know that Charlie put Foster into that job, don't you?"

  "No, but I'm not surprised."

  "Sure. And he manipulated every one of his strings. Foster resented it. Probably would have been long gone except for his wife. Nora likes it around here for some reason.

  "How about you?"

  "Me what? Killing Charlie Bugles? Depends on what you mean. Did I want to kill him sometimes? Absolutely. Could I or did I? No."

  "Are you or the medical examiner doing the post?" "I am, at one o'clock. He asked me if I would and I agreed."

  "Cortez, too?"

  "After Bugles."

  "Mind if I drop by?"

  "No, be my guest."

  "Hold on a sec." David backtracked on what he had written thus far and made a few notations in the margins. "Okay, now, about the blood. There were stains on the floor leading from Cortez's body to the lab here. At least to the alley door entrance. Matter of fact, there was one at the bottom of that door. Any idea why?"

  Tanarkle sat mute, his face a mannequin's.

  "Please understand, Ted, I'm not implying anything. But the blood did trail here, and I think you'd agree you'd ask the same question if our roles were reversed."

  "Yes, yes, of course. I know of the trail, but I guess it was just shocking to have it mentioned in the form of a question like that." He sighed. "And, no, I have no idea why."

  "Good enough. Well, not good, but … well … let's let it go at that."

  "I wish I could be more helpful, David."

  "You're doing fine. And finally-you and I go back a long way and you don't have to answer this if you don't want to …"

  "No, no, go ahead."

  "Why weren't you in yesterday?"

  "I was the guest speaker at Grand Rounds at Boston Childrens'. I'm often away like that. Medical expert. You know: anyone from out-of-state."

  David drilled the last period into his notepad and got up. "Many thanks, Ted."

  "See you after lunch. And, David.. " He extended a hand. "Good luck."

  David shook the hand. "Thanks, my friend. Hang in there." Rounding the table, he glanced at a slide box labeled, "Grand Rounds: N.Y.C. 12-17-97." Next to it was a box labeled: "Grand Rounds: Boston." There was no date.

  At the doorway, David paused, about to turn back to ask about the label. But he figured he'd be checking on the alibi later in the morning.

  Chapter 5

  Ten-thirty. It was too late for coffee with the morning gang, but David decided to head for the cafeteria anyway. Better to be alone for a moment. Friday in tote, he strode his stride, now barreling along smoothly, now ducking at imaginary ceilings. The hospital quiet implored on property signs was pierced by the operators' curt, flat pages that sounded like Space Center announcements. In the hallways, he passed the usual inhabitants: doctors writing while they flitted by; nurses in pairs; technicians with lab trays of vacutubes and tourniquets. David recognized them all, but no one stopped to chat. It was as if they knew he was on a mission. And, their greetings were … well … different. Was it their polite nod? Did each feel suspect?

  He fixed a coffee. The cashier said, "It's enough to give you the willies."

  "What does?"

  "C'mon, doc, them murders. You got the black case there. You got the weapon in it, right?"

  "No, Sophie, no weapon, only my lunch." David gave her a dollar and didn't wait for change.

  He grabbed a table off to the side and sat facing the wall, stirring his coffee in slow sync with the personalities drifting through his mind: Spritz, Tanarkle, even Marsha. And what of Coughlin across town? Venom, big time. Enough to go around for more than one murder.

  Motive-wise, he had begun to combine the murders into one. Cortez had to go in order to kill Bugles in the outrageous fashion the murderer selected. But, why that way in the first place? David still hadn't taken a sip.

  He returned to thoughts of Spritz and Tarnarkle and the necessity of questioning friends. Questions with an inference. But wait till the real stingers come-like, "Where were you at such-and-such a time?" It should get easier, right? Separation of friendship and criminal justice, pal.

  He took his first sip of coffee and left. Ninety-five cents to stir, a nickle to drink.

  Next, Foster. He took an elevator to the sixth floor and crossed over to the administrative wing.

  "You know him," Foster's secretary, Doris, said, "he's all over the place. Especially the surgical wing. He's always there, it seems. Never in the cafeteria, though-I don't know why. He's brown-bagged it ever since I've been here."

  Doris was one employee Dav
id had never dated. Fair, fat and forty-good candidate for gallstones, he mused.

  She looked at the clock on the mahogany wall. "He should be back at eleven-thirty, Dr. Brooks."

