“Good morning, sleeping beauty. I’ve got some breakfast going: scrambled eggs, toast and sausage and some coffee.”
I slid into a chair, feasting on her with my eyes, oblivious to everything, even the steaming plate and mug she put in front of me. She bent down and looked me square in the eye. I reached up to touch one of her breasts. She reached down to touch me. We rubbed noses.
“What’s this I have here?” she asked. Her eyes widened in mock surprise.
“My seismograph, and it’s off the dial. I think we need to evacuate this area.”
“A good idea. I’ll take some provisions.” She put napkin-wrapped silverware on the plates and grabbed them. I took the mugs and we fled.
Much later that morning, I got up again and reached around for my clothes. She was curled up in bed, eyes closed, hugging a pillow. I looked down at her and said, “What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking we can’t do this forever, can we?”
“We could try.” I kept getting dressed however.
She stood and walked slowly around the bed. I tried to keep dressing but someone had buttered my tie. She went to the bathroom, looked over her shoulder and as she pulled the door closed, winked. I had a double hernia.
When I finished dressing I went into the kitchen and sat down at the dining room table with coffee, my notes and one of Samantha’s clean pads. First I wrote a narrative of my last couple of days for my report to Marta Vasquez. Then I went over my notes and made up a list of questions.
Donnelly knew risks. Why mix pills and booze?
Who took the pills, and why?
Who put the note there, and why?
Why did his mood change?
Who was his expert?
I got up, stretched my legs, poured a refill and went over my notes one more time. I compared the dates the record had been signed out and by whom with the entries in the chart. This yielded one more question and a possible answer to them all.
Gutierrez? No entries in chart. Why read it then? Took it out just before Donnelly perked up. Was he his expert?
I needed to see Donnelly’s suicide note. Hopefully, Nate had it by now. I arched my back and stretched. Samantha came over, wrapped her arms around my neck, bent over and nibbled on my ear.
“How goes it here?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m chasing a ghost. I seem to be getting closer to figuring out how Donnelly died, but it feels like there’s nothing there. I have him in a room, talking to a doctor, mixing pills and booze—which he knows he shouldn’t do—and keeling over dead. Then somebody comes into the room, takes the prescription bottle and leaves a faked suicide note. Why?”
“Maybe the doctor gave him some bad advice on the phone, came over to check up on him, found him dead, panicked and tried to cover it up?”
“But why get yourself in deeper trouble? At worst we’ve got malpractice here. But that’s a civil matter, an insurance matter.”
“What if the doctor had a history of malpractice suits and was in danger of losing his license? Maybe he was afraid he’d lose his livelihood?”
“That’s a good point. Maybe I can find out what this doctor’s record is with his insurance carrier.” I wrote that down on my ever-lengthening list of things to do. I shook my head and put down my pencil. “There’s just one problem with this.”
Samantha slid around and spilled into my lap. “And what is that?”
“You’d have to be pretty certain Donnelly was dead to show up with a suicide note. If you made an innocent mistake on the phone and went over to check on your patient, you wouldn’t carry a typed suicide note with you. You wouldn’t expect him to be dead. If you made a mistake on the phone but caught yourself and knew it could be lethal you’d call for an ambulance. The hooker said Donnelly told him the room he was in. Whoever came into that room knew Donnelly would be dead and he brought the note to cover his tracks.”
“You’re talking about murder.”
“I know. A remote control killer and I don’t know why.”
“Do you know who?”
“Not really. I’ve got an idea, but I have yet to place him in that room. And I still don’t have any motive.”
I wrote some more notes for tomorrow. “Samantha, have you ever been in therapy?”
“You mean it isn’t obvious?”
“Give me a break. Have you?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I just might try it out myself and I was wondering if you could give me some pointers on how to be a patient.”
“Just be yourself, Leo.”
“Ha, ha. I’m serious. I’m thinking about going to see this psychiatrist and I’ll need a cover story.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what I can. Do you want to do that now?”
“Let me make some calls first. See how they turn out.”
I dialed Nate’s office. It was answered on the sixth ring.
“Nate Grossbart, please. This is Leo Haggerty.”
“So Leo, what do you have for me?” Nate said.
“A question, Nate. Do you have the suicide note there?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I want you to read it to me.”
“All right. Hold on.” I heard Nate ask his secretary for the Vasquez case, then papers being sorted through. “Here it is, and I quote, ‘Can’t go on any longer. She’s taken my money, my love, my self-respect. Now she’s taking my kids. All my plans are a joke. She’s outmaneuvered me again. I should have known. Nothing’s helping. Drugs. Counseling. No hope. Nothing left to do. No way out. This is on her head. On her head.’”
The note was typical depressive hyperbole. Equal parts rage and hopelessness, shaken not stirred. “Marta Vasquez sure didn’t plant that letter. I can see why you’d want an alternative to suicide. No insurance company in their right mind would want to pay a beneficiary who drove the victim to his death.”
“So tell me, Leo, what has my money bought me? You have anything to tell me?”
