Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

She was about to speak when he stepped on her words, adding, "You said I'd have logistic support."

  "And you will," Kathy said in a placatory manner. She took a step closer. "Darling," she said, "I know you're feeling the pinch, too, but it'll work out. We'll all keep doing what we've got to do. We've checked Spritz's home and his office, and we talked to his backup and the page operators. No one's seen hide nor hair of him. So we put out an APB."

  "And Bernie?" David said, "you have his address in

  Manhattan, right? Could we send one of your men down?"

  "It's already been decided to do better than that."

  "Meaning?"

  "Nick wants to stake it out himself."

  David knew his face turned to stone and his smile smarted as he responded, "Good, and maybe an APB on Bernie, too."

  "You got it," Kathy said.

  It took a moment for the stiffness to reach the back of David's neck. "Well," he said, "carry on. Let's contact each other if there's anything to report. Belle wants me at the Hole." It was an excuse to leave.

  The Hole was just around the corner and David dragged out getting there to debate the questions that had peaked. Son-of-a-bitch! So, he's stepping things up? That's fine-two can play. Time for his decision scar. First off: Spritz. He's an employee here, right? Where's his file? Most likely in Foster's office. Unannounced is best, remember? No brainer, then. Break into his office later … whoa, how indelicate! Visit his office after hours. If nothing's there-simple-go right to Spritz's home. It worked at Bugles' place, right? In spades.

  For a moment, he considered the alternative of simply asking Foster about Spritz's background but decided he didn't want to tip his hand because he hadn't ruled out any scenario, including collusion.

  The minute David walked in, Belle held out the phone. "It's for you," she said. Her words sounded sticky. She pressed the phone against her hip and waved her pencil for him to come to the desk. She wrote on a scratch pad, "That same voice!"

  "Yes, Dr. Brooks here," he said firmly as he took Belle's chair.

  In falsetto, the voice said, "Time for us to get together."

  "Say that again," David said.

  "I think it's time for us to get together."

  "Who is this?"

  "That's not important right now. What is important is the news I have for you." Is he reading from a script?

  David looked at his watch and scribbled the time on a piece of paper. "What news?"

  "Uh-uh. In person."

  "You're kidding."

  "I mean business, Dr. Brooks."

  "Is this about a medical problem?"

  "Come now, Dr. Brooks. Don't act stupid. It's about the biggest medical problem the hospital's ever had, and you know it."

  David's mind shifted into high gear. "Okay then, Mr.-Mr. Voice. I'll wait for you here at the hospital. I have a little room in the basement near … "

  "Recycling Center at six tonight. Come alone."

  David heard the click, yet said, "Wait." He hung up the receiver for a split second and then contacted the page operator.

  "Helen," he said, "it's me. That call that just came through-did you recognize the voice?"

  "Her? No, never heard it before."

  "Did she ask for me, or did she give you my extension number?"

  "Two-twenty-two: your extension. Everything okay?"

  "Yeah, fine. Thanks." David tossed the receiver toward its cradle but missed. He picked it up and replaced it deliberately as he collected his thoughts.

  "That bastard is no `she,' he said to Belle. "That's Victor Spritz, sure as I'm sitting here. Oh, sorry-here's your chair back."

  "No, thanks, I'm too nervous to sit." She locked two fingers into her other hand.

  He got up and swung around to the front edge of the desk. Half-sitting there, his eyes were still square to Belle's. "What do you think?"

  She looked bewildered. "Sounded like a fake female … yes … definitely a fake female … God, that's spooky. But what makes you think it's Spritz."

  "The cadence. And he knows my extension. But mostly the cadence."

  "And he's coming here?"

  "No, he said tonight at the Recycling Center."

  "There? You going?" Belle gave her own answer. "David, don't. It sounds too dangerous."

  "It sounds like a sucker request, Belle, but here's how I figure it. Let's assume he's the killer. Now, he's either sending me on a wild goose chase to take me away from something or someone, or …."

  "Like who?"

  David ran his hand down behind his ear. "Like Kathy. He knows I'm with her most evenings. Now she'd be exposed."

