No Cure for Murder

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No Cure for Murder Page 9

by Lawrence Gold


  “What did she take and how bad is she?”

  “She’s semicomatose. We have the empty prescription bottles, Valium, Theophylline, and a variety of antidepressants. I can’t tell yet whether her drug levels are rising or falling. You’d better come down.”

  Jack turned to Ahmad Kadir. “Let’s go. We have an OD in the ER.”

  When they arrived, the nurse pointed them to room two. Mrs. Smith was an obese female, age fifty-eight. She lay on the hospital gurney wearing a faded housedress. When they stimulated her to measure the depth of coma, all they got was a groan.

  After a quick assessment, Jack observed as Ahmad inserted a tube into her stomach. Jack ordered charcoal instilled into her gastrointestinal tract to absorb whatever she swallowed then ordered IVs and diagnostic tests in preparation for her transfer to ICU.

  Jack turned to the nurse. “Does she have any family?”

  “A husband and two grown children.”

  “Ask them to come in.”

  Two minutes later, the door opened and her husband Horace entered with their adult children Randy and Lucille.

  Horace wore dirty jeans, a plaid shirt, and a black leather jacket. He stared at Ahmad and pointed his finger. “What in hell is he doing here?”

  “My name is Dr. Byrnes. I’m the medical director of the Intensive Care Unit. This is my assistant, Dr. Kadir. We’ll be taking care of Mrs. Smith.”

  “Like hell he will,” said Randy. “We ain’t having no fuck’n A-Rab lay his murdering hands on my mother.”

  Ahmad paled, but remained silent.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Dr. Kadir is a skilled ICU physician, and I need his assistance in the care of your mother.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn...” started Horace, stopped by Jack’s raised hand.

  “Here are your choices,” said Jack. “As long as she’s under my care, I will treat her in any way I see fit and use the assistance of any physician I think helpful. You can fire me, find some other physician, or transfer to another hospital. You can choose to do that, but her condition is unstable. I don’t advise such an action.” Jack scanned the family’s faces and saw Lucille jerk her head diagonally. She wanted to talk. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

  When Jack left the room with Ahmad, Lucille followed. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Byrnes. Just last week we received notification that Jesse, our baby brother, was killed in Iraq. It’s what set mother off. Of course I know that Dr. Kadir had nothing to do with this, but...”

  “Dr. Kadir is a Palestinian, not from Iraq or Iran. You have no beef with him.”

  “Please do what you can for mother. I’ll deal with Horace and Randy.”

  When they wheeled Mavis away to the ICU, Lucille remained in heated conversation with her father and brother. The ICU nurses settled Mavis into bed five, right across from the nursing station.

  Jack was completing his admission note when Ahmad approached. “Her blood levels are falling. If we can control any heart irregularities, I think she’ll do well.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. “We’ll need to watch her closely. Check her mental status every thirty minutes.”

  At 9 p.m., the family asked to see her.

  “Only two at a time,” said the nurse.

  Lucille and her tattoo-covered brother Randy stood by the bedside holding their mother’s hand.

  Randy squeezed her hand. “Mom...mom...it’s me and Lucille. We’re here. You’ll be fine.”

  Mavis groaned.

  Ahmad approached the bed for his next thirty-minute check.

  Randy tensed. “What are you doing to her?”

  “Nothing,” said Ahmad, “I just need to check her pupils and her mental state.”

  As Ahmad shined his penlight into her pupils, he felt himself jerked backwards by a strong arm and thrown against the wall, his head crashing with a blinding thump. He collapsed as the fist smashed into the pit of his stomach and felt the blinding pain as his nose exploded in agony.

  Moments later, through blood-blurred eyes, Ahmad saw Brier security guards pulling Randy Smith away. Ahmad’s mind screamed with rage.

  Mavis Smith recovered without incident.

  Ahmad refused to press charges.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lola Weizman, after many years of rewarding but exhausting work as a psychotherapist, finally donated her tear-stained couch to The Salvation Army. She missed the best times and the closeness with her patients as well as the intellectual stimulation of the psychotherapeutic process. But being human after all, Lola found herself, on occasion, responding like the computer program Psyche: the ‘I sees’, the ‘what do you thinks’, and her all time favorite, the ‘tell me mores’.

  “At least I still have the Berkeley Woman’s Mental Health Clinic to indulge myself and see patients,” she said to Jacob over breakfast.

  “Don’t let this go to your head, but you were the smartest, most compassionate therapist I ever knew. They’re lucky to have you, even part-time.”

  Lola met Elena, the clinic’s receptionist, with her favorite behaviorist greeting, “You’re fine; how am I?”

  Elena smiled, not from the joke, she’d heard it a thousand times before, but from Lola’s warmth—her charisma.

