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Family Practice

Page 16

by Charlene Weir


  “I need to talk to you about Dorothy Barrington,” Susan said.

  “I assumed as much.” Joyce added sugar and powdered cream to her coffee.

  “Debra Cole, Dorothy’s receptionist. Has she ever stayed here?”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Maybe nothing.” Maybe something, if Dorothy was trying to convince Debra to get some help and her husband didn’t like it.

  “I wouldn’t tell you if she had,” Joyce said.

  “Why not? Aren’t we on the same side?”

  “I don’t have sides. I do everything in my power to help these women, and that does not include passing out their names to everyone who asks. They have enough to contend with. They’ve already been horribly victimized, and they don’t need any more.”

  “Tell me about Dorothy’s work for you.”

  “It was good of her to do it. She donated her time, and her skill. Money is always a problem.” Joyce looked around the shabby kitchen. “There’s never enough.”

  “How was it that Dorothy came to do this?”

  Joyce grinned. “I asked her to. I got my way with a little coercion, a little sprinkling of guilt. I can work wonders when I really get going.”

  Susan believed it.

  A toddler staggered to the door, tried to hold on, then flopped onto his padded bottom. He wailed with frustration. A thin woman with stringy blond hair picked him up and cuddled him as she took him away.

  Joyce suddenly looked tired. “Now I guess I’ll have to start knocking on doors. Find somebody else. Start polishing up on the guilt.” She sighed.

  “How did that work? Did Dorothy come here to see the women?”

  “Sometimes. It depended on the injuries. We have children here too. If it was minor, she would come here and take care of it. If it was more serious, she’d tend to it in her office. Sometimes after hours, so nobody would see them. Or if it was really serious, at the hospital.”

  “Did anybody ever threaten her? One of the husbands?”

  “The husbands always threaten. Anybody who works here is in danger. They’re not cops, they don’t carry guns, they’re just ordinary people. The husbands are all violent. That’s why the women are here in the first place. Because they got the crap beaten out of them.”

  Susan had heard Joyce use such language before, but it always surprised her, coming from this sweet-looking lady.

  “The bastards have to control everything their wives do,” Joyce said. “And they get enraged when the wives slip out of their reach. I don’t know of anybody who threatened Dorothy, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  “I’d like to talk with the women staying here.”

  “No. You’d need a lot more than a vague possibility before I’d let that happen. They have enough trauma. I won’t have you adding to it. I’d have to see something legally forcing me before I’d let you talk to anybody here, and even then I might not allow it.”

  Susan didn’t push it. “How was Dorothy at taking care of these women? Sympathetic? Did they like her?”

  Joyce lifted the mug to her mouth and sipped thoughtfully. “Dorothy was an odd mixture of helpful and unsympathetic.”

  Susan raised an eyebrow.

  “Since she was such a strong woman herself, I don’t think she fully understood the dynamics of these situations. I don’t mean she was unaware. Intellectually, I’m sure she was. But there was always that slight hint of impatience. As though deep down, she couldn’t accept that the wives wouldn’t leave the bastards. And no, the women didn’t really like her.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Friday night. One of the children fell and cut his head. She brought us a few things, first-aid things. Hydrogen peroxide, Q-Tips, Band-Aids, Ace bandages. A few things like that. That may not sound like much to you, but all these things cost money.” Joyce looked down at her mug, then up at Susan. “I’m going to miss her. She was always available when we needed her. No matter what time of day. The women were uncomfortable around her. She wasn’t—warm-hearted, there was always this hint of disapproval. But she certainly couldn’t be faulted for her medical skill. And that’s what she was here for.”

  “Is there anything at all you can tell me?”

  Joyce took a breath. “Oh, Susan, I really wish I could help. I want you to catch the bastard, but there’s really nothing.” With the edge of one hand, Joyce scraped together a little pile of crumbs. “Friday night, she did seem—preoccupied. I commented that she looked tired. She shook her head and said she knew something she didn’t want to know.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That’s all she would say.”