  David's phone tickled his hip.

  "Are you in the building?" Belle asked.

  "Yeah, I'm heading down. What's up?"

  "Two things. First, I'm not sure whether to book calls. You're tied up for awhile, right?"

  "Not completely. We'll talk about it. I'll be right there." He was about to replace the phone. "Wait," she said. "David, I just received the craziest call. This guy says, `Is your boss still on the case?' He sounded so creepy."

  "What did you say?"

  "I didn't know what to say but I blurted out something like, `I'm sorry, this is Dr. Brooks' medical office,' and he hung up."

  "Did you recognize the voice."

  "No. It was deep and kinda muffled."

  "Definitely male?"

  "Yes, unless she had a bad cold."

  "See you in a minute."

  The Hole was located off a corridor on the basement level next to an equipment room, not far from the old elevator. It was a tiny space with a door and had ratty walls, a ratty ceiling and a ratty cement floor. Hugging the top of the corridor, flaking cream pipes came at the door from both sides and snaked through its header to fan out above three furniture pieces and a cabinet inside. The pipes which David swore were sheathed in unreported asbestos, ran through two cellar-like windows on the outer wall, apparently into a rear corridor. He often wondered what in hell he was doing in such a rattrap. Some favor Foster's doing me. Rent-free, but sure as shooting, he's claiming a tax credit.

  Once in a while, David could smell medicinal and detergent crosscurrents from the pharmacy and laundry on opposite ends of the corridor. And just as often, as he dashed from the Hole, he would freeze in his tracks to avert the daily caravan of laundry carts.

  Belle sat on a tubular steel chair at a green metal desk. She appeared more flustered than she had sounded on the phone.

  "Whew," she said, "that never happened during your missing persons cases."

  "What never happened?"

  "That voice."

  "Forget it. He knows goddam well I'm still on the case."

  "Then why call?"

  "Intimidation, my Belle, intimidation. Goes with the territory." David felt a brief rush of pride at his sudden expertise in crisis management.

  "So you're definitely in this thing? It's what you want?" Belle asked.

  "It's what I want."

  "I'm worried about you."

  "I've had an interesting life."

  "David, cut that out!"

  An Emergency Room nurse for years, Annabelle Burns Osowicki agreed to be "borrowed" by David until "you get your newfangled practice off the ground." She had divorced after a year of marriage and lived with her eleven-year-old daughter. David had sworn her to secrecy about all phases of the investigation.

  He had had his pick of the hospital's eligible women and often picked Belle until Kathy resurfaced for good. He never received a signal from Belle that she felt abandoned, probably because their talk had never reached a serious pitch. He guessed she had once kept her figure for him, but now, on the cusp of menopause, had begun to let straighten what was once curved and let curve what was once straight. Yet her hair still flamed, her smile was just as engaging, and she could still turn a head or two.

  "Sorry. Look, this guy's not after me. There's something else bugging him. All this stuff about running me down and cryptic messages and now a follow-up phone call-is just bullshit. He's grandstanding. Or, better still: he knows I'm an amateur, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's doing this to send a message to the police."

  "What kind of message?"

  "That he's concerned about yours truly more than about them. He's sort of vouching for me. And if I'm that worrisome to the killer, the pros are more apt to relax and let me handle things."

  Belle gave him the same look of admiration he had seen many times before. But not in the middle of a killing game.

  "You know," she said, "you never explained why the cops are letting you take over, except for Kathy."

  David sat on the other chair. "They say they're overworked. That's bull, too. They probably are-at least Kathy looks tired all the time-but that's not the reason. I think the real reason is that this isn't an ordinary case. Most murders don't happen on an operating room table, in full view of the whole damn hospital, for Christ's sake! So it's not your run-of-the-mill killing and isn't about to be cracked overnight. Next, what happens is they slowly begin to lose interest and allow themselves to get bogged down in their other garbage. They know all this. And now they have me."

  "For sure," she said softly.

  "Picture it, Belle: a gumshoe on the inside who can devote all his time to this one case. Knows the medical ropes. Is practically Kathy's husband. It's perfect for them and perfect for me."

  "For you?"

  "Yeah, I have their backups, all their forensic support. All I have to do is call. Plus, I'm in the big leagues now."

  "Just don't strike out."

  "Hey, very good."

