by Tony Dunbar
Dr. Randolph Swincter, thirty-five-year-old Caucasian male, was shocked by his colleague’s death. The two had collaborated on numerous projects and published several journal articles during their three years together. He had last seen Valentine Friday morning when they were both busy putting mice into the centrifuge to see what was on their brains. Tubby figured the police interviewer must have gotten that wrong. Swincter had left the lab at two o’clock, spent a couple of hours at the hospital library, then gone home to watch TV and eat takeout pizza. Vegetarian.
As far as he knew, no one disliked Dr. Valentine. Except maybe Cletus Busters, maintenance man, who Valentine thought might monkey with the mice after hours. Swincter had heard rumors that Busters swiped drugs from the hospital. He discounted them because, “If true, the guy would have been fired.”
The coroner’s report was only partly intelligible to Tubby, but it did eliminate the possibilities of suicide and accidental death. Valentine had been killed swiftly by a knife or other sharp blade stuck directly into the back of his head, severing the spinal cord, possibly just a few minutes before he was crammed into the freezer closet. This helped to explain the head’s separation from the body. No weapon had been found, but the coroner stated the obvious and speculated that it could have been a scalpel. He estimated that death had occurred, and the big chill had begun, between four and eleven o’clock on Friday night. Medical literature, it seemed, was limited on the means to tell how long a frozen person had been on ice, so he couldn’t be more precise.
Tubby sighed. He stood up and went into the tiny kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“How’s it looking, boss?” Cherrylynn asked when he passed her desk.
“Complicated,” he replied.
He was getting a headache.
“Have you got any aspirin?” he asked her.
“Sure.” She fished a bottle out of one of her desk drawers.
He thanked her and knocked them back with a swallow from his cup.
“See if you can reach Flowers,” he instructed. “Ask him to come here first chance he gets.”
She reached for the phone. Tubby trod softly back to the office and sat down to read his client’s statement. It was the typed transcript of a taped conversation, recorded at 3:12 a.m. on the night the body was found.
He read again the story of the discovery of the corpse. There was nothing new, except when Cletus said, “It fell right on me like a mummy coming out of a coffin,” Tubby could feel some of his client’s fear.
Cletus knew nothing about nothing. He was just cleaning up, like he did every night.
Stapled to this was the transcript of a second interview with Cletus. It had been made two hours later, at five a.m., at police headquarters. It began with Detective Ike Canteberry giving Cletus the Miranda warnings. Cletus said he didn’t need a lawyer. He had done nothing wrong. Detective Canteberry repeated the warnings, and Cletus said the same and added that he didn’t like lawyers. The policeman got him to sign a statement agreeing that he understood his rights. There was a copy of the statement attached to the transcript.
The questions now were a lot more probing.
“Tell me again what happened, when you opened the closet door.”
“The man fell on me, like in a horror show. I jumped out of the way, and his head busted off on the floor.”
“You touched the body?”
“I sure did. I picked up his head and tried to put it where it was supposed to be.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you open the closet?”
“I don’t know. To clean it, I guess.”
“To clean it?”
“That’s my job.”
“Had you ever cleaned it before?”
“No.”
“Did you see the sign that said ‘Do Not Open. Authorized Personnel Only’?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You didn’t know it was off limits?”
“No.”
“Did you open any other cabinets or drawers when you were in there?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Have you ever been arrested, Mr. Busters?”
“No.”
“Ever been convicted of a crime?”
“No.”
“I’m holding a rap sheet here for one Cletus Martavius Busters. Says you’ve been arrested twice for possession of a controlled substance. One was dismissed. You were found guilty of intent to distribute over one ounce of cocaine. You were sentenced to three years at hard labor at the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Then you were on probation. That was six years ago.”
“So?”
“You just lied to me about it.”
The transcript reflected “[No Answer].”
“Why did you lie about it?”
“I was set up. I didn’t do nothing alleged.”
“Nothing alleged, huh? Says here you did.”
“[No Answer].”
“Do you still deal drugs?”
“No, I never did.”
“Did you know that drugs were stored in the laboratories you cleaned?”
“No.”
“You mind if we search your house?”
“You stay out of my house. I thought you wanted to talk about Dr. Valentine. What’s all this drugs, drugs? That ain’t got nothing to do with anything.”
“Didn’t Dr. Valentine accuse you of taking certain types of drugs from the lab?”
“He didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t like me.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause I took pity on his rats. I hated to see them treated like he did. He thought I was feeding them stuff from the vending machines.”
“Did you?”
“No. All I ever did was talk to them. Stupid stuff.”
“How did he know that?”
“He came in and saw me doing it one night.”
“Doing what?”
“Just playing with the little rat.”
“You had one out of the cage?”
