"Who was the anesthesiologist?"
"Dr. Morrison."
"What did you do?"
"I called in Dr. Henley and asked him if the story were true. I knew it was. I had talked with each of the six people in the O.R. who had seen it. That's when he called me that thing."
"What thing?"
"It was uncalled for."
"What was it?"
"He said I was a fat, pompous ass."
"That's really going too far, Dr. Berman."
"Yes," he said, gratified. "Then Henley told me that Dr. Morrison had been sucking around Dr. Lyons-that's the phrase he used, 'sucking around'-and he thought a public display of his annoyance would be healthy."
"He told you that slicing a doctor's gown with a bloody scalpel was 'healthy'?"
" 'Healthy' is the word he actually used."
"Then what?"
"Rumors had been reaching me about his operations."
"Just rumors?"
"A few specific complaints."
"How specific?"
"That a certain operation was unnecessary."
"What did you do about it?"
"Well, there's a problem. There's always a certain percentage of paranoid or hysterical patients. In this case, the patient was a child. The other complaints involved children as well. So the complaints came from the parents. We always tend to discount most complaints."
"So why get worked up about them?"
"We've had their family doctors in too. For instance"- here he sighed, looking as if he had just decided to go all the way-"for instance, the family doctor would diagnose a child as having a mildly infected kidney. A week in the hospital, a drainage tube, and penicillin would be indicated. Then the doctor is surprised as hell to find out that the child winds up with a transplant at three and a half thousand dollars."
"How could Henley get away with it?"
"Try challenging an expert on his own grounds, Mr. Sanchez. A family doctor, a general practitioner-how can his opinion count against the best pediatrician on the East Coast, backed by an eminent member of the American College of Surgeons?"
"Yes, I see."
"But there were too many complaints. Too many."
"What did you do?"
"I called in Dr. Lyons and Dr. Henley."
"And?"
"They were contemptuous. They almost convinced me. Had there only been two or three cases I would have dropped the whole matter. But there were more. And I noticed that whenever Dr. Henley was away somewhere on his vacations and operations were being done on children examined by Dr. Lyons and referred by her to other surgeons, no complaints ensued. When he was back there were complaints. And the referrals always came from Dr. Lyons."
"Fee splitting?"
"I wish that were all there was to it. No, worse. Much worse. There did seem to be some sort of a tie-in. I talked to our lawyer, a very discreet man and well experienced in handling these malpractice"-he shook his head at the word-"cases. He told me if suit were brought by any of the parents the hospital would probably lose. So I settled three out of court. Several are now pending."
"What about Dr. Falcone's heart attack?"
"That came as a sad surprise. He had no history of heart attacks that any of us knew of. But a lot of doctors skip physical exams on themselves. And then, marrying a still vigorous woman-" He leered.
"How do you know he died of a heart attack?"
"Why, Dr. Lyons saw him die. She tried massage and adrenalin. No use."
"Any proof?"
"Her records."
"Mind if I look?"
He stood up. "Not at all." We went up to Dr. Lyons' office on the third floor.
It was spare and clean. It made me think of a spinster with her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck in a bun. There were a few framed prints of Vesalius, Harvey, and Morton on the wall; and her diplomas.
He pulled open a file drawer. He fiddled around in it and then pulled out a card and gave it to me. It made no sense to me. I asked him to translate it.
"Blood pressure very high. A bad murmur. All the classic signs of a bad heart."
"When did she marry him?"
"Just about Christmas, I remember. He said at the hospital Christmas party that Ann was his Christmas present."
"And the date of his physical?"
"December twenty-eighth."
I looked at the card.
"What's this for February twenty-seventh?"
He looked. "Another physical. Blood pressure worse. Medication prescribed."
"What do you think?"
He smiled in his greasy way. "Dr. Falcone was forty-seven. Dr. Lyons was a very intense woman. Maybe she demanded a hard night's work. It could be bad for someone not quite used to it."
"And maybe she made up the bad heart."
"But why-" He suddenly stopped. "Yes, yes. I never thought of it."
"So when he finally died of an embolism, here are the records with all the history of a bad heart. Did Dr. Falcone ever look at these records?"
"I doubt it. No reason for him to look in here."
He put his head in his hands for a moment. I felt a bit sorry for him. He thought he had problems with wage demands from the orderlies and porters and ambulance drivers; he thought he had problems with recruitment of nurses, with unnecessary operations and fee-splitting and settling malpractice suits out of court. Then I come along and tell him I have spies planted all over the hospital. And then I show him that one of the top pediatricians in the country has murdered her husband.
"About a week ago," he said, "Dr. Lyons came to me. It was around five-thirty. She had been crying. She said she had something important to tell me. She was very nervous. She said she needed time to pull herself together. I gave her a glass of water. She said what she had to tell me would take a couple of hours. I asked her what it was all about. She said it was about her professional relationship with Henley. She added she knew it would mean she would lose her license and so would he, but she was determined to go through with it."
"What did she say?"
"Well, you see, I had this dinner date at seven that evening in Locust Valley with John Herold. The John Herold."