  Susan left Joyce washing breakfast dishes and made a mental note to see whether there wasn’t some way to get them a dishwasher. Joyce had done a guilt trip on her, and she wasn’t even aware of it. Locks and bolts clicked shut behind her.

  Rain sluiced down the windshield as she pulled away from Victory House. Joyce was too wily a lady to give any impression of whether or not Debra had ever been in residence. Dorothy knew something she didn’t want to know. That had a fine sinister ring to it. Might even be helpful, if Susan knew what the hell it was about.

  She glanced at her watch: five minutes to noon. Making a right, she took the cross street to the Barrington clinic hoping to catch Debra before she took off for lunch.

  The waiting room was empty. Debra, behind the reception counter, looked up as Susan walked in and froze like a deer at approaching headlights.

  “Just a question or two.”

  “I don’t know anything. I already told you.”

  “Just filling in, trying to get everything clear. How did you get to work on Saturday? Did you drive?”

  “Not on Saturday. Sometimes I do. But mostly Ed drives me. He did on Saturday.”

  “Where was he in the afternoon?”

  “Ed? He was— I don’t know exactly—”

  The door opened, and a stocky man with red hair came in. Beefy shoulders strained the seams of a blue work shirt, “Winslow” stitched on the pocket, “Ackerbaugh Plumbing” on a patch on the sleeve. He snapped a piece of paper onto the counter. “Where’s Dr. Marlitta?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ackerbaugh. She’s busy right now.”

  “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “Is there a problem?” Susan asked.

  “Who’re you?”

  “Chief Wren.” She shoved her ID at him.

  He glanced at it, his eyes flicked over her, his brain registered cop, and he pulled back on his anger.

  “You have a complaint?”

  “Got a right. Doctor didn’t know what she was doing. Kid is still sick.”

  “What kid?”

  “My boy.”

  “You think Dorothy made your child sick?”

  “Got two others. Nothing wrong with them.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “All they do is explain. Kid’s not any better. I told Dorothy, he didn’t get better, I was gonna sue. Tests!” His anger got away from him again, and he slapped a hand against the paper on the counter. “Always more tests. Trying to cover up.”

  “Cover up what?”

  “Negligence, incompetence.”

  The door leading into the inner offices opened. “What is it?” Marlitta caught sight of Ackerbaugh, and emotions—fatigue, anxiety, maybe irritation—chased across her face before she collected herself. “Mr. Ackerbaugh, is something wrong?”

  “Yeah, something’s wrong.” He crumpled the paper in his fist and shook it. “More tests. I’m damn sick and tired of tests.”

  Marlitta glanced at Susan, then back at Ackerbaugh. “Why don’t you come into my office and we’ll talk about it?”

  “No more talk. No more tests.” He flung the paper at her and turned on his heel.

  Marlitta closed her eyes and exhaled a long sigh. Moving slowly, she went along the hallway to her office. Susan followed.

  Ma
rlitta slumped in the chair, elbows on the desk, hands on her cheeks.

  “What was that all about?” Susan asked.

  Marlitta stood up immediately, resting a hand on the desk to steady herself. “Oh, dear,” she said with a long-suffering smile. “Some people simply expect a doctor to know with a look what the problem is. They can’t seem to understand that doctors aren’t magicians. We need to find out the symptoms and sometimes run tests.”

  “What’s wrong with his baby?”

  “That’s what the tests are for.”

  “Necessary tests?”

  With the condescension of the overworked physician, she said, “If we’re going to know how to treat the child, yes.”

  “Was it Ackerbaugh who threatened Dorothy?”

  Startled, Marlitta drew her head back. “Of course not.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Marlitta’s mind seemed to tick over slowly. Either she’d forgotten she’d mentioned the threatening call, or there never was a call in the first place.

  “It wasn’t Winslow Ackerbaugh.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “I cannot discuss a patient.”

  Doctors and lawyers. Whenever they didn’t want to answer, they claimed confidentiality.

  Debra was collecting her purse to leave for lunch when Susan got back to her.