“He had got out of the cage all by hisself. I was just putting him back in.”
“What did Valentine do?”
“He cursed me out and made a report.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Personnel people told me to stay away from them mice.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“No more trouble with Valentine?”
“No.”
“Where were you Friday night?”
“Me? Working.”
“You went into that lab?”
“Sure, I cleaned it.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. Probably nine or ten o’clock.”
“Did you see Dr. Valentine?”
“No.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not in there.”
“Where?”
“I seen that security guard sitting at his desk eating potato chips.”
“Did you play with the rats that night?”
“No.”
“Did you open any of the drawers?”
“No.”
“How about the freezer closet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What you mean?”
“Why didn’t you open it to clean it, if that’s your job?”
“I guess I figured it was clean.”
“You guess?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you did see Dr. Valentine on Friday night.”
“He wasn’t there.”
“I think you got in a fight with him.”
“No way. Maybe I do want a lawyer.”
“I think you stuck Valentine into that freezer.”
“No way.”
“What did you say about a lawyer?”
“I want one.”
“Okay by me.”
End of interview.
Flowers arrived, bustlin
g as always. Cherrylynn tried to keep up with him, but he barely slowed down on his way to the inner office.
“What have you got?” Tubby asked without preamble.
“Hello to you,” Flowers said. “Okay. I can fill you in on our Dr. Valentine. I’ve spoken with a few of the other MDs who work in the lab, including a Dr. Swincter, and nosed around his neighborhood some.”
“And?” Tubby leaned back in his chair. It creaked.
“Thirty-six years old. Highly regarded in his field. He’s published quite a few articles on unpronounceable topics, and I’m getting copies made for you. Most of them seem to deal with strange ways people die. Most recently he’s been investigating, with Dr. Swincter, the death of a woman who drove off the Highway 11 bridge into Lake Pontchartrain after suffering a heart attack for no apparent reason. Her condition looked much like an allergic reaction, but to what? It’s the kind of mystery that makes forensic pathologists happy to get out of bed in the morning. This I got from the head of the lab, one Dr. Charles Auchinschloss, a/k/a ‘the dean.’
“Valentine, according to the dean, was a workaholic – only a couple of years out of his fellowship. Now he’s a hot shot scientist and a consultant to medical instrument companies. In other words, he was poor as a blues singer just a little while ago, but now he makes lots of money to pay off all his student loans. He teaches at the medical school. He’s socially connected and rode in the Momus parade at Mardi Gras. He goes home to a very pretty wife in a condo in River Ridge. Her name, get this, is Ruby. She is a nurse, but in a different hospital. They met at a convention.”
“Kids?” Tubby asked.
“None. They’ve only been married for two years. She seems to have adjusted well to his demise. It’s been four months, of course, but she displayed no outward signs of grief. Sort of nice-looking. I could almost believe she was coming on to me.”
“A dangerous thing to do.”
“Aw.” Flowers looked hurt.
“Any impression of Swincter or Auchinschloss?”
“Swincter is your basic medical nerd. Looks decent enough. Cleans his nails. Has a difficult time conversing about anything other than his work. And when he talks about that you can’t understand him.
“Dr. Auchinschloss is the opposite. I mean, he can gossip just fine but doesn’t seem too plugged into what is actually going on in his labs. He projects the absentminded professor. He did mention that Valentine was recently on the search committee that selected him as the new assistant dean at the medical school. I get the feeling it was a controversial job.”
“Find out who got the job and who didn’t.”
“Not bad, counselor. What else do you want me to do?”
“We need somebody else to hang this murder on, so keep digging around the hospital. Have you talked to his students?”
“Not yet, but I’m getting some names.”
“Okay. And we’d better find out about our client. Take a look at the police report.” Tubby gave Flowers the rap sheet. “Let’s see what the hell he’s up to when he’s not opening freezer doors.”
“I’ll stay in touch,” Flowers said.
“Please do,” Tubby called to his back.
* * *
Tubby paced around his office. Shocking that there should be so much duplicity and pain in such a beautiful city. Even in the middle of winter, when those ay-yuppers in Vermont were tunneling through the snow to get to their cows, green trees lined the avenues of New Orleans. Gulf breezes brought the fragrance of marsh grasses and satsuma trees. Mardi Gras balls and King Cake parties had begun. Seagulls sailed serenely over the riverbanks, rich with supper. If people could not live in peace here, where could they?
Tubby was daydreaming himself into the governor’s mansion when the phone rang.
The invitation to dinner was quite unexpected.
“I’d like you to get to know him,” Mattie explained.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Tubby said. “Don’t forget I actually know Byron already, since I sued him and took his deposition twice. I don’t really think he wants to have dinner with me.”