  “I’ve never heard that one before, Doctor. You’re getting to be like our Alzheimer’s patients, making new friends every day.”

  “That’s an awful cruel thing to say to an old lady.”

  Elena smiled. “Report me. She’s waiting for you.”

  “Who’s waiting?”

  “Sarah Hughes.”

  “If I don’t come out in an hour, call the cops.”

  Lola approached her tiny consultation room and saw Sarah picking at her black fingernails. She was an image in black: boots, miniskirt, and leather jacket.

  “I’m Lola. Come into the office.”

  When Sarah looked up, Lola read her defiance—more black, thick eyeliner, lipstick, and multiple piercings.

  Lola wondered...where else is she pierced?

  Lola faced Sarah, extending her warmth, and then smiled. “I love your earrings, and that diamond in your nose. Is it real?”

  “No, it’s faux...it looks real, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lola said as they entered the room with a small metal desk and two easy chairs facing each other, a small coffee table between them, and a La-Z-Boy in the corner.

  “Where’s your couch?”

  “At home. It’s real simple here, Sarah. We just talk.”

  “Talking’s going to change me?”

  “Do you want to change something?”

  Sarah smiled. “That’s a real shrink question if I ever heard one.”

  Lola smiled in return. “You’ve talked with a counselor before?”

  “Counselors, psychiatrists, psychologists, and even a chaplain. It’s all a lot of crap.” Sarah paused for a moment, staring at Lola. “How old are you? You look like a hundred.”

  “Almost, I’m eighty-five. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen,” said Sarah as she walked around the room. She stopped at the wall behind Lola’s desk, looking at the framed certificates. She pointed to several ornate diplomas. “I can’t read these. What language are they?”

  “They’re German .”

  “You must be pretty smart to have so many diplomas.”

  “If you live long enough and you keep your eyes and mind open, you can learn a few things.”

  “I think this psychiatry stuff is so much bullshit.”

  “You mean a smart woman like me has been wasting all these years on bullshit?”

  Sarah stared at Lola, then returned to her chair and inspected her nails again. “You wouldn’t be the first. Anyway, you know I’m not here by choice. It was either get shrunk or go to jail. I don’t know which is worse.”

  Lola laughed. “I know what you mean, but you and I know that forcing somebody into therapy guarantees its failure...I have two strikes against me before I begin.”

&nbs
p; Sarah felt herself smiling back. “Well, what do we do?”

  “Let me ask you a few simple questions: Are you happy? Are you satisfied with the way your life is going? Are you optimistic about the future?”

  “No, no, and no...and neither of us can do a damned thing about it.”

  “You’re wrong, Sarah. We can accomplish a lot together if you’ll give me a hand.”

  Sarah lowered her head into her hands and began to cry.

  She looks like a little girl, Lola thought. She rose from her chair, stood beside Sarah, caressed her hair, and handed her a tissue.

  When Sarah regained control, Lola faced the girl. “You hate bullshit, so you won’t hear any from me. When we meet, this will be the one place you can talk about anything, and I mean anything. What we say here, stays here. That’s called patient-physician confidentiality. I’ve never broken it. I never will. Moreover, I’ve been at this a long time and I doubt you’ll tell me anything I haven’t heard before.”

  “How is this supposed to help me?”

  “Getting feelings off your chest will help a little, but it’s just the foundation for what I hope to accomplish with you.”

  “And that is?”

  “You’re a smart girl. I can give you objective advice if you want it, but what I really want to do, is help you understand yourself and change.”

  “Change what?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll need to work that out together.”

  Sarah stared at her hands.

  “Once you do that, you’ll be the one in charge and you can deal with most anything. When you take control of your life, anything’s possible, including happiness.” Lola stood. “Think it over. We’ll talk about it next week.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Zoe Spelling entered the house at nine that evening, Byron was sitting in his leather lounge chair reading. Zoe hung her coat on the rack near the front door. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. I had another emergency.”

  “Jacob’s on call tonight. I thought we’d have a pleasant evening together.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t walk away from my patient. It’s part of how I practice medicine. You, of all people, should know that by now.”

  “Look Zoe, we agreed to try for a semblance of a normal life...I don’t see much effort on your part.”

  She sampled the air. “Something smells good. Is anything left over from dinner? I’m famished.”

  Byron stared at her with disbelief. He sat across the table watching as she ate.

  When Zoe finished, she looked up at Byron. “That was really good. Thanks for saving some for me.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “I’m tired. Can’t it wait?”

  “You’re always finding excuses for not paying attention to me. Do you know what’s going on in my life? Do you know or even care whether I’m happy or depressed, satisfied or unfulfilled with my work?”

  “Damn it, Byron, you’re not a child, don’t act like one. I work long hours and carry incredible amounts of responsibility...I really don’t need this shit!”

