Silent Treatment

by Michael Palmer

  “Oh, good.”

  Andrew smiled weakly and drifted off.

  The nurse, whose MMC name tag identified him as Sanjay Samar, R.N., checked the bag of glucose and the plastic infusion tubing. Then he injected a small amount of liquid through the rubber port.

  “Just to clear line,” he said softly.

  “Mm-hm,” Andrew murmured without opening his eyes.

  Sanjay was putting his metal basket back in order when he noticed a patch of white skin just inside his elbow. In the future, he thought, when he used that particular skin dye, he would have to be more careful. He left the room and walked purposefully to the stairway that was farthest from the nurse’s station. His expression was all business, but beneath his spectacles and his dark brown contact lenses, his pale blue eyes were sparkling.

  CHAPTER 21

  “All right, Doc, let’s start all over again.”

  “From where?”

  “From the fucking beginning, that’s from where.”

  Albert Dickinson, his rumpled suit in desperate need of dry cleaning, stubbed out one Pall Mall as he prepared to light another. The ashtray was full-to-overflowing. The small interrogation room reeked of years of tobacco, stale coffee, and body odor. Harry shifted uncomfortably in the slat-back wooden chair and wondered if he should back off on saying anything else without calling Mel Wetstone. But the truth was he had done nothing wrong. And aside from his intimate involvement in last night’s Central Park murder, he had nothing to hide. Still, his troubles were piling up rapidly. And now a young man he cared very much for was dead.

  Approximately twenty minutes after Harry left room 505, a nurse’s aide found Andrew Barlow lying peacefully in bed without any pulse or respirations. A brief attempt at resuscitation by the nurses and residents was called off because of fixed, dilated pupils and an absolutely straight-line EKG. Although morning was the busiest, most hectic time of day in the hospital, with any number of technicians, physicians, students, maintenance people, aides, transportation workers, and nurses coming and going, none of the staff on Alexander 5 recalled seeing anyone enter or leave Barlow’s room after Harry.

  After receiving the news, Harry canceled what few patients he had left to see and returned, numb and dreamlike, to the hospital. Andy Barlow lay on his back in the semi-darkness, a sheet drawn up to his chin. His face already reflected the early mottling of death. Harry wanted to scream, to bellow like the wounded animal he was. He wanted to destroy the room, to rip attachments from the wall, to snatch up a chair and hurl it through the plate glass window. Instead, he sat alone by the bedside, Andy Barlow’s hand in his, and wept.

  Before he left the floor, he placed three phone calls. The first was to inform Owen Erdman that he would be calling back later that day to set up an appointment as soon as possible. The second call was to Andy’s family, and the third was to Albert Dickinson.

  “If you think being the one to notify me takes you off my list,” Dickinson said now, “you’re crazy.” He thought for a moment and then added, “But that’s just the point, isn’t it.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re crazy.”

  Dickinson could not charge him with any crime until an autopsy proved that Andy had died of something other than natural causes. But even a negative autopsy would leave unanswered questions. After all, the young architect was officially listed by the hospital as being in guarded condition, and the nurses to whom Dickinson had spoken testified that Harry’s false alarm had doubtless added immeasurable stress to an already difficult situation.

  “It wasn’t a false alarm,” Harry said, with exaggerated patience. “My office manager heard the call.”

  “Correction, sir. She heard the phone ring. Even a dumb cop like me knows the difference between hearing a phone ring and overhearing a conversation.”

  “Well, there was a patient of mine there, too. Standing in the hall right outside my door. He heard some of the conversation. Some of my half of it, anyway.”

  “Well, I guess that convinces me.”

  “Don’t be snide.”

  “Then don’t keep throwing ridiculous stories at me like I’m some sort of a fucking re-tard.”

  “The man’s name was Concepcion. Walter Concepcion.”

  Harry reviewed the little he had learned about his new patient—former private detective, now unemployed, recovering crack cocaine addict, chronic headaches, nervous tic. Just the sort of corroborating witness Dickinson would expect him to come up with—one that would fit in nicely alongside DT-ing alcoholic Maura Hughes. Bookends.

  “Get me this Walter whatsizname’s address and I’ll speak to him,” Dickinson said.

  “Listen,” Harry responded, “just tell me one thing, What would I have to gain by faking such a phone call? Why would I do it?”

  “Let me think … Why would you fake a phone call from the man you say killed your wife, announcing that now he has decided for no particular reason to knock off some poor faggot who was going to die anyway? Gee, beats me.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t make up the phone call. Are you done with me?”

  “You know, it could be this guy just died of heart failure or something,” Dickinson went on, loosening his tie. “I mean, if I was lying there in guarded condition with AIDS and pneumonia and my doctor came bursting into my room screaming that someone was trying to kill me, I might just croak, too.”

  Harry sighed.

  “Look, Lieutenant. I called you and told you about Andy’s death. I waited around while you and your man questioned everyone on the floor. I came down here to the station without calling a lawyer. I’ve sat here for an hour and a half answering questions that I’ve answered two or three times already. I’ve listened to your insults and your innuendos and your accusations, and I haven’t given you a hard time in any way. Right at this moment, I’m feeling incredibly bad about what happened to Andy Barlow. I really liked him, and I was working like hell to get him through his pneumonia. I think he was murdered by the same man who murdered Evie. But that man wasn’t me. If you have any questions I haven’t heard before, ask them. Otherwise, I want to go home.”

