“You call that fine? That’s my baby in there! She’s dying. Oh, my God, my baby is dying.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands.
The waiting trio avoided looking at them, faces drawn in what sympathy could be spared from the relief that at least my spouse, child, relative, friend isn’t dying.
Susan clamped down hard on her back teeth; her throat closed, and tears pushed at her own eyes. She wanted to offer comfort, put an arm around Terry, but knew that would simply make Terry angrier.
Terry rubbed the heels of her palms over her eyes, distorting her face. Susan offered a tissue.
Terry snatched it and blew her nose. “How could you let this happen? Shot! Jen! I don’t— I can’t—” Tears spilled over again.
“I’m sorry,” Susan murmured. Stupidly inadequate. Throw out a few more meaningless phrases. Don’t worry, everything’s going to be all right.
Terry’s anger was understandable. In her grief and despair, she needed someone to blame. Susan was handy for sloughing off guilt.
“She’s still alive,” Susan said softly. Another meaningless phrase. Stupid as it was, she felt they had to cling to it. If they didn’t, she feared in that same irrational way, their despair would permeate through the air into the intensive-care unit and leach away the thin spark of life pulsing through Jen’s inert body.
Rage burned in Susan’s chest. Jen should have a life, she should have it all, the good things and maybe even some not so good, but not this. Not at eleven years old.
Murder investigations didn’t afford the luxury of rage. Homicide demanded total focus and clear-thinking logic. Rage would have to wait. Right now, she’d better shove aside her personal import and start asking routine questions. Who killed Dorothy, and why.
“Tell me what happened,” Terry demanded.
“Terry—”
“Tell me!”
Susan led her out to the hallway. Briefly and calmly, she explained Jen’s sore throat, the fever, and the doctor’s appointment.
Terry cried with gasping, choking sobs. Susan went in search of a doctor. If Terry didn’t get some kind of sedative, she was going to develop raving hysterics.
The nurse at the desk gave Susan a harried look. “I’m afraid there’s no one available right now.”
“Find someone. Right now.”
One glance at Susan’s face and the nurse picked up the phone, spoke a few words, and hung up. “A doctor will be up in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. Where can I find Dr. Sheffield?”
The nurse looked at her, then sighed and picked up the phone again. Dr. Sheffield was on the floor below.
He sat at the nurses’ station, muscular shoulders and broad chest straining the seams of the scrub greens, making notations on a chart. His thick, curly, dark hair was in need of a trim. After a final scribble, he slapped the chart shut and shoved back the chair.
“I need to ask some questions,” she said.
A hand rasped over a stubble of beard as he rubbed his heavy jaw. “Nothing I can tell you yet.”
“I’ll try not to take too long.”
He stood up. “I could use a cup of coffee anyway.”
In the cafeteria, he put two Styrofoam cups on the Formica table and sat down across from her. “Caffeine. Just what I need. With all the adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream, I probably won’t sleep for two days as it is.”
Although it was only six-fifteen, the cafeteria was nearly empty. A family group lingered over the remains of a meal, three nurses spoke quietly to each other, two or three people sat alone with a soft drink or cup of coffee in front of them.
Susan took a sip of hot, bitter liquid. “Does Jen have a chance?”
Picking up his cup, he looked at her carefully, as though judging her ability to handle what information he might feel like doling out. She put on her official expression: working cop. She could see he wasn’t impressed. It must be too apparent she had more at stake here than professional interest.
“I don’t know what her chances are,” he said. “I’m not sure what kind of life she’ll have even if she lives.”
Susan felt suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”
“A piece of lead ripped through her heart, tore through a lung, and ended up embedded in the sternum. The insult to her body might have been too much.”
Susan heard his words, but couldn’t grasp meaning through the buzzing in her mind.
“She might be a cabbage,” he said bluntly.
Jen. With her sunshine smile, quick mind, endless capacity for anything new. In the brightly lit, almost empty cafeteria, Susan started to shiver. She clenched her hands, digging fingernails into her palms. Don’t lose it.
“There’s a more immediate problem,” he said.
“What problem?” Her voice sounded far away.
“She’s running a fever. ER isn’t the best place to slice open the human body. It’s not exactly what you’d call a sterile environment.”
“She had a fever. Before. That’s why she was at the doctor’s office.”
He looked at her sharply. “Other symptoms?”
“Sore throat.”
He took in a breath and shook his head.
“Makes it worse,” she said.
“Sure doesn’t help.”
Do your job. “How well did you know Dorothy Barrington?”
“What?”
“She was also shot this afternoon. Fatally.”
“I heard about that.” He tilted the cup back and forth and studied the black liquid as it sloshed.
“How well did you know her?”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? If you speak slowly and use words of one syllable, I may be able to follow along.”
His hazel eyes, warm and intelligent, regarded her with a hint of amusement. “Is there something I’m missing here? You implying I had something to do with her death?”
“Did you?”
“Not me. I only kill people with scalpels. Have you checked with her brothers and sister?”
“You think one of them killed her?”
“Now there you’re beyond me. You need a shrink. Family ties. They’re all bound up together and can’t get loose. All of them want to.”