  "To what?"

  "I hate to imagine. But, the other possibility-and this from my psychology brain-is that he'll be around there somewhere, to see if I show up."

  "He'll take a shot at you, David."

  "I don't think so. He's no fool. What's to keep me from bringing backup-I mean circles and circles of backup. If he takes a shot and even misses …."

  "Or doesn't," Belle said without missing a beat.

  David raised his index finger and paused as if he had lost his train of thought.

  "What I mean is-whether he missed me or not, they'd be all over him in a flash. While he's waiting, if he spots backup, what could he do? He has no leverage. There's no one kidnapped he could kill. So, my guess is he'll be well-hidden, out of shooting range, maybe with binoculars to see if I show."

  "I don't get it. Why go through all that trouble?"

  "As I said, psychology. Sort of a control thing. And speaking of that, sooner or later I was going to see El Shrinko Sam Corliss to check out some hunches about our killer. Now I can include this. Call and see if he can fit me in after lunch today."

  "Call in advance? That's not like you."

  "No, but those sofa jobs run an hour or more. I'm not about to wait around."

  Belle finally sat and began twisting a paper clip. "David," she said, "why go just because he asked you to? You're asking for trouble and what's there to gain?"

  "I know, I know. But look at it this way: does he expect me to back off?"

  "Who cares?"

  "It's important to psychopaths and don't tell me we're not dealing with one here. So, in going, I'm getting into his mind, sending back my own message."

  "Which is?"

  "That I mean business, too."

  Before leaving for the cafeteria, David called Kathy intending to inform her of the phone call. She stated she was going to her mother's for dinner-straight from work. He convinced her to await his arrival there, hopefully at about six-thirty. "I haven't seen your mother in some time." He ended up not mentioning the phone call after all-and his likely visit to the outskirts of town.

  Belle had arranged a midafternoon appointment with Dr. Samuel Corliss, Chairman of the hospital's Center for Behavioral Health.

  David entered his office in Rosen Hall at precisely three. The small waiting room contained three soft chairs placed equidistant to one another around a triangular table. He avoided them, choosing instead to inspect posters of Paris highlights on each wall, moving quietly so as not to disturb an elderly woman sleeping in one of the chairs. There was no one in the reception area behind a window in one wall until Dr. Corliss, himself, appeared and slid open the glass panel.

  "Why, hello!" he said, extending his hand over the counter and shaking David's as if he had returned from a war.

  "Hi, Sam, how's it going? Keeping the phobias in check?"

  Dr. Corliss laughed. "Come on in, David, come on in," he said.

  "But what about …?" David nodded toward the woman.

  "Violet? She'll be fine. Always comes an hour too early. I let her keep the compulsion."

  Inside, the office was as simple as the waiting room and not much larger: basic leather couch, two recliners, maple desk and high-back chair. Its ivory sidewalls were sprinkled with diplomas, certificates and photographs of class reunions. Paintings of Sigmund Freud and Karl Menninger dominated the w
all behind the desk, framing Dr. Corliss as he sat. David sunk in a recliner before the desk, but he kept it upright, feet on the floor, knees higher than his hips.

  The psychiatrist looked the part: white beard, pince-nez, frumpy ashen suit that coordinated well with the fluff around his ears. Wrinkles terraced his forehead. A star key medallion dangled from his neck and David, conjecturing it was used as a metronome in hypnosis, determined he would cry foul if he saw it move.

  He was still conscious of men's heights: what's going on? Did Foster only hire department chiefs as tall as he is?

  "Sam, I'm not sure what Belle said but I'm not here for myself-although the way things are going, the day might come."

  "All she did was set up the appointment."

  "I'll get right to the point, then. We've had four killings here now …"

  "Four? No. Let's see-Bugles and there's what's his-name, Everett Coughlin, from Yonderville across town." He waved contemptuously.

  "And Ted Tanarkle."

  "Ted? Oh, no! When?"

  "This morning. You hadn't heard?"

  "No. Poor Ted. What a grand guy."

