Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  "But I hate guns."

  "So do I."

  "David, come off it," she said with a sardonic grin. "Then why the big deal with this?"

  "I already said it. It's state of the art. You've got to keep pace with criminals."

  "How can you hate guns when you have that ludicrous collection taking up half the house?"

  "You know the answer. We've been through this before. I inherited it."

  "Then sell it."

  "I can be talked into that." David was surprised at his own firmness.

  Kathy's eyes crinkled at the corners, thinning the shadow she seldom wore. "Will you give me that promise as another present?"

  "Will you keep the Beretta and throw out the other one?"

  "Yes."

  David said, "It's a deal," and held out his hand.

  She studied the hand for a moment and said, "I want more than a handshake."

  "Not here," he said, looking around.

  "Oh, for crying out loud," she responded and lifted up to kiss him on the lips. He pulled back.

  "Wait," he said. "Let's clarify this. If the house goes when we get married, the guns go, too."

  "Now there you go again." Kathy rearranged the silverware. "Why do you always have to rethink things?"

  "Because I'm wrong so many times." David thought his response was clever and his face showed it. "Let's put it this way," he continued, "the house and the collection go together. We'll treat them as one."

  Kathy paused, her features shifting as if she were reaching for the marrow of a complex solution. "David, let's face it. You're nearly forty and still living in a pad."

  David signaled for the waiter and said, "Sure, and that's why we'll probably sell it."

  "And the guns?"

  "And the guns."

  David had been going through the motions. Kathy's fortuitous birthday, talk of guns and the future of 10 Oak Lane, his studied repartee-they all combined to inhibit, however feebly, the angst of a punishing day and of yesterday and of the days before that. And he shrunk from thoughts that the days were running out before more violence erupted, before more friends were taken, or clues were lost or the hospital became buried in terminal scandal.

  He felt pinched in and, try as he might, failed to develop into a temporary romantic even after two rounds of drinks. He knew Kathy shared the emotion but it was an unequal sharing because the killings had occurred on his turf, some of the victims were his friends and, after all, she was the professional. But they both agreed to forgo a champagne toast this time.

  After pledging they would refrain from "detective talk" during dinner-prime rib for each-they ate in near silence. Finally, over coffee, David sensed his features turning to steel as he said, "Okay, now down to business. First, about Nick back there in the parking lot. I thought you said he wanted me off the cases. He was his usual frothy self but other than that …"

  Kathy blurted, "I spoke to him."

  "Saying what?"

  "That you're of more value in the investigation than out of it. Simple."

  "He agreed?"

  "It sure looks like it."

  "Okay, end of that." He pulled out the summary printout from his breast pocket. "Next, here's a nutshell of what's transpired lately, plus what I think are possibilities and who I think the suspects are. Look at the last line-no big surprises, you agree?"

  Kathy read the list of suspects and replied, "I agree except for Nick." She shook her head. "Hey, it's your list. And I still have doubts about the psychiatrist, but tell me again, why's he included?"

  "He wanted the Chief of Staff job pretty badly and … just a vague hunch, I guess."

  "But David, before we go any further, when you say suspects, you mean in the Spritz killing or what?"

  "Ah, one of the two sixty-four dollar questions. Did Spritz kill all the others or are there two murderers? The other is, how do the drugs tie in, if at all?"

  They discussed the trilogy of motive, opportunity and means and debated the merits of the physical evidence to date. They had engaged in "detective talk" for over an hour-it was now nine o'clock-before deciding in favor of David's confrontation with each of the suspects as the next priority.

  David paid the bill in plastic and they rose to leave. He bent down, kissed her forehead and said, "Happy birthday, again. You're sleeping at my pad as you call it, right."

  "I'll suffer through it."

  "No more detective talk there?"

  "No talk at all."

  As he led Kathy to the exit, they approached the other table that was empty when they had arrived. Three of the four chairs were now occupied. Kathy crashed into David as he stopped in his tracks. Seated were Nick, Sparky and a matronly woman David had never seen before. They were drinking wine.