“You sound like you know them very well.”
“Maybe I do at that,” he said with a wry smile.
Likable smile, pretty teeth, nice face; altogether a likable man. “Doesn’t Dorothy have two sisters?”
“Yes.”
“Which one did you leave out?”
He shot her a sharp look, then tipped the cup and swallowed the rest of the coffee. “Would you believe me if I told you I went to see Dorothy about a patient?”
“Did you?”
He chipped a small piece of Styrofoam from the cup. “She wanted to see me, actually.”
“What about?”
With a thumbnail, he flicked the chip across the table. “Ellen.”
“The youngest sister. What about her?”
“Dorothy announced that she wouldn’t have me upsetting Ellen. I was to leave her alone.”
“Were you upsetting Ellen?”
“I don’t do well with orders. Played hell when I was in medical school. I pointed out that what I did was none of Dorothy’s business and I’d do what I damn well wanted.” He tipped his head and gave her another quick smile. “At the time it sounded right. Only in the retelling does it seem silly and childish.” He suddenly sobered. “I’m sorry she was killed.”
“How have you upset Ellen?”
“That’s the complicated part. Ellen and I— Well, a few years ago we were all set to get married. Dorothy didn’t approve of me. Happiness reigned when I left.”
“Where did you go?”
“Back East. Broken heart. Surgical residency.” He shrugged. “Now I’ve returned.”
“To see Ellen? She’s happy you’re back?”
“Remains t
o be seen.” His beeper went off and he stood up. “That Jen is still alive is a good sign. We’ll know a lot more in the next day or two.”
She watched him hurry off. I hope you’re as good as you think you are. I want Jen in good hands.
6
AT SHORTLY BEFORE seven, Susan poked the doorbell of Dr. Willis Barrington’s house on Longhorn Drive, five blocks from the victim’s. Osey had already questioned him when Willis was brought in to check the drug supply, but as Dorothy’s second-in-command he deserved close scrutiny, and she wanted a personal look at the man.
He lived in an expensive area: tall trees, hedges, large homes, well maintained, with carefully tended gardens. But even the largest and most expensive was only a fraction of what the same house would cost in San Francisco’s Pacific Heights district.
This one was brick, two-story, in a French-country-home sort of style, roof peaked in three or four places, shrubs along the front, beds of flowers. The air was still sticky with heat, but the sky was a deeper blue with the lengthening rays of sun. The evening was quiet, only an occasional breeze, and filled with the sound of crickets and the sweet scent of something blooming. Hyacinths maybe. Flowers weren’t her strong point.
Vicky Barrington, Willis’s wife, opened the door, a slender blonde in a flowered dress with narrow shoulder straps and a full skirt. Her makeup was expertly applied, and her hair, shoulder length in a cascade of chestnut curls, looked newly styled. Everything about her suggested a label that read “outfitted by money.”
She seemed startled to see Susan, and her manner was awkward. “Yes?” she said uneasily. Behind all the makeup, it was difficult to read her expression.
Susan asked if she could come in for a few minutes.
Vicky stepped back from the door and looked over her shoulder uncertainly. “I’ll get Willis.” She tapped away in beige high-heeled sandals, leaving Susan standing on a bronze and apricot Oriental rug in the pale, parquet-floored entryway. On one side was a living room, on the other the dining room, the table still cluttered with dishes and glasses from dinner. Or maybe supper here; Susan never got that right. Whichever it was, the thought made her hungry. She hadn’t eaten since the doughnuts shared with Jen for breakfast. Jen was lying in a railed bed being kept alive by a machine pumping air in and out of her lungs.
She took a few steps into the living room, and the overall impression was that nobody actually lived here. As in the entryway, the floor was parquet, covered by another, larger Oriental rug. The couch and two chairs were pale gray; the tables had marble pedestal bases and glass tops. There were no lamps anywhere; instead, recessed lights in the ceiling. Two watercolors hung above the couch, apparently chosen to blend with the color scheme: a bronze bowl of apricots, and orange poppies in a gray vase. It looked like a model home for some classy housing development. The only item even remotely personal was a framed photo on one of the glass-topped tables. She walked over and picked it up: a wedding picture, radiant Vicky in clouds of lace and smiling Willis. She was quite a bit younger than her husband.
“Chief Wren?”
She turned as Willis Barrington came into the room. From running backgrounds on all the Barringtons, she knew he was forty-four, but he looked years older and walked carefully, as though unsure of his footing. “Please sit down.”
“Shall I make some coffee?” Vicky hesitated in the doorway.
“No thank you,” Susan said.
“I wouldn’t care for any either.” He showed obvious signs of grief: his grayish-blue eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hands, square and blunt-fingered, shook slightly when he gestured toward a chair; his mouth was set in a tight line.
Approaching middle age had thickened his waist a little, put streaks of gray in his blond hair, and added lines to his forehead and around his eyes. Even dressed as he was, in a suit, white shirt, and tie, he seemed out of place in the carefully arranged room. Anybody—everybody—would seem out of place; the room was totally sterile.