  “If that autopsy’s positive, you’re my man,” Dickinson said.

  “Fine.”

  “And if it’s negative, you’re still my man.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Dickinson moved to stub out a half-finished Pall Mall, realized what he was doing, and instead flicked the ash in Harry’s general direction before taking another drag. Harry took his suit coat from the back of his chair and headed for the door.

  “You haven’t arrested me for Evie’s murder because you couldn’t find a DA who thought you had a good enough case. And they’re right. I didn’t do it.”

  “Tell that to the grand jury, Doc. I’ve got a week’s pay says they’re about to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “You know how to find me,” Harry said.

  It was after three when Harry returned to his office. The waiting room was empty. Behind the glass of the reception area, Mary Tobin looked forlorn.

  “We had already canceled and rescheduled Mrs. Gonsalves and the Silverman kids once before today,” she said. “Dora Gonsalves was okay about it, but Mrs. Silverman was upset. She called just a few minutes ago to ask that her family’s records be sent over to Dr. Lorello.”

  “Marv’s a good guy. He’ll take good care of them.”

  “You’re not upset?”

  “Of course I’m upset, Mary. But what am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Dr. C. I guess this is all starting to get to me.”

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s terrible about Andy Barlow.”

  Harry crumpled a blank intake form and clenched his fist around it.

  “The bastard who killed him is going to pay,” he said. “I swear he is.” He threw the balled paper at the wastebasket and missed by two feet. “I had to call Andy’s folks in Delaware an
d tell them. I hate that part of this job anytime, but I hate having to do it over the phone the most.”

  Mary stood up and embraced her boss. Her family had seen more than its share of tragedy over the years, and she knew how to comfort and console. There was a special warmth in her wide girth that reminded Hairy of his own mother before her recurrent strokes and weight loss of seventy or eighty pounds. He prolonged the hug for a few extra seconds.

  “I’m afraid I have another piece of bad news,” she said as he drew away. “Sara, quit.”

  Harry felt himself sink. His nurse practitioner had been part of the office for over four years. She was bright, anxious to learn, and quite willing to handle most medical problems the way he would have. His patients loved her, and she actually generated a bit more money for the office than her salary. He glanced down the hall, but could tell that her office was dark.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “All this stuff has been really getting to her. I think her husband’s been putting pressure on her, too. She went home sick today, but she said she’ll finish the week—two if you really want.”

  “One will be okay,” Harry said, distracted. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” Another casualty. “Mary, did you reschedule that man Walter Concepcion?”

  “Next week. Wednesday, I think. He tried explaining to me what he overheard from your end of that call from … from that man. I think he was embarrassed and upset about not just turning around and walking away.”

  “I’m actually glad he didn’t. Do we have any phone number for him?”

  “We do. He didn’t put one on his questionnaire, but he left one later. I think the phone’s in the hallway of a rooming house of some kind.”

  “Copy it and his address for me, will you please? I might try and get in touch with him.”

  At that moment, the private line in the back office began ringing. Harry tensed.

  “Quick, Mary,” he said, whispering although there was no one around to hear, “follow me in case it’s him.”

  They hurried down the hall to the office. He motioned her to a spot where they could share the receiver. The phone was in its fourth ring when he snatched it up.

  “Dr. Corbett,” he said.

  “Harry, hey, I’m glad I found you. It’s Doug.”

  Harry covered the mouthpiece.

  “It’s Doug Atwater,” he said, obviously disappointed. “The killer hasn’t made any mistakes yet. I guess it was wishful thinking, expecting him to make one now.” He waited until Mary had left, then took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Hi, Doug,” he said.

  Atwater was just about the only person affiliated with the hospital that he could deal with hearing from at this point.

  “Harry, I just got a call from Owen wanting to know if I had heard from you. He told me about that poor guy on Alexander Five. It’s terrible. Just terrible. And I know you aren’t responsible in any way.”

  “Doug, there’s a madman loose in the hospital. He killed Evie, and now he’s trying to hurt me any way he can.”

  “Owen told me that’s what you believe is going on.”

  “That is what’s going on.”

  “Hey, there’s no need to bite my head off. This is the first time you’ve said a thing to me about any madman in the hospital.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Harry, the nursing service has been bugging Owen that you were supposed to have called and taken yourself off the staff. Is that so?”

  “No, it’s not. Doug, I’ve spent twenty years establishing myself as a doctor. I’m not going to just chuck it now. Besides, if I don’t hang in there and fight, they’re never going to find the guy who’s doing this. As things stand, finding him is my only chance.”

  Hang in there and fight Harry thought back to the morning just a few weeks ago when he complained to Phil that he didn’t have any challenges in life.

  “You coming in to talk with Owen about this?” Atwater asked.