  The two men scraped their chairs back along the wooden floor and stood, baring their teeth in broad smiles. David's ears felt like molten rocks and he was sure they noticed but decided he didn't care.

  "Please sit," he said. They returned to their chairs.

  "David, I'd like you to met my wife, Gretchen," Nick said. "Dear, this is Dr. Brooks."

  She extended her hand and David reached down and shook her fingers. "Hello," he said, evenly.

  "Nicholas speaks of you often, Dr. Brooks."

  "And I speak of him often," David said, too quickly.

  He put his arm around Kathy to guide her to his side. He noticed her saying shut up silently.

  "And of course you know Kathy Dupre," Nick said.

  "Yes, hi there again," Gretchen said. She was an industrial size woman with a puffy face, a shade shorter than her husband. In silhouette from the shoulders down, she resembled a question mark. Her smoky hair was coifed high on her head and she wore a black granny dress without ruffles. David wondered whether her pearl necklace was real.

  "What brings you here?" David asked, looking at Nick. What he actually had in mind was, what brought him and Sparky there?

  "Just a night out," Nick said. "And you're here to celebrate Kathy's birthday, I take it?" He wore a dark business suit and appeared to be on his best behavior.

  "I didn't know you two were social friends," David said, bowing first at Sparky, then back at Nick.

  "Oh, but we are," Nick replied. "Cross-country for years. I guess that's not really social but it's good to celebrate any friendship at last."

  David had to work at a smile. Is that all they're celebrating? He faced the unmarried criminalist whom he had seen eating out many times before, usually alone. Sparky looked out of place in a blue pinstripe.

  "Spark, as long as I've run into you, can I ask two `shop' questions? It'll save a phone call."

  Sparky gave an annoyed nod before glancing at Nick.

  "Prints and slugs," David said, not waiting for a reply.

  "You mean at the Spritz scene?"

  "Uh … yes." Where else, pal?

  "I couldn't lift any prints except his own on some of the equipment."

  "Not even mine?" David knew he had his winter gloves on when he entered the van and latex when he probed it.

  "Not even yours."

  David noticed Nick's etched smile and Gretchen buttering bread as if shoptalk had been her way of life. "And the slugs?"

  "There were six of them. I only examined the three we pried out of the floor some distance behind the body. Incidentally, I think he was in a sitting position when the perp pumped him. I'll get the other slugs from the medical examiner tomorrow but I'm sure they're the same. Anyway, they check out as.45's. I can't be a hundred per cent sure but they could have been fired from one of the new Kimber ACP's. We just got some information on them. They come in a series."

  "Hmm," David said. A bit too much information, or is he trying to impress Gretchen? Even David felt he was over reading the criminalist. He took Kathy by the hand.

  "Thanks, Sparky," he said, leading her away. He looked back. "Good to see you folks. Enjoy your meal. Nice meeting you, Gretchen."

  "Good night, everybody," Kat
hy said, bracing her legs. "See you two tomorrow."

  Verdi had replaced Sinatra as they edged their way among the tables. Only Kathy acknowledged well-wishers.

  Seated in the Mercedes, the ignition off, David said, "Well, what do you think?"

  "I think you never let me ask a question in there-or say anything for that matter."

  "You see them everyday."

  "Exactly. Aha, exactly. So do Nick and Sparky-see each other everyday, I mean. So what's the fuss about their eating out together?"

  "What fuss?"

  Kathy snuggled against him, reached up and grabbed his chin as she always did to make a point. "Darling, you've already pegged them as the killers because they had dinner at the same table."

  He snatched her wrists, circled them to her back and, elevating her to his size, gave her a brief but hefty kiss on the lips. He pulled back an inch and said, "Wrong," even as he informed her he'd changed his list to "Suspect-6."

  "Suspects, not killers," he added. Then he replanted his lips and released her arms which she wrapped around his neck.