  "Sam, you've been tied up reading too many of your journals. You've got to cut back. Nothing changes in Psychiatry anyway." David corrected himself inwardly: except maybe you, Sam. You seem different.

  "Ted Tanarkle?" Corliss appeared transported to the past. He repeated the name, shook his head like a stunned prizefighter clearing away cobwebs and said, "No, actually it's not my journals. It's my caseload. I've been cooped up here since seven this morning and even missed lunch. I'll let you in on something, David." Dr. Corliss pointed to a stack of patient records on. a side table, looked both ways and measured his words: "People are getting crazier-and there are more of them."

  David snorted. "Well, we have a case in point here. There's a real loony tunes running around this hospital."

  "How did it happen? With Ted, I mean."

  "He was on the sixth floor and, moments later, was found lying on top of the car at the bottom of the back elevator shaft. Someone rigged the mechanism."

  "Down the shaft? Oh, my! It couldn't have been an accident?"

  "Conceivably, but think about it, Sam-the mechanism was rigged. Plus the killer left a message." David revealed the contents of the smeared paper on his windshield the week before and of the tape in the control room. "Now," he added, leaning forward, "and this is why I'm here. What's your read on the kind of person doing this? Hardly your run-of-the-mill miscreant, right?" Hell, David thought, why not "shrink-speak"?

  "Hardly. Take the way Charlie Bugles was slaughtered." The psychiatrist spoke deliberately. "Now you tell me about this elevator shaft thing-that took a lot of precision, I would guess. Why didn't our Mr. X just use a gun? He must have had a mental lapse in shooting Coughlin, and that's characteristic of this personality type-inconsistency. Next, we add the notes. That's also characteristic: `Look world, look what I'm about to do,' or `Look what I've done.' He not only kills, but gets a kick out of announcing it in advance or applauding himself afterward. The murder is not sufficient, even if there's real motive. He's compelled to add an unreal touch of the dramatic-an exclamation point, if you will."

  David slid to the edge of the recliner. "He knows exactly what he's doing, then?"

  "Yes, indeed. In my opinion, these aren't simply random killings. The guy's got motive and diffuse hostility. It's not well-organized like a specific gripe against a specific person or thing. It's diffuse. It's rage. And that's the worst combination: a person with a diffuse hostility who's presented with a motive he can't handle in predictable ways. He feels persecuted and goes bonkers."

  David realized he was receiving insights from a man who drew on many years of experience in the behavioral field, insights that coincided with his own tenuous ideas. That's the way it was for him lately: uncertain, everything a battle in his own mind. David needed reinforcement. But also structure. He was getting both from Dr. Corliss.

  "Sam, can I ask you about a specific person?"

  "You mean some famous cases? The Boston Strangler? Son of Sam? Jack, the Ripper? None of them fits this profile, incidentally."

  "No. I mean Victor Spritz."

  "Victor Spritz? He's a suspect?"

  "I'd have to answer yes, but I'm not sure. You know him as well as I do. What can you say?" David leaned closer. "Better still, has he ever consulted you?"

  Dr. Corliss stood and walked to a filing cabinet, draping a thick wrist over its top. "Everything in here is confidential, David. It would be a breach of medical ethics and my conscience, too, to reveal if a person is or is not a patient of mine, whether we discuss the case or not. You see, merely saying so-and-so was a patient gives him a label. A psychiatric label. And I happen to believe that an extension of that ethical canon-if we can call it that-is that it's unconscionable even to say someone has never consulted me. So the way we get around it is-if you're asking whether Spritz has ever seen me professionally, I can say there's no record of him in here." He patted the file cabinet.

  "Sam, you're beautiful! Okay, let me ask, then could he fit the mold you described?"

  "Without a doubt " The psychiatrist fingered his medallion as David checked for movement. "I've seen Spritz at his worst and, frankly, he scares me. He's either easily triggered into rage reactions or he's got T.E.D."

  "T.E.D.?"

  "Transient Explosive Disorder. Either way, he should be on medication. I'd love to see his EEG."

  Dr. Corliss returned to his chair and, drumming his fingers on the desk, said, "But do you know what? There are plenty of others tottering on that same edge-working right here in this hospital."