  “Before you go,” Susan said. “Where can I find your husband?”

  Debra pressed the purse to her chest as she turned around. “Why do you want him?”

  “I need to talk with him.”

  Horror washed across her face. “He didn’t,” she whispered. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “Where was he on Saturday?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was going to Emerson to study.”

  “What time did he come home?”

  “I don’t remember. Maybe around four o’clock.” Debra’s fingers made tiny scratching movements on the leather bag. “He didn’t do it. He would never do anything like that.”

  “Doesn’t he have a temper? Yell at you? Hit you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Never?”

  “Sometimes he gets upset. Everybody does sometimes.”

  “What makes him upset?”

  Debra shook her head. “He has a lot on his mind. Studying and classes. Worry about money. Sometimes I forget. If I’d be more understanding—”

  Like all battered wives. “Where can I find him?”

  “At Emerson. He has classes.”

  17

  SUSAN CRUISED ALONG Learned Street checking house numbers. According to the phone book, the Ackerbaughs lived at 829. She spotted it and pulled up in front: a neat white frame house with a wide porch, a picket fence, roses climbing up a trellis on the side.

  A young woman opened the door, with two little boys, maybe four and five, clinging to each side of her flowered skirt and a baby less than a year old in her arms.

  “Mrs. Ackerbaugh?” Susan flipped open her ID.

  Linette Ackerbaugh stood silent and motionless in her doorway, and stared.

  The little boys grinned and started dancing around like friendly puppies, looked up expectantly at their mother, and tugged at her skirt. “Mommy, mommy. A pretty lady. Let her in.”

  The baby, clutching at her faded blue T-shirt, was barefoot, and a tiny pair of sneakers dangled from her hand. He was a beautiful child with lots of dark, curly hair and large, dark eyes. Compared with the two older boys, he was pale and seemed listless, the eyes not alight with interest and mischief

  “I’m Chief Wren.”

  The woman’s lips rounded as if she was about to say, “Oh,” but she didn’t. She didn’t move, didn’t glance at the ID, simply stared.

  “Mrs. Ackerbaugh?” Susan stuck her ID in her bag. The rain dripped dismally over the eaves, and the damp air held the sweet scent of roses. Linette Ackerbaugh didn’t seem to want to look at Susan’s face; instead she seemed fascinated by her gray linen pants. They were creased and wrinkled as linen will do once you sit down, but when a cop turned up on your doorstep, the attention-grabber wasn’t generally the cop’s apparel.

  “Mom-mee!”

  “You are Linette Ackerbaugh?”

  She blinked, shaking off her fugue, and her eyes softened. “Yes, of course, I’m Linette.” She made hesitant steps around the boys, dropped a sneaker, and smiled with embarrassment. Holding the baby tight, she stooped to grab the sneaker, overbalanced, and did an awkward shuffle to recoup. She tenderly cupped a hand behind the baby’s head.

  There was a sweetness about her, and she moved with the leggy, awkward charm of a colt. Her hair, honey and satin, was pulled back in a ribbon. She was all delicate and light. Hard to picture her married to lumbering, heavy-handed Winslow and his practical world of sewer pipes. She was staring again. Her eyes were blue-green, the color of the ocean on a sunny day; their expression said, “Oh, no, why have you come?”

  “Mrs. Ackerbaugh?”

  “Linette, please.” She smiled, suddenly friendly, easy.

  “You know about Dr. Barrington, Dorothy Barrington?”

  “Oh.” The smile vanished; her eyebrows, which slanted slightly up like a bird’s wings, got furrows between them. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  Susan had been a cop for a long time, and she’d heard that line over and over when dealing with the bereaved, the angry, the bewildered, but there was something not right about Linette Ackerbaugh. It wasn’t the usual dazed, trying to comprehend terrible reality, but a sort of searching for the correct reaction. Instead of a routine interview, just covering all the bases, Susan went on full alert. Something was going on here.

  “Mom-mee!” Little hands yanked at Linette’s skirt.

