Dr. Death

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "And Richard?"

  "Richard's up. Richard's full of ideas."

  "I'll bet he is. Listen, Joe, I need to take a look at Joanne Doss's medical records."

  "Why's that?"

  "To try to understand her death. If I'm going to help Stacy, I need as much information as possible. The medical tests were conducted at St. Michael's. Richard said you've got power of attorney, so please sign a release and fax it over to their Medical Records office."

  "Done. Of course, you'll notify me if you learn something I should know."

  "Such as?" I said.

  "Such as anything I should know." His voice had hardened. "Agreed?"

  I thought of all I hadn't told him. Knew there was plenty he hadn't told me.

  "Sure, Joe," I said. "No problem."

  • • •

  Popping more Advil, I iced my jaw, took a short run, cleaned up, walked over to Robin's studio, stuck my head in and got an earful of noise. My beloved, suited and goggled, standing behind the plastic walls of the spray booth as she wielded a lacquer gun. Knowing she couldn't be interrupted and doubting she could see me, I waved and left for St. Michael's Medical Center.

  Sunset to Barrington, Barrington to Wilshire. Driving too fast to Santa Monica. No reason to hurry. My reason for checking out the hospital was to look for Michael Ferris Burke, or whatever he was calling himself now. But my fresh suspicions about Eric dimmed any prospects of finding a Michael Burke connection to Joanne's final trip.

  Not an evil stranger. Family.

  But what else was there for me to do?

  And maybe I would find something.

  That made me laugh out loud. Shrink's denial. I wanted anyone in that motel room other than Eric.

  The boy's rage came back to me in a bitter surge, and the facts spat in my face.

  Helen, the dog. Guilt and expiation.

  That level of anger.

  The noblest thing he'd ever done.

  Mate's death had stirred up Eric's guilt. Richard's attempt at vengeance had fueled it further.

  Eric knowing an innocent man had been targeted, because Mate hadn't brought about Joanne's death.

  Wondering what his father would have done to him, had he known. Then reversing the anger— turning it on his father. Because Richard had caused it all by not forgiving.

  Blaming. Like father . . .

  I thought about the way the death plan might've gone down. Weeks, maybe months, of planning between Eric and Joanne. Easy collusion, or had Eric tried to talk his mother out of it? Finally given up and settled for immortalizing her with Polaroids?

  How had she convinced him? Telling him it was noble?

  Or had he needed little convincing— enraged at her, too. One of those terrifying kids who are missing that little, secret shred of brain tissue that inhibits evil?

  The scheme, then the night of judgment . . . surreptitious mother-son outing on one of the many nights when Richard was out of town. Eric driving, Joanne riding along.

  The long, dark trip to the edge of the desert. Lancaster, because Mom was adamant about that.

  Obscene. How could a mother do that to a son? What transgression had she committed that could've been worse than that?

  I was unlikely to find the answer in her hospital chart. But one did what one could.

  One did what was right. And hoped for some final day of judgment.

  Transcendence.

  Absolution.

  • • •

  The limestone and mirrored mass of St. Michael's filled several square blocks on Wilshire, in Santa Monica, half a mile east of the beach. I'd lectured there a few years earlier, teaching family-practice residents about divorce and child abuse and bed-wetting, but I had no idea how to find Medical Records and the personnel office.

  I got directions from a kid with a skimpy blond beard and a badge alleging he was an MD. North side of the complex, adjoining buildings.

  I hit personnel first— Human Resources. Most companies call it that now— warm fuzzy twist on the lexicon. Does it ease the pain when they fire you?

  The office was small, stark, sterile, occupied by an imperious-looking black woman in an orange suit who sat entering columns of data into a PC. I was wearing my Western Pediatrics badge, had my I.D. card from the med school crosstown ready as backup. But she smiled when I told her I was in charge of arranging a faculty party and needed some office addresses, and handed over a phone-book-size volume marked Staff Roster. Her openness felt fresh and clean and odd. I'd been hanging around too long with cops, lawyers, psychopaths, other evasive creatures.

  She returned to her desk and I thumbed through the book. The professional staff was listed at the front. Pages of doctors. Names, office addresses, photos. No personal data. No one who resembled the various faces of the man Leimert Fusco claimed was the real Dr. Death. The same went for the rear sections listing social workers, physical therapists, occupational therapists, respiratory therapists.

  When I brought the book back, the woman in orange said, "Hope it's a good party."

  Medical Records was a bit more complicated. The receptionist was one of those pucker-mouthed types weaned on skepticism, and she hadn't seen Joe Safer's faxed authorization. Finally the paperwork materialized and she produced Joanne Doss's inch-thick chart.

  "You need to read it here. That fax doesn't authorize photocopying."

  "No problem."

  "That's what they all say."

  "Who?"

  "Doctors who work for lawyers."