  As Kathy dozed on the drive home, David dwelled on questions they hadn't addressed, and the, one that kept recurring was: why didn't Spritz dispose of evidence better? Its corollary: was the evidence planted? The answer to the last question would shape the entire character of the future investigation. In one scenario, he reasoned, Spritz killed the other four and someone then killed him. In the other scenario, a serial killer was still on the loose. David's inclination was that Victor Spritz murdered the others for very clear-cut reasons, but David questioned how long he could rationalize away Spritz's sloppiness in disposing of the evidence by means of his psychiatric history. Therefore, unless and until additional findings tilted the scales in that direction, he would assume a single evildoer was responsible for all five slayings.

  David swerved into the driveway at 10 Oak Lane and Kathy flinched awake. He thought the night, though clear, seemed darker, the trees brooding, the silence thicker. In the garage, he noticed the slit to Kathy's eyes and, once in the den, he said, "You go on up. I'm clear on something and I want to upload it. I'll be up soon."

  She opened the closet door and in attempting to hang up her coat, dropped the hanger twice. Exasperated, she said, "I give up," and flung the coat over the back of the sofa before climbing the stairs.

  David, following her actions, said, "See you in the morning."

  He sat at the computer and typed:

  Five Point Tactical Plan:

  1 — Interrogate 4 of the 6 suspects: Foster, Bernie, Robert, Corliss

  2 — Visit or revisit homes. May need Musco: Bernie, Spritz, Robert

  3 — Visit murder site: Coughlin at parking gate

  4 — North End for druggie belchers. Definitely need Musco

  5 — Special situation with Nick and Sparky: SURVEILLANCE

  He turned off the computer, picked up Kathy's coat and dropped the hanger once himself before securing it in the closet. Upstairs he found her in bed, approaching full sleep. He was not far behind.

  Chapter 21

  David heard rain pounding against the window, his first cognitive process in a dreamless sleep he had not anticipated nine hours ago. For if children had visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, he had expected sour balls.

  It was seven o'clock Sunday morning and he marveled at the clarity of church bells penetrating the dense showers outside, calling it Archimedes' Law. Or Bernoulli's. No, neither. It's the law of reflection: "As sound reflects off tiny moist barriers, the sound intensifies." David had made that up and chuckled as he poured orange juice. Getting ditsy, he told himself. Or just trying to cover up the anxiety already congealing for the day. Once again, he questioned his presence in the suction of escalating and violent unknowns. Too premature for a beginner detective at this level? Too emotive a baptism for a medical man trained to keep his cool, to call the shots?

  It mattered not that it was Sunday or that the weather he checked through the kitchen window appeared dug in. And it mattered not his mood or his uncertainties; he had to make the most of Time. He heard the bathroom shower running and, slipping off his robe, joined Kathy there, then in bed, learning what mattered for the moment and what had jump-started his day.

  After they smiled through a light breakfast, David drove her to her condo. They sat in the car while, for the first time, he explained his general course of action as outlined in his Tactical Plan. She offered to accompany him after church but he declined, announcing his greater maneuverability-when-solo to a raised eyebrow. They would touch base later in the afternoon.

  It was eight-thirty, the rain had eased and warmed, but the air smelled sassy. He hadn't until then determined his agenda for the day as he streaked along a byway toward the main parking lot of Hollings General. It would be an ideal time to reconnoiter the site of Everett Coughlin's shooting: doctors made their rounds later on Sundays, surgeons performed only emergency procedures on weekends, and the overall vehicular flow was minimal. David preferred not to tip his hand in any way to any person.

  He ran his entry card across the automated machine at the gate and parked his car in the center of the lot between two cars of the only half-dozen there. He had never understood his acceptance of a raincoat for rain, yet his aversion to an overcoat for cold. He unbuttoned two buttons of a London Fog for easy access to the shoulder rig and-Friday in one hand and a Tote umbrella in the other-walked back to the gate, stopped, and looked up at the knoll where the killer had been positioned eight days before. David realized that back then he had not fully appreciated how isolated the spot was, shielded in front by thick bushes and at the rear by the construction site for the new psychiatric facility.