I looked blank.
"The President of International Electric. His wife had had a serious operation here and came through all right, and he had hinted he would build us a new nurses' residence; the old one is fifty years old. It was to be called the John Herold Nurses' Residence, of course. We go along with that sort of thing. So I told Dr. Lyons I would see her first thing in the morning. She said she would bring her notes."
"Notes?"
"The secret notes she made with each patient. She said they would clearly implicate Dr. Henley. I told her to mention this to no one. And certainly not to Dr. Henley."
"What did she do then?"
"She smiled. She begged me to listen to her."
"And, of course, the John Herold Nurses' Residence couldn't have waited."
"If you knew Mr. Herold you would understand what a foolish statement that is."
It was clear that Dr. Lyons had had some sort of a fight with Henley and was ready to spill on a matter which might have saved Greer General's reputation. What was the point of risking the loss of this confession against the gain of a nurses' residence? A residence for a hospital which would not have the confidence of the community? And the scale was not balanced that easily anyway. Upon being told that a serious matter had come up, would a potential donor resent a canceled dinner appointment?
No. It was just another example of the stupidity of the professional fund-raising mind in a crisis. Berman had the right sort of mind for a director. He knew what counted in this situation.
On the other hand, if he had canceled the dinner, he would have had a total confession. She probably would have asked for police protection, and she would have gotten it while we looked for Henley. The man sounded smart enough to decide he couldn't plead he was terribly misunderstood. He might have immediately flown to
Mali or Lesotho or wherever the hell he had lined up. She would have lost her license but would have kept her fingers and perhaps by now even her life. And there would have been nothing to prevent her from going to some other country with her diplomas and without the information that she wasn't allowed to practice in the United States.
But then the indecent thought came to me that she might very well have run across Henley somewhere in darkest New Guinea, and he would have promptly removed all of her fingers there. This was the kind of black humor that indicated to me that I was getting too tensed up.
If the fat jerk in front of me had used his brains only a little bit I would be happily making more junkie friends around 116th Street. Well, maybe not, with my cover blown. Maybe I would have been reassigned to Homicide South. Ten minutes by car from my apartment. Who the hell knew what I might have been doing? Maybe even a country club precinct out in Queens. Keeping Irene happy. At least I would take her home in person. I would even sleep there. That would eliminate her most serious bitch. I didn't know what the hell I wanted.
I suddenly realized I was standing there, staring at Berman.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "I didn't get your last sentence."
"I said you had just made a foolish statement."
I didn't know what he was talking about. I was willing to admit his charge.
"Yes," I said. "I make lots of foolish statements."
He felt better.
"But," I went on, "because you did a foolish thing, Dr. Lyons may be dying. Little by little."
I left him. Let him sweat it out. Maybe the next time he had to choose between life and property he would choose life.
20
I GOT INTO THE CAR AND SWITCHED ON THE ignition. And just as easily as I had turned on the key my mind burst into action. I knew as well as if I were inside that cool, sadistic, brilliant mind of the intelligent psychopathic personality, exactly why he had tattooed her and why he had mailed the fingers.
She got married. That meant she had betrayed him for another man. The fact that he had ditched her for another of his discreet affairs with the mother of a patient or with an attractive nurse was put aside. The psychopathic personality refuses any involvement where another person's emotion is to carry weight.
So he ordered her to get rid of Dr. Falcone. She did. Maybe he thought of the way to do it, maybe she did. When it was over they arranged to meet in Japan.
She probably had a passionate reconciliation with him. He probably had everything under control. That's when he had her tattooed. That's why Morrison noticed the wide wedding band on her ring finger when she came back. All Henley had to do at this point in their affair was snap his fingers and she would sit up and beg. And of course, good Fido would lie down when he gave the order. All of this did not make him a guy I would care to entrust a sister to.
But the mailing of the fingers! That was brilliant! This was the way I figured it.
The lesson branded on her in Japan hadn't taken hold: she had been hinting at going to see Berman, and Henley thought she was serious about it. He had his African or Indonesian job lined up and his passport in readiness.
The next step was to take her somewhere isolated. If he wanted to enjoy her screams it would have to be very isolated. Otherwise he would have had to drug her into a dazed acceptance of what he was going to do. He probably strapped her down and gagged her-that would have been best, so that she'd be fully conscious when he numbed her hand-before he proceeded to slice the skin very delicately and then slide the razor-edged scalpel along, cleverly and expertly following the amazing convolutions of the knuckle joint.
Since she was gagged, he did not hear her call upon God. But he knew. He knew.
When he had cut off the first finger he may have held it up for her to look at, saying something like, "So you wanted to tell the police about us? How foolish you are. I have removed your finger for two reasons. The first reason is to punish you so that you will never be able to operate again. The second reason is to make clear to the police how stupid they are. I'm going to mail them the finger, the finger you use for pointing. It will say to them, here's the way to find Dr. Lyons. It's pointing to her. But they won't be clever enough to figure it out." Then he must have gotten the wrapping paper and box and twine in some chain store in the middle of New York, so that nothing would point to him; and he mailed it in Grand Central Station, where countless people mail packages.