  Byron turned away. When he turned back, she had moved to his side. She held his face between her hands, and then kissed him.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “Forgive me. I’m way behind in my sleep. I’m working too hard. I love you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you beside me.”

  He grasped her waist and held his face against her breasts. “I love you too. Let’s see if we can get some time off together. Maybe we can go down to Big Sur for a few days.”

  “That’s a great idea. Let me check my schedule.” She paused. “Come to bed with me. I’ll bet I can think of something that you can do to relax me and help me sleep.”

  The next day at noon, Jack Byrnes and Warren Davidson sat in the doctor’s lounge drinking coffee.

  Warren put his cup on the table. “Marion Krupp was in my office this morning. That woman’s a swift pain in my ass.”

  “She’s a malcontent who loves to share her misery with others. What’s she up to now?”

  “She’s always been hostile to Jacob...God knows why. Now she’s accusing him of killing his patient, Joshua Friedman.”

  “The woman’s out to lunch.”

  “They went to war again over the care of Jacob’s terminal patient. I have fought with her over the same issue, and to tell you the truth, I’m sick of it.”

  “Jacob may be the most compassionate physician I’ve ever known, Warren. He doesn’t believe in letting his patients suffer as they die. Neither do I.”

  “She’s alleging that when she refused his orders for high dose morphine, he gave it himself.”

  “Does she have proof?”

  “Why? Would that stop her? I’m meeting with the director of nursing. Maybe it’s time Marion Krupp and Brier Hospital parted company.”

  Jack smiled. “She’ll love that.”

  Just before breaking for lunch, Zoe joined Jacob in his office. Zoe patted Jacob’s shoulder. “I heard about Josh Friedman. I know you two were close, but his death was a blessing. He suffered enough.”

  “I agree, but each death of late carries with it an extra element of grief. It’s great to live a long life, but it’s tough to watch the characters in your play move off stage for good. I’m outliving my patients, my colleagues and the public figures, some of whom enriched my life.”

  “You’re in a philosophical mood this morning.”

  “When you reach my age, that’s all you have left.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jacob. You’re more alive, more involved, and more in touch with life than anyone I know. You and Lola bring hope for all of us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Warren Davidson, the chief of medicine, stretched back in his leather desk chair after his last patient of the day. Following a night interrupted by phone calls, naturally he’d have a busy day.

  His office manager, Stacey, stuck her head into the office. “I have Marion Krupp on the line, Warren.”

  Shit! “Tell her I’m with a patient, or better, tell her I died.”

  Stacey stood, hands on hips, awaiting a response.

  Warren shook his head. “All right, get her number and tell her I’ll get back to her as soon as I can.”

  “She says it’s urgent.”

  “Everything’s urgent with that woman.”

  Warren shook his head and picked up the phone. “Marion, it’s Dr. Davidson. What can I do for you?”

  “I tried to talk with the director of nursing, but she won’t listen to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you think I’m just a complainer...” she paused. “It’s about time the medical staff did something about Jacob Weizman. He’s too old to practice. His ideas are out of date...”

  “I heard it all before, Marion. I know Jacob and I assure you, he’s among the most competent of our docs. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m getting a little sick of it. Maybe it’s time for you to move on.”

  Marion let out a long sigh. “You guys always stick together. If you only knew...”

  “Knew what?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I suspect Dr. Weizman in the death of one of his patients, Joshua Friedman.”

  “Are you prepared to give me specific written evidence to back up such a charge? This is serious business.”

  “No, but...”

  “I think you’re a very disturbed woman. I’ll be discussing this with nursing administration.”

  Marion hung up.

  Warren called Jacob. They agreed to meet the next morning.

  Jacob groaned as he plopped himself in the doctors’ lounge easy chair next to Warren Davidson.

  “You’re moving kinda slow this morning, old feller.”

  “Wait until you’re eighty-eight.”

  “Odds are, I’ll never make it.”

  Jacob smiled. “Of the myriad benefits that accrue with age, one tickles me.”

  “I�
�m waiting. Remember that I’m not that far behind you.”

  “Only twenty years or so, Warren”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  Jacob scratched his head. “What was I talking about?”

  “You’re a truly evil man, Jacob.”

  “Oh. I remember. As a young man, I wasn’t what you’d call a catch. Not tall, not dark, and not handsome, but short, pale, and with an entirely forgettable face. At eighty-eight, I still recall the pain of girls’ rejections...crazy, isn’t it, after all these years?

  “It’s a good thing I’m happily married, or maybe it’s the threat of Lola in her Honda S2000 rolling over my body, but I always enjoyed just flirting with women. It was benign and fun, but always I perceived an element of reticence in women...a built-in evolutionary constraint that protects them from predators. It was rare with women who knew me, but common with casual contacts.

 

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