  “Yes. I was going to do it a couple of hours ago, but I’ve been tied up with one of the detectives. Oh, you know the guy—Dickinson, that same one from when Evie died.”

  “Oh, no. That guy’s an idiot. Does he think you’re responsible for this man’s death, too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, shit, Harry. I’m sorry. Listen, is there anything I can do?”

  “I wish there were.”

  “You don’t have any idea who’s doing this to you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “You know, Harry,” Atwater said finally, “maybe you should consider taking a little time off from the hospital. At least until this business cools down—until the dust settles. I’ve been behind you one hundred percent in this thing, you know I have. But with the nurses on the warpath, and Owen having a meltdown, it’s getting hot, damn hot.”

  “You don’t believe me either, do you. I can tell from your tone of voice.”

  “Harry, you’ve got to be reasonable. There are other sides to this thing.”

  “Thanks for calling, Doug. Every single one of you might vote to throw me out, but I’m not quitting.”

  Harry set the receiver down without waiting for a reply and sank into his chair. His long-standing friend and possibly his last ally at the hospital had just bailed out. Atwater lacked the authority to get him lifted from the staff at the hospital, but he could suspend him as a provider for the Manhattan Health HMO. Manhattan Health patients probably represented 40 or 50 percent of his practice. Without them, it was doubtful he could stay in business for long.

  Mary Tobin returned to his office doorway and announced that she had done as much as she could and was leaving for the day to run some errands. Harry thanked her, told her with too little conviction not to worry, and watched as she left the office. Tomorrow he would share the news of the body blow that Atwater seemed poised to deliver. He had no desire to heap more worry on her today than he had already.

  He scanned his desk and the floor around it for any charts that needed dictating. There were none. He dialed Maura’s apartment number and then his own, but got answering machines in both places.

  Harry told each machine that he would be home by four. Then he called Owen Erdman and set up yet another appointment to discuss his future at Manhattan Medical Center. Finally, he straightened his desk, set his feet up on one corner, closed his eyes, and tried desperately to think of something, anything, he could do to cut through the insanity that was smothering him. The ringing phone nearly startled him out of the chair. Once again, it was his private line. He lifted the receiver, but said nothing. In the brief silence that followed, Harry knew. The killer was back. Back to gloat.

  “The autopsy on your patient will be negative,” the unmistakable voice said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I have access to a neurotoxin so powerful and so short-lived that by the time it kills, it has already begun disappearing from the body. The final metabolism of the poison actually occurs after death. And here we have the temerity to call the Indians in the Amazon basin savages. I tell you, when it comes to killing, they are virtuosos.”

  Harry could feel the killer’s arrogance and enormous ego. Having witnessed the unspeakable consequences of angering him, he chose his words carefully.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Closure. That’s all. Same as before. I’d prefer you did it with a note—ideally with a note admitting to the ill-advised administration of—what was it you used?—oh, yes, Aramine. The ill-advised administration of Aramine to your wife. You will at last be at peace. And I will have my closure.”

  “I’m no threat to you at all,” Harry countered. “No one is. I can’t even get anyone to believe that you exist.”

  Can’t even get anyone to believe that you exist …

  Harry’s thoughts were suddenly racing. The man was insane, true, but he was also smart. Why was he taking a chance like this, calling Harry in the office when anyone m
ight overhear his confession? All Harry needed was one reliable ally with firsthand knowledge, just one. He knew about the private line, and apparently, he also knew there was no way Harry could signal one of his office staff to pick up an extension. But how could he know that someone wasn’t standing by, listening as Mary Tobin had when Doug Atwater called? He was bold and arrogant, but he was certainly not careless. Why would he chance it? Harry struggled to understand. Then suddenly he knew. The bastard was watching the office! Right now, somewhere nearby, watching! No other explanation made sense.

  “Listen, a delivery man just came down from one of the upstairs offices,” Harry said. “I just have to give him a package. If you have anything further to say to me, stay on. I’ll be right back.”

  He set the receiver on his desk and sprinted down the hall to the front door. There was a pay phone on the other side of the street, two buildings down. His tormentor had to be there!

  Harry charged from the building into the late afternoon glare, narrowly avoiding a yellow cab as he raced across the street. The half kiosk housing the pay phone was deserted. But it hadn’t been. The receiver dangled down, swinging to and fro like a pendulum. The white handkerchief resting on the small metal counter promised that there would be no fingerprints. Harry raced to Fifth Avenue, the nearest corner. Pedestrian traffic was heavy. He scanned the street, searching for someone who looked out of place or interested in him. Nothing. Carla DeJesus, the elderly proprietor of a small variety store, stopped sweeping the sidewalk by her shop and waved. Harry waved back, walked over, and asked if she had seen anyone unusual or anyone running down the street. She had seen no one.

  He wanted to scream—to lash out and hit something, anything. But his sanity was already in doubt in too many quarters.

  “I’m going to find you, you bastard,” he murmured as he continued straining to see anything out of the ordinary. “Whatever it takes, I’m going to find you.”

  He returned to lock up the office. On impulse, he tried calling his apartment again. Maura answered on the first ring. It wasn’t until he heard her voice that he fully realized how worried he had been about her.