  “Oh. Yes. Would you like to come in?”

  The boys scampered ahead, and Susan followed Linette through a living room with toys scattered across the carpet to a spacious kitchen. She accepted an offer of iced tea, partly because she hoped saying yes would encourage Linette to relax and talk, and partly to give herself an opportunity to get a fix on the woman.

  With one hand, Linette cleared toys and plates and glasses from the table. The little boys stuck close to Susan, asking her name and where she lived and whether she liked to swim. They had a friend who had a swimming pool. They patted her hands, patted her arms, patted her knees, patted her shoulder bag.

  Linette got ice-cream bars from the freezer, gave one to each boy, and shooed them off to a screened porch. They raced out with shrieks of joy.

  Susan sat back and waited to see what Linette would reveal. Still holding the baby, who hadn’t made one peep, Linette got down glasses, took a full pitcher from the refrigerator, poured tea, and handed a glass across the table.

  “I’m sorry you missed Win. He just left.”

  Susan had counted on it. Linette sat down and settled the baby in her lap.

  “Your husband is angry about the medical treatment the baby’s been receiving,” Susan said.

  “He’s worried. They keep doing tests and not finding out what’s wrong.”

  “He made some threats to Dorothy Barrington.”

  “It’s only his way.” Linette got stopped by a memory; her eyes narrowed in an attempt to prevent tears. She curled a wisp of the baby’s hair around one finger. “He doesn’t think a whole lot of doctors, and he feels if we’d just stop coddling him he’d be all right.”

  The pronouns got a little mixed, but Susan followed along with no problem. “You feel that way too?”

  The softness in Linette’s eyes turned fierce. “If I did, I wouldn’t be taking him there, would I?”

  “Can you tell me where you were Saturday afternoon?”

  Linette smiled, all softness and sunshine again. “Three children and pouring-down rain? Where do you think? Right here.”

  “And your husband?”

  “At work.”

  Squabbles broke out on the porch. Linette stood up. Susan stepped in front of her. “Mrs. Ackerbaugh,
what are you hiding?”

  “Why would I hide anything? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes. You do. And you need to tell me what it is. Because I need to know—and I intend to find out.”

  “No. The boys. I need to— Excuse me.”

  “Mrs. Ackerbaugh—”

  “There’s nothing.” Linette dashed out to the screened porch.

  Susan went back to the department and picked up Parkhurst. The rain had stopped; the sun shone fiercely, causing steam to rise from the rooftops, and the Bronco simmered in the heat. Parkhurst cranked the window down and shrugged off his jacket, started up the motor, and headed for campus.

  As they were rolling along Iowa, a heavyset woman in orange pants rushed out, waving her arms. Parkhurst stopped, and she darted to the window.

  “You’ve got to help me.”

  “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

  “Snake. In my car. This long.” She sketched out three and a half feet.

  “Where’s your car?”

  She gestured at a white Ford in the driveway. “I just came out of my house to get in, and I saw this snake. It crawled straight up the wheel. The left one, the rear. Oh, my God, do you think it got inside?” She patted her chest as an aid in catching her breath.

  “No, ma’am. There’s no way it could have gotten inside.”

  “You have to get it out.”

  Parkhurst looked at Susan. She just turned in her feminist badge, all of a sudden struck by the conviction there were some things a man ought to do. He pulled to the curb and cut the motor. Susan got out when he did and trudged at his heels.

  “Would you release the hood, ma’am?”

  She handed him the keys. “I’m not getting in that car.”

  He unlocked the Ford, popped the latch, then went around and raised the hood. The woman stood well back, jittering from one foot to the other. Susan understood the impulse. She stuck to Parkhurst’s side while he looked, moving back and forth, bending and peering. She wondered whether she should draw her weapon. She’d never shot a snake before, never dealt with snakebite either. How fast could she get the Bronco to the emergency room?

  “I don’t see it, ma’am.”

  Susan didn’t either, nothing but a jumble of hoses.

 

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