  I took the file across the room. Multicolored pages of lab reports. Numbers in boxes. Motley samples of physician scrawl. Bob Manitow's name appeared only on the referral form. Fifteen other doctors had attempted to discern the cause of Joanne's misery.

  Blood work, urinalysis, X rays, CAT scans, PET scans, MRIs, the lumbar punctures Richard had told me about because nothing else had turned up.

  The operative word: "negative."

  Clear spinal fluid.Normal BUN, creatinine, calcium, phosphorus, iron, T-protein, albumin, globulin . . .

  Morbidly obese white female . . .

  Complains of joint pain, lethargy, fatigue . . .

  Onset of symptoms 23 mo. ago, steady weight gain of nearly 50 kg . . .

  Thyroid function normal . . .

  All endocrine systems normal, except for glucose of 123. Glucose tolerance borderline, possible prediabetic condition, probably secondary to obesity.

  BP: 149/96. Borderline hypertension, probably secondary to obesity.

  Repeat of blood work, urinalysis, X rays, CAT scans . . .

  No MD's name that matched any of Grant Rushton's incarnations.

  The last notation read: Psychiatric consultation suggested, but patient refused. . . .

  Of course she had.

  Too late for confession.

  • • •

  On the way out, I stopped at a pay phone and checked in with my service.

  Last guy in L.A. with no cell phone. It had taken me years to buy a VCR, a good deal longer to get cable hookup. I'd stalled at getting a computer even after the libraries at the U. abandoned their card catalogs. Then my electric typewriter broke and I couldn't find replacement parts.

  My father had been a machinist. I stayed away from machines. Lived with a woman who loved them. No sense introspecting.

  The operator said, "Only one, it just came in. A De- tective Connor. That's not the one who usually calls you, is it?"

  "No," I said. "What did she want?"

  "No message, just to call."

  Petra had left her number at Hollywood Division. Another detective answered and said, "She's out, want her mobile?"

  I got through. Petra said, "Milo asked me to let you know that we found Eldon Salcido. He thought you might want to take a look at him."

  Milo sending a message through her, rather than calling himself. Knowing he and I were firmly planted on opposite sides of the Doss investigation.

  Had Safer warned him off, or was he op
ting for discretion on his own? Either way, it felt weird.

  "Did he say why I should take a look?"

  "No," she said. "I assumed you'd know. It was a short conversation. Milo sounded pretty hassled, still fighting to get warrants on that fat cat."

  "Where'd Salcido show up?"

  "On the street. Literally. Messed up— beat up. Looks like he ran into the wrong bunch of butt-kickers. A resident coming out to collect the morning paper found him. Salcido was lying in the gutter. His pockets were empty, but that doesn't mean he was robbed, he might not have carried a wallet. One of our cars got the call, recognized him from a picture I hung up in the squad room. He's at Hollywood Mercy."

  "Conscious?" I said.

  "Yes, but uncooperative. I left your name with the nurses." She gave me a room number.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "If you have any problems, call me. If you learn anything interesting from Salcido, you can call me, too."

  "Because Milo's busy."

  "Seems to be. Isn't everyone?"

  "Better than the alternative," I said.

  "You said it. By the way, I'm seeing Billy tomorrow. We're going over to see the new science center at Exposition Park. Anything you want to pass along?"

  "Best regards and continue doing what he's doing. And keep busy. Not that he needs me to tell him that."

  She laughed. "Yes, he's a wonder, isn't he?"

  30

  IT TOOK FORTY minutes on the 10 East and surface streets to get to the shabby section of East Hollywood where Beverly meets Temple.

  Second hospital of the day.

  Hollywood Mercy was five stories of earthquake-stressed, putty-colored stucco teetering atop a scrubby knoll that overlooked downtown. The building had an inadequate parking lot, a cracked tile roof, some nice ornate moldings from the days when labor was cheap, most with chunks missing. City ambulances ringed the entry. The front vestibule was crowded with long lines of sad-looking people waiting for approval from clerks in glass cages. CAT scans, PET scans, MRIs; the same high-tech alphabet I'd seen at St. Michael's, but this place looked like something out of a black-and-white movie and it smelled like an old man's bedroom.

  Mate's bedroom.

  His son was recuperating on the fourth floor, in something called the Special Care Unit. An unarmed security guard was posted at the swinging doors that led to the ward, and my I.D. badge got me waved through. On the other side was a chunky corridor five doors long with a nurses' station at the end. A black man with a shaved head sat near a stack of charts, writing, and a lantern-jawed, straw-haired woman in her sixties tapped her finger to soft reggae thumping from an unseen radio. I announced myself.

  "In there," said the female nurse.

  "How's he doing?"

  "He'll survive." She pulled out a chart. A lot thinner than Joanne Doss's encyclopedia of confusion. A Hollywood Division police report was stapled to the inside front cover.

  Eldon Salcido had been found beaten and semiconscious at 6:12 A.M. in the gutter of a residential block of Poinsettia Place, north of Sunset.