“How can we help you?” His voice was slightly unsteady. “Tell me what we can do. He has to be found. I’ll do whatever I can. To come in and just shoot her down—”
Susan sat in one of the gray chairs. He sat on the couch and held out a hand for Vicky to join him.
With his fingertips, he rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
Susan dropped her bag at her feet and settled further back in the chair. No matter how many times she’d seen the pain in the wake of a homicide, she always felt helpless in the face of naked grief. That’s what she was seeing here. In her first homicide investigation, she’d stood before a woman whose daughter had been beaten to death by an abusive husband. Practice didn’t make it easier.
“We’re a very close family,” Willis said.
Vicky folded her hands in her lap and studied them.
“But Dorothy and I—” He shook his head. “From the time we were children. Always the two of us.” He seemed to be talking to the mantel clock. “I feel like half of me is missing. She was always so strong, so determined. Nothing could stop her. I can’t believe it.” He reached out blindly and grasped one of Vicky’s hands.
She didn’t move except to raise her eyes and look at Susan, then quickly away.
“I understand that Dorothy was almost a parent to the rest of you.” Susan included Vicky in the comment.
“That’s exactly what she was,” Vicky said. “She was in charge. Always—” Vicky glanced uneasily at her husband.
“Did that cause you to feel resentment?”
“Why would I feel resentment?” Willis said.
“In your medical practice?”
“Of course not.”
Vicky didn’t seem to agree altogether, but all she did was take in a breath like a sigh.
Susan nodded as though she accepted his statement. “You were asked to check the supply of drugs and medications at the medical office a while earlier. Could you tell if anything was missing?”
“Nothing. As I told Osey. I can even say nothing looked disturbed. I can only conclude that whoever it was didn’t have the opportunity to get that far.”
Or Dorothy’s death had nothing to do with the theft of drugs. It would be a pretty stupid druggie who tried to steal from an office where people were present. Stupid was possible—druggies often were—but she didn’t think that’s what had gone down here. Doctor’s offices in general didn’t have all that many drugs on the premises. Here again, a stupid thief might not have known.
“Have you had trouble with a patient? Someone who was upset about a treatment, perhaps, or felt it was incorrect or unnecessary? Dissatisfied with the results?” Patients had been known to hold a physician responsible for the death of a loved one.
“That is something I cannot discuss.”
Vicky flicked her eyes at him. He didn’t notice, but Susan did.
“We’ll need to look at patient records. Especially those with appointments today.”
“Not without a subpoena,” he said firmly.
She had expected as much, and let it go. So far, they had no evidence needed to obtain court permission to peruse confidential files. She directed a question at Vicky. “Where were you between twelve and two this afternoon?”
“Shopping,” Vicky blurted, a frightened look on her face.
What’s this? Till now she’d been nearly impassive.
“Dr. Barrington?”
He puffed up like a snake. His face sharpened from sorrow to disbelief, and then anger, so quickly Susan wondered if the grief had been a convincing performance.
“What are you suggesting? You have the bald insensitivity to come in here and accuse—”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Barrington. I understand this is a difficult time. My job is to find out what happened. To do that, I need to ask questions. Some of which you’d rather not hear.”
He stared at her a long moment, then slowly deflated. “Yes, of course. I apologize. This has been a dreadful shock. I’m having trouble acce
pting it. There are stages one goes through. Disbelief. Denial.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers up and down his forehead. “I was here.”
He was by himself, had made or received no phone calls beyond the one call from Dorothy. He had no idea why she had asked him over this evening and wouldn’t speculate. She frequently called. The family frequently got together.
Throughout his discourse Vicky maintained a watchful quiet. Susan wished she knew what thoughts were going on behind the pretty, painted face. “Did Dorothy have any enemies?”
“Of course not. The very idea is absurd.”
“There was the shelter,” Vicky said.
“Shelter?”
“For battered women.” Willis said, his voice as thin as winter light. “It was an interest of Dorothy’s.”
“Had that caused any problems?”
“Problems? Certainly not.”
“No resentful husband ever threatened her?”
He got a worried expression as he tried to pick through a cluttered mind for something important. “Not to my knowledge. I suppose it’s possible. None of them would have reason to harm her. It wasn’t as though she were hiding these women, simply patching them up when the occasion made it necessary.”
Susan asked Vicky, “You got along well with Dorothy?”
Before she could reply, Willis patted her hand and said, “Of course she did. I told you we were all very close. That includes Vicky.”
One big, happy family, Susan thought, and made a mental note to question Vicky without her husband present. She kept an inquiring expression on her face and waited for an answer.
“We didn’t have a whole lot in common,” Vicky finally admitted.
“Nonsense.” Willis patted her hand again. “Dorothy loved you.”
A shadow flashed across Vicky’s smooth face, gone too quickly to read, but it definitely wasn’t loving.
* * *
Vicky stood in the entryway as Willis opened the door for Chief Wren. After he closed it, he put his arms around her. She ought to feel sympathy or grief, or something. All she felt was sorry. Even in death, Dorothy was running their lives. She didn’t know how to comfort Willis.
Family Practice Page 5