The next day he must have said something like, "Well, your friends didn't come. They are stupid. So today I'll give them some more help. We'll send them your ring finger. May I? Thank you. Let's see how far they get this time."
Yes, that had to be the way it was. I felt great.
Until I realized all I had to do was find them.
I headed towards Manhattan. I had to make a panic stop when a cab cut in front. I almost hit him. My brakes had been getting worse so imperceptibly I hadn't been aware of it. I couldn't take them up any more, I knew. I needed new lining. I needed cash for the doctors' vouchers. I needed a new girl who wouldn't backfire on me. I needed a good lead as to where I might find my two doctors.
Things were so rough financially that I decided to start right away. I began by going over the Queensboro Bridge instead of through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. It added ten minutes and let me have the feeling that I was getting somewhere with my debts. The bridge was free and the tunnel was a quarter. In the middle of the bridge I looked down at the river. There was some kind of a yacht coming down on the tide with all her sails up with the wind behind her too. She looked very pretty.
Suddenly I remembered that Henley had a yacht. He kept it in Rowayton, on Long Island Sound. She was named the Lively Lady.
21
I DROPPED THE OLDS OFF AT THE LOCAL REPAIR shop. It was over on Second Avenue, only three blocks from me. I phoned Tully from the garage. He said I could borrow his Buick; he could always use his partner's car if he wanted.
I walked home, ate a sandwich, drank a glass of milk, shaved, changed my shirt, and went downstairs. I walked to the corner to hail a cab. A horn blasted my ear and I caught a flash of red. I jumped for the curb, seeing a low fender of brilliant red come to a halt. The fender brushed my pants.
My heart was hammering. "You stupid-" I began, but how many women with long black hair in a ponytail drive red Maseratis?
"What an amazing coincidence to find you at this intersection!" she said. She leaned out and smiled. She wore a gray cashmere sweater and no makeup.
I let out a long breath.
"You have all that adrenalin romping around in your veins," she observed. "Would you like to strike me and flush out your blood stream?"
I took another breath.
"Oh, get in," she said, opening the door.
I got in.
"Where to?"
"Connecticut."
Without a word, she put the car in gear and headed for the East River Drive.
"Oh; come on," I said. "I'm kidding. Let me out. Someone's loaning me a car."
"Why bother? I'll drive you there."
"I don't know how long it'll take."
"I'll wait."
"No, better stop."
"How far you going?"
"Rowayton."
"Going sailing?"
She stopped and leaned back. She lit a cigarette and yawned, her arms way over her head. This brought her breasts into prominence. "Rowayton, Rowayton. Many's the time we've sailed into Rowayton for an evening of drinking, following that with a few tasty martinis, and for dessert, martinis and a swift game of grab-ass, followed by a departure next morning for Oyster Bay with hangovers such as you proletarians never experience. I wouldn't mind looking at the place sober for a change."
"I have to get up there fast, talk fast, and get back fast. I want to go alone so I won't wind up hurting someone's feelings who has different plans. Thanks for the offer, anyway."
"I'll lie down beside the car with my head between my paws until you're finished," she
said. She clasped her hands and hooked a little finger over the rim of the steering wheel. "I won't ask for a lollipop and I'll be good."
"I'm sorry-"
"I can imitate a siren. Listen." She opened her mouth and did a good imitation of one. It would get her across a crowded room but not far into Connecticut. But it gave me an idea. The closest to a Maserati I had ever been was a Volkswagen. Why not see what it could do?
"Pull up to that police car," I told her.
"Are you going to arrest me just because I brushed your pants with my car?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, do something for once without an argument." She shut up and doubleparked beside the car. I showed my badge and asked them to escort me to the city line and to radio ahead for the escort to be continued at the Westchester County line by a Parkway car and at the Connecticut line by a State trooper.
They looked worried. "Yeah," the driver said, "but you take us out of the precinct and the capt-"
"I'll cover you in my UF 49." UF 49 is the form we detectives have to fill out whenever we go out of the city on police business.
"You'll cover us, right?"
"Look." I held up my pen and my notebook. "I'm writing down your license number and the time. I'll even glue on an extra half hour when you guys leave me so you can hole up somewhere."
"O.K.," the driver said. He grinned and turned on the flasher.
They pulled out and took off. She kept up a steady seventy behind them. The Maserati growled a little bit deeper but took it all very calmly. She was a superb driver. She didn't look at me when she talked or when I talked. She held the wheel a little bit on each side of top center and drove with her attention focused a quarter of a mile ahead, sizing up situations long before they developed. She was not the kind of a driver who would automatically blow her horn if the car ahead came to a stop.
I relaxed in my seat. She sensed it and said, "You have confidence in me?"
"In driving? Yes."
"Your first compliment of the day."
I didn't say anything. We hit the Willis Avenue Bridge. She went into a skid and countered the rear wheel slide to the right with a quick little right turn of the steering wheel and more acceleration. She was good, very good. Maybe even better than I was. I relaxed even more.
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