  Three blocks from his father's apartment on Vista.

  Paramedics had transported him, and an E.R. resident had admitted him for repair and observation. Contusions, abrasions, possible concussion later ruled absent. No broken bones. Extreme mental agitation and confusion, possibly related to preexisting alcoholism, drug abuse, mental illness or some combination of all three. The patient had refused to identify himself, but police at the scene had supplied the vitals. The fact that Salcido was an ex-con with a felony record was duly noted.

  Restraints ordered after the patient assaulted staff.

  "Who'd he hit?" I said.

  "One of our predecessors, last shift," said the male nurse. "Her big crime was offering him orange juice. He knocked it out of her hand, tried to punch her. She managed to lock him in and called security."

  "Another day in paradise," said the woman. "Probably a candidate for detox, but our detox unit shut down last month. You here to evaluate him for transfer?"

  "Just to see him," I said. "Basic consult."

  "Well, you might end up doing it for free. We can't find a Medi-Cal card on him and he isn't talking."

  "That's okay."

  "Hey, if you don't care, I sure don't. Room 405."

  She came out from behind the counter and unlocked the door. The room was cell-size and green, with a lone, grilled window that framed an air shaft, a single bed and an I.V. bottle on a stand, not hooked up. The vital-signs monitor above the headboard was switched off and so was the tiny TV bracketed to the far wall. A low industrial buzz seeped through the window.

  Donny Salcido Mate lay on his back, bare-chested, shackled with leather cuffs, staring at the ceiling. A tight, sweat-stained top sheet bound him from the waist down. His trunk was hairless, undernourished, off-white where it wasn't blue-black.

  Blue coils squirmed all over him. Skin art, continuing around his back and down both arms. Pictorial arms striped by bandages. Dried blood crusted the edges of the dressings. A swatch of gauze banded his forehead, a smaller square bottomed his chin. Purpling bruises cupped both eyes and his lower lip was a slab of liver. Other dermal images peeked out from within the coils: the leering face of a nightmarishly fanged cobra, a flabby, naked woman with a sad mouth, one wide-open eye emitting a single tear. Gothic lettering spelling out "Donny, Mamacita, Big Boy."

  Technically well-done tattoos, but the jumble made me want to rearrange his skin.

  "A walking canvas," opined the straw-haired nurse. "Like that book by the Martian Chronicles guy. Visitor, Mr. Salcido. Ain't that grand?"

  She walked out and the door hissed shut. Donny Salcido Mate didn't budge. His hair was long, stringy, the burnt bronze of old motor oil. An untrimmed beard, two shades darker, blanketed his face from cheekbone to jowl.

  No resemblance to the mug shot I'd seen. That made me think of the beard Michael Burke had grown when adopting his Huey Mitchell persona in Ann Ar- bor. In fact, Donny's hirsute face bore a resemblance to Mitchell's. But not the same man. None of that cold, blank stagnancy in the eyes. These rheumy browns were bouncy, heated, hyperactive. Hundred percent scared prey, not predator.

  I stepped closer to the bed. Donny Salcido moaned and twisted away from me. A tattoo tendril climbed up his carotid, disappearing into the beard thatch like a vining rose. Yellowing crust flecked the edges of his mustache. His lips were cracked, his nose had been broken, but not recently, probably more than once; the cartilage between his eyes was sunken, as if scooped by a dull blade, the flesh below a nest of gaping black pores. Orange splotches remained on his skin where he'd been disinfected with Betadine, but whoever had cleaned him up hadn't gotten rid of the street stink.

  "Mr. Salcido, I'm Dr. Delaware."

  His eyes jammed shut.

  "How're you doing?"

  "Let me out of here." Clear enunciation, no slur. I waited, got caught up in the skin mural. Subtle shadings, good composition. I got past that, searched for an image that would tie in with his father. Nothing obvious. The tattoos seemed to encroach on one another. This was the junction of talent and chaos.

  Bumps in the crook of his arm caught my eye. Fibrosed needle marks.

  His eyes opened. "Get these things off," he said, rattling the cuffs.

  "The nurses got a little upset when you tried to hit one of them."

  "Never happened."

  "You didn't try to hit a nurse?"

  Headshake. "She aggressed on me. Tried to force juice down my windpipe. Not my esophagus, my windpipe, get it? Nasopharynx, epiglottis— know what happens when you do that?"

  "You choke."

  "You aspirate. Fluid straight into the lungs. Even if you don't suffocate, it creates a pleural cesspool, perfect culture for bacteria. She was out to drown me— if she couldn't accomplish that, infect me." A tongue, gray and fuzzed, caressed his lips. He gulped.

  "Thirsty?" I said.

  "Strangling. Get these things off of
me."

  "How'd you get hurt?"

  "You tell me."

  "How would I know?"

  "You're the doctor."

  "The police say someone hit you."

  "Not someone. Ones. I got jumped."

  "Right there on Poinsettia?"