  David played with a small scar near the cleft in his chin. He called it his decision scar. "Okay," he said, "I've decided to cut into my schedule-maybe by half. Not yours, of course. You still run this … this hole. Take messages, explain my temporary… yeah, that's it… my temporary unavailability."

  "I figured."

  "Think the other docs will be upset?"

  Belle snickered. "They-they hate making housecalls. So there'll just be less made for a while and more patients will wind up in the E.R. Even you sent them I, remember?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "I know; I was there."

  "Well, that was only if my office was a zoo."

  There offices aren't like zoos?"

  "Well…"

  "David, let's put it this way. They'll take whatever they can get whenever they can get it, so yes, they'll be mad at first but then they'll welcome you back with open arms."

  "Good," he said, brightening. "Now, how many house calls for today?"

  "Four, starting at one-thirty."

  "Only four. How come?"

  "I told you I wasn't sure about booking. So I got selective. Are you complaining?"

  "No, not at all." He fingered his scar again.

  "Now I think we'd better check on Ted Tanarkle's alibi. If I'm going to do this at all, I'm going to do it right. Give Boston Childrens' a call and make up some cockamamie story but find out if he was their speaker at Medical Grand Rounds yesterday. If so, ask from when to when."

  "Done."

  "And then, starting today, I'll keep making the house calls alone. You'll have enough to do fending off the angry jackals." He got up fast and reached over to kiss her forehead. "Thanks, doll, I'm off to see the boss. Incidentally, I'll be looking in on Bugles' autopsy at one."

  "Don't forget your first call at one-thirty."

  At the door, David heard the rush of laundry carts. He turned and said, "You're a pain in the ass."

  The administrator of Hollings General for fifteen years, Alton Foster had protruding thin lips, a sallow complexion and a waddling gait. He reminded David of a bespectacled duck. A six-foot tall bespectacled duck. And the fact Foster liked yellow shirts-no matter the suit did little to erase the similarity. But he was no duck. More like a hyperactive rooster-the Road Runner-scooting around the hospital each day, observing and offering advice. Meddling, according to some department heads. Not at all the wimp Victor Spritz had labeled him. He had been enticed to come to Hollings by the then new Board Chairman and now brutally divested Charles Bugles. Although Foster's bottom-line wizardry had turned steadily increasing profits for Hollings, most observers considered his capstone achievement to be the fledgling organ transplant program. It took four years of hearings, lobbying and connivance to obtain a medical Certificate of Need, the state's validation of the program. And four years of exploitin
g Bugles' political connections.

  "I still can't get over it, David," Foster said. He sat at his desk surrounded by rolls of architectural plans, opening a brown paper bag. The room-expansive, sterile and uninviting-appeared as though its complement of furnishings had never arrived. It contained a basic contemporary desk, swivel chair and blue pastel filing cabinet. Ten paces away was an arrangement of two black leather chairs astride a coffee table sporting the latest editions of Forbes, Business Week and the Journal of the American Hospital Association. Its hardwood floor was glossy and slippery, and haphazardly placed scatter rugs looked like welcome mats for stoops. The walls were composed of built-in cabinets sweeping down to a narrow counter which strangled the room on four sides. David saw no books anywhere and would have wagered the cabinets were empty. The air smelled of furniture polish and fish.

  "Why in hell Nora packed two tunas, I have no idea. You want a sandwich?"

  "No thanks," David replied. "I'll eat later but you go ahead. I'll get right to the point. I'm helping out the police in their investigation." He was instituting a different approach, one he was more comfortable with in dealing with friends, one that carried with it the stamp of legal authority.

  Foster acted as if the words hadn't been processed.

  "It's bad enough to lose a friend," he said, "but what a setback for us. For the whole hospital family. For the whole community. And for them." He pointed at photographs of major benefactors that paraded on the countertops encircling the room. "Did you catch the papers? They crucified us. And on top of that, the accreditation people have already phoned me. They're calling yesterday's surgery a `Sentinel Event,' and are threatening to close the hospital. They want us to reexamine all our protocols and procedures and to start emergency educational classes for everyone who works here. That was no Sentinel Event, for heaven's sake. That's not malpractice; that's murder by an imposter."

  Offhand, David didn't know how to interpret the comments-he was never certain about most of Foster's comments-but, instinctively, he rolled his eyes, glad that Foster was busy peeling away a plastic wrap and hadn't noticed. His right hand was in command, David observed. He also observed an exit door off the rear wall.