I quickly brought Nate up to date on the case. Give or take a few facts, that is.
“Excellent, Leo. A successful malpractice action is a very acceptable alternative. We’ll sue the doctor and the center for a wrongful death. We’ll have to pitch the suit on behalf of the children, not the wife, to temper the effects of that letter.” Nate was thinking out loud.
“Nate, there’s only one problem. I don’t think this is malpractice. I think this is murder.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
I gave Nate my reasoning on the suicide note.
“All of which hinges on the testimony of a thief and a prostitute. From what you said, she wouldn’t pay attention to anything that wasn’t negotiable.”
“Nate, even if you go the malpractice route, it couldn’t have been Truman Whitney.”
“And why is that?”
“He was in session with a patient at the time of death and no calls were put through to him. He couldn’t have told Malcolm Donnelly that it was okay to drink with the medication in him.”
“Again your mystery hooker’s story. You said that she only heard Donnelly’s side of the conversation, not what this mysterious Doc said. Leo, you don’t even have a suspect.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Who? This Gutierrez?”
“Yes. Nate, he was looking at Donnelly’s chart just before he died. Right around the time Donnelly’s mood lifted and he said he’d found an expert witness for his custody battle.”
“So what? He could have taken the chart out by mistake. You said he hadn’t made any notes in the record.”
“Nate, whoever wrote that suicide note had to have read the chart. One of the lines is right out of the record.”
“Unless Malcolm Donnelly wrote it. I mean, he would know his own mind, wouldn’t he?”
“Donnelly wasn’t suicidal, goddamnit.”
“Says you, Dr. Haggerty. You yourself said that Whitney had doubts about Donnelly’s mental status when he t
erminated treatment. He misdiagnosed the man. He should have hospitalized him. What did he call it, a manic defense? That would jibe with what we saw here. He died because his mental state made him incapable of following the doctor’s orders. Whitney should have known that. He wasn’t aggressive enough in protecting his patient and he’ll have to pay for that. It cost Donnelly his life.”
“So that’s how you’re going to play it, Nate?”
“Damned right. I intend to see that my client and her children do not have to suffer any further financial hardship because of this man’s unfortunate mental illness.”
“Nate, let me at least check Gutierrez out? See if I can establish opportunity then motive.”
“Absolutely not. You have nothing to go on that warrants further expense. I won’t have you jeopardizing this case by stumbling around in the dark chasing your phantom killer. I have to stick with legal realities. We have Dr. Whitney’s relationship with the patient, a demonstrable breach of the standard of care, clearcut proximate cause and damage—Donnelly’s death. All the elements are there and I intend to pursue them.”
“Is that what you want, Nate? Just enough to shake something out of the money tree? What it is these days? Do you go to seminars on the lawsuit as an investment form? Greenmail for the little guy. Christ, at least the mob and its kneebreakers are honest about what they’re up to.”
“I don’t have to listen to this, Haggerty. You’re off this case. File your report and a final bill. For the record, my job is the vigorous pursuit of my client’s legal rights. If you have a beef, it’s with the system. I just play by their rules—”
“Save it for Nuremberg, Nate.”
“Fuck you, you pigshit Irishman.” It was hard to tell who hung up on whom. It took ten minutes for me to calm down enough to make the rest of my calls. Arnie was next on my list.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s Leo, Arnie. Are you going to be home today?”
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s time we talked. How about I come by around two?”
“Whatever.”
“See you then.”
I tried to call Dr. Bliss and then Marta Vasquez. Both of their lines were busy. I pulled down the phone book and looked for a Dr. Gutierrez in the district. There was one listed. A Dr. Rolando Gutierrez. I dialed Dr. Rolando Gutierrez’s phone number. On the second ring I got a taped message: “This is the office of Dr. Rolando Gutierrez. I am unable to speak with you at this time. At the sound of the tone leave your name, phone number and a brief message.”
While I was waiting for the beep, I thought about what to say and decided to just hang up. I didn’t want to give him my real name or phone number. I looked at the clock. It read 11:45. If he observed the fifty-minute hour, I’d call again at 11:50, and try to catch him between sessions. This time he picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Dr. Gutierrez.”
“Uh, hello, my name is Francis Jerome. I’d like to make an appointment to see you, Dr. Gutierrez.”
“How may I be of assistance to you?” he purred.
“Uh, I’m really not in a position to explain that right now.”
“You are not in a private place.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Might I ask how you got my name?”
“Uh, that’s part of the problem I need to discuss with you, Doc.”
“I see. Let me consult my appointment book and see what times are available.”
After a brief silence he said, “I have an opening today at four P.M. That’s my last appointment today. Is that convenient for you?”
“Oh, yes, that’s fine. No problem.”
“Good. We’ll talk and see if I can be of any help to you. Do you have my office address?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. The door to the office is in the back of the house. Walk through the garden and I will meet you there at four P.M.”
“Uh, one last question. How much does a session cost?”