  Out in the open, on a morning when the lot was not jammed with doctors' cars and the construction site was free from workers, he would have felt sufficiently secure with the hardware attached to his shoulder and ankle. But he strutted around the gate two or three times, swinging Friday for the benefit of anyone who might glance out windows, not to convey to him or her a message of added firepower-because no one knew its contents-but to announce he was officially sleuthing. He was aware that most hospital personnel had come around to recognize the attache case as a special badge, distinct from the hospital-issued floppy one he refused to clip to his jacket and, as such, Friday conveyed an aura of legitimacy.

  Of all the murder sites-here, the O.R. suite, the locker room, the elevator shaft, the van-this was the one he believed he had given short shrift to. Although he had recovered a spent shell and baby nipple, he recalled the ice on the incline, the distraction of the Major Crime Unit below, and his failure, at the time, to explore the construction site by motoring to a higher level and approaching it from the rear.

  He tipped the umbrella and gave it a smart shake, but no drops dislodged. He tucked Friday under one arm, held out his other and felt no moisture on his hand. Convinced the rain had stopped, he looked toward the hospital windows, collapsed the umbrella, squeegeed it with his fingers and inserted it in the attache case.

  The ground sounded moist but not soggy beneath David's shoes as he climbed the incline. He passed by several bushes, paying no heed to the point where he had located evidence on his prior inspection there because, now of a single purpose, he headed toward the partially erected building, the cobalt blue of its cinder blocks more striking than he had remembered, its contour honey-combed with window and door holes like a child's drawing of a house. David was one of many who had voiced their disapproval to the building committee of the structure's facade color, but then again he was not fond of its contemporary architectural design, either. In the face of entreaties by Alton Foster and Dr. Sam Corliss, however, who was David Brooks to complain?

  And now, perhaps the color was a divine selection because the mortar's hue was unmistakable and potentially incriminating. David had reasoned that particles of masonry might have stuck to the killer's shoes, particles that might have been tracked by workers to the ground aroun
d piles of sand and gravel, between strewn empty soda cans, around the backhoe and generator and steam shovel, now silent. In all likelihood, David thought, the perp had arrived at his vantage point by way of the road on the upper level and, therefore, around the roughly assembled shell or through jambs on which doors had not yet been hung. He conceded to himself that the ice of two Saturdays before might have hardened any particles but counterpointed that the shortest route from the road to the top of the knoll was through and not around the shell.

  The brusque remark of Nick Medicore that evidence could have been planted to ensnare Spritz had layered David's subconscious only to surface as he stooped over to examine dust and particulate matter on the floor of the shell. The remark had been too offhanded to suit David at the time but, nonetheless, he was in a position now to invalidate it: who would ever think of planting blue particles? But then again, who could ever have carried off all five murders? He stared briefly at a stack of cinder blocks and considered knocking off the corner of one of them and then pulverizing it, but he wanted to simulate in the aggregate all material that might have been picked up by a shoe.

  He took out several small plastic bags from Friday and brushed in samples from random locations in the building, coughing from the smell of masonry, smacking his lips together as dust powder settled on his tongue. Kathy always told him he didn't keep his mouth closed long or often enough.

  He held up one of the bags against the sunlight beginning to elbow through a window hole. His jaw tensed but could not hold back a compact smile. That son-of-a-bitch is blue-definitely blue.

  He packed the plastic bags in Friday and stole away, like the winner in a game of marbles thirty years ago.

  It took David ten minutes to make the fifteen-minute drive to Marblehead. Nor did he waste any time removing a crowbar from the trunk of his car and jimmying the back door of Victor Spritz's house. There had been no need to summon Musco, no need to fool a dead man.

  David's visit had a dual purpose, and if his hunches were correct, he hoped that the issue of Spritz's having been set up would finally be put to rest.