  "Care to name a few?"

  "Now, now. Ethics. Remember-ethics."

  For the most part, David had received the information he sought. And as he departed from the psychiatrist's office, he realized what it was that appeared changed in the wizened psychiatrist. He no longer acted like a disgruntled loser as he had the year before in the election for Chief of Staff at Hollings General.

  Chapter 13

  After the visit to Rosen Hall, David motored home primarily to upload three days of information into his computer. Typing haltingly, he came to understand such entries were another mechanism for structure, a means of distilling chaos while cleansing his mind.

  Tuesday, January 20

  MURDERS, continued-

  Ted Tanarkle-bottom of elevator shaft.

  Mayor and hospital committees acting up. Bernie never took flight to Tokyo.

  Sparky: Coughlin's murder weapon Japanese rifle. Kathy: Says I'm still running show. But, what's Nick up to?

  Foster had major surgical training.

  Bernie punched out brother Robert.

  Dr. Corliss said Spritz easily disturbed. I say he's not alone around here.

  At five-forty-five, he left for the fifteen-minute drive to the other end of the city. Running north to south within a chain-link fence, the Regional Recycling Center was a strip of land sunk in the middle of a crater, not unlike the rectangular bottom of a wicker basket. A dirt road encircled the Center while, laterally, bushy terrain rose to the level of elm tops which were based alongside the road below. The high ground formed a rim which sloped on all sides to main streets leading to the city proper. Below and from opposite sides of the elevation, two blacktops shot to the rim only to become, on the other side, dirt themselves.

  A block from the foot of the elevation, David stopped his car under a streetlight while he kept the motor running. He opened Friday, pulled out his Blackhawk Magnum and laid it on the seat between his thighs. He shrugged his left shoulder to feel the Minx.22, then reached down and patted his ankle snubby.

  Halfway up the hill, he turned off the headlights and shifted to a lower gear for a slower, less noisy accent. A single lamp on a pole flooded the enclosure from the south side, and as his car bent down over the east rim, David saw the shadow of a hoisting crane spilling against the left bank, a giant crustacean perched o
n the latticed pattern of the fence.

  Light fog drifted in the silent, sharp air and David pounced on his Blackhawk when he heard the guttural meows of cats in a standoff. Easy now. He returned his hand to the wheel and eased the car forward, head still, eyes sweeping to and fro. He stopped abruptly when, over the dimly lit rows of barrels and dumpsters and through the links on the other side, he spotted the shape of a car.

  David was about to flash his lights. Wait! Who says he's in the car? He wanted to slouch down but the Mercedes wasn't built for his frame. He thus hunched his back and buried his head in his shoulders, turtle-like. Whipping out the Minx and grabbing the Blackhawk, he switched them in his hands and kept them close to his chest as he waited.

  The other car's lights blinked. David returned the blink, put down only the Minx and took his foot off the brakes. His car reached level land and, instead of gradually accelerating, he swerved to the left and gunned around to reach the far end in less than a moment, screeching to a halt opposite the driver's side of a late model sedan. He felt the floodlight in his eyes and, in one motion, pointed the Magnum at a darkened figure as he tightened his finger on the trigger, fully expecting to see a gun butt similarly leveled in his direction. There was none. The figure disappeared beneath the window and David heard a muffled plea, "David, don't. It's me, Nick Medicore."

  What the!

  The other car's door opened slowly and the figure slid out. David verified it was Nick-outwardly unarmed. And he recognized the car as a white Buick Park Avenue.

  "Stay down," David said, exiting. "Just in case." He raced to Nick's side and they both crouched between the cars. Nick pulled out a revolver from his waistband.

  "You got the same call?" David asked.

  "That I did," Nick said.

  David raised up and peered over the top of each car. He returned to his crouch and said, "I don't think he's here at all. Looks like we've been snookered. The creep's toying with us. Whoever he is, he's toying with us." Nick nodded.

  David wondered why Nick hadn't offered the same conclusion instead of a nod and then the proclamation, "Such are the wild chases in police work."