“My regular fee is eighty-five dollars per session. However, there is no charge for the initial consultation. That is so we can freely get acquainted and see if we can work together. Until then.”
I called Dr. Bliss again and this time I got through. He politely told me he was no longer free to discuss the Donnelly case. I went ahead and called Marta Vasquez even though I wasn’t optimistic about what she would have to say.
“Hello, this is Leo Haggerty.”
“Oh hello, Mr. Haggerty.”
“I’d like to talk to you about your husband’s death, if I may.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Haggerty, my lawyer has advised me not to discuss this matter with you any further.”
“Don’t you care about what really happened to your husband? I think he was murdered!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Haggerty, my attorney has told me about your speculations and about the evidence against Dr. Whitney. I’m inclined to believe Mr. Grossbart, that this was a case of malpractice, and I’m satisfied that that is the truth. I have no idea why you would pursue this other idea. I cannot imagine why this other doctor would want to kill Malcolm. From what Mr. Grossbart said, they’d never even met.”
“Mrs. Vasquez, Marta—”
“I’m sorry, that’s all I have to say on this matter.”
The click in my ear left me wondering what I’d done to Truman Whitney and how to let him know that the shit and the fan were very close indeed.
Samantha trotted by on the way to her desk and another day at the paper mill.
“Samantha, I’m off to see Randi Benson and then Arnie. How about I swing by here after that and get that lecture on how to be a psychotherapy patient?”
“Okay.”
“By the way, Nate fired me.”
“Why?”
“A little disagreement over legal philosophies, that’s all.”
“Right. So why are you keeping at this thing?”
“Because I think Nate’s going to scapegoat an innocent man and because Gutierrez just might be a murderer. Without Wanda Manlove’s testimony about the pills, and the letter, Nate will have a pretty easy time making this out to be a wrongful death.”
“Your evidence is mighty slim, you know.”
“I know. I’ll give this a couple of days, though. At least until Marta Vasquez orders me to stop the investigation in writing. After that, I’d be risking a review board hearing by keeping at it, and I like to eat.”
“Okay. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
“Do you have class tonight?”
“Yeah, but I have to go in early. There’s a faculty meeting. How about I come by your place after class?”
“Do that.” I went to the closet to get my jacket. Samantha slipped her headphones on. “Damn,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a short in my stereo. It keeps cutting out.”
“Let me look at it.” I reached under her tuner and felt for a loose connection. Having found one, I wiggled it into place and admonished the tuner to turn its head and cough. The system came to life.
“Thanks, stranger.”
“’Twarn’t nothin’, ma’am.” I bent down and we kissed.
“Leo. Humor me. Use back roads and small shops. And remember three’s a crowd.”
“I hear you. You be careful too.”
A half hour later I was tromping across the parking lot of the private school Randi Benson attended. She was sitting on the front steps of the administration building, waiting for me.
“Hi,” I said. “Do I have to sign in or anything?”
“No. I told my guidance counselor you were coming. So she signed me out.”
“How’s school going? I got your last report card.” I wanted to stay neutral about her grades.
“What did you think?”
No such luck. “Randi, I don’t care about your grades. What I care about is if you’re happy. Are you happy?”
“I’m getting there.
Did I tell you that I’m on the school literary magazine now? I want to ask Samantha if she’ll come out and talk to us.”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted.” We were dancing around a dead moose. “How’s Tammy doing?” Tammy was her eight-year-old sister. The court order covered her too.
“She’s doing great. She’s going to be in the gifted and talented program next year.”
I stroked my mustache. “You wanted to talk about your dad, remember?”
She turned away and then back again. Her blond hair was now cropped short and she wore much less makeup than when I first knew her. At fourteen, she looked a lot better in plaid skirts and penny loafers than she had in a garter belt and spike heels.
“He’s pressuring my mother again. He wants us home for Thanksgiving, so we’ll look like a family. He wants her to make us come home. She’s called here three times this week and she was drunk each time. She cries and tells us she can’t go on like this. Tammy says she wants to go home for Thanksgiving. Her therapist says it’s okay.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to go back there. Tammy’s at me to come home with her. I don’t want to leave her alone there, but I just can’t stand being in that house.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She drew lines on the the sidewalk with the toe of her shoe. “I don’t know.”
“I know you, kiddo. When you start feeling trapped you start lacing up your track shoes. You’re getting ready to bolt, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess. That’s why I called. I could feel it coming on. The last time I ran, I got in a lot of trouble. I’m afraid I’ll do it again.”
“I’ll tell you what. I don’t think you should go to your father’s for Thanksgiving. In fact, I forbid it. Since I’m your legal guardian, I can do that. It’s not up to you. I don’t care what you want to do. In fact, I’ll tell him that today.”
“Would you?” She’d brightened up considerably.
“Sure. Is there anything else?”
“Nah. I guess not.”
“Okay. You want to walk me back to my car?”
“Sure. Then I’ll have to take off to science class.”
A Tax in Blood Page 13