“Of course he does,” Mattie insisted. “It might be a little awkward, but I feel the need somehow to be able to sit down like adults and be sociable. You could bring some lady friend as your guest. It would be a foursome.”
“Mattie. I don’t want to do this. I’m not seeing anybody seriously right now. It would be too strange.”
“Do it for me, Tubby. It’s crazy, I know, but I can’t seem to let myself be completely free with Byron until I somehow have your blessing. It would help me make a break.”
“Jesus, Mattie, you have my blessing. Please be free.” He thought he was going to gag.
“Tubby, it’s a simple request.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Thank you,” she gushed. “We’ll go to the Steak Knife up in Lakeview. It will all be very nice and civilized. You bring some nice woman. I know you must know one.”
Was that a barb?
“Okay,” he said.
“A week from Friday night?”
“No.”
“Sunday night.”
“Okay.”
“You’re a sweet man.”
Good God.
“Mattie, have you talked to Debbie lately?”
“You mean about her being pregnant?” she replied bluntly.
“Yes. I just didn’t know if she had told you yet.”
“Of course she told me. I’m her mother.”
“What do you think?”
“I like Marcos a lot. I hope they have the baby.”
“She’s so young.”
“You may be forgetting how young we were when we got married.”
“I just hate to see her forced into growing up so fast.”
“We all make our choices. And the circumstances were about the same for you and me, if you recall.”
“Were we really so stupid?”
“I think they call it innocent. And you’ve always been the innocent one, Tubby. You don’t ever know what’s happening unless it hits you right in the face.”
What was that supposed to mean?
CHAPTER 13
The sidewalk outside of the New Orleans State University Medical School was, as they say in south Louisiana, hot faché. People waiting for the bus grabbed at bits of shade in desperation – wedging themselves into the shadows cast by a stop sign or a telephone pole – and tried to stand motionless with minimal mental activity. Praline vendors, panhandlers, doctors and nurses in white coats, all floated languidly, in a slow glide, through the bright shimmering air. But inside the hospital the weather was cold, brisk, and clean. Say what you will about the great American health-care crisis, Tubby reflected as he took great gulps of air-conditioning, there was an awful lot of money moving through the hospital system.
An information lady dressed in a pink apron told him which colored line to follow to reach the Moskowitz Memorial Laboratory. It was not a short hike, on the narrow yellow trail, and the number of people in the halls thinned out considerably as he penetrated further into the healing maze.
At last the line disappeared under a set of swinging doors with an imposing sign on them that warned all but authorized personnel to go away.
Tubby forged ahead. The hallway continued, and he passed side doors to what he thought must be laboratories. All were closed, and cartoons from magazines or homemade curtains covered up the glass observation panels. At a point where the hallway made a T, there was a desk and a chair and a sign that said SECURITY. No one was sitting at the desk, and Tubby searched the walls vainly for some clue to the whereabouts of Laboratory 3, which was where Cherrylynn had said he was to meet Dr. Swincter at noon.
A woman wearing a green shirt and baggy pants, with puffs of paper around her hair and shoes, shuffled around the corner.
“Can you tell me where Dr. Swincter’s lab is?”
“At the end of the hall, the door on the right,” she told him, withou
t turning her head or slowing down.
The door to Lab 3 also had a sign on it that read: NO ADMITTANCE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. There was a window maybe ten inches square at eye level, but it was covered from the inside with a piece of yellowing notebook paper.
It slid open suddenly and a slim man wearing a tan suit, looking self-assured and untroubled, stepped into the hall.
“Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” he and Tubby mumbled to each other while they did a clumsy dance; then the man walked swiftly away, leaving a breeze of cologne.
Purple Musk? Tubby guessed, remembering his daughters’ birthday gifts, intended to improve him, neglected on his dresser at home.
He pushed the shiny handle tentatively and peeked around the edge of the door. He saw white walls, stacks of gray metal cages, and long counters topped with bright stainless steel. At the center counter, on a stool, a short man sat with his head in his hands.
“Pardon me,” Tubby called, and stepped in through the doorway.
The man looked startled, as if not many people came in here, and Tubby saw a look of irritation cross a strained and very businesslike face.
“Yes?” the man said, raising one bushy black eyebrow in a manner designed to dismiss orderlies and civilians.
“Excuse me,” Tubby said. “I’m looking for Dr. Swincter.”
“That’s me,” the doctor said, and patted the pockets of his lab coat.
“Hi, I’m Tubby Dubonnet. You talked to my secretary.”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor said resentfully. “I have so little time…” he began, but he was distracted when the door behind him whooshed open again. A dark-haired woman, also wearing the standard white uniform of the hospital officer corps, entered the lab.
“Excuse me, Trina,” Swincter said. “This man is the lawyer for the fellow who killed Whitney. I’ll be a little while.”