No Cure for Murder

by Lawrence Gold

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I nod and smile, returning the friendly greetings in the corridors of Brier Hospital, hiding in plain sight

  Security is everywhere, an index of my recent successes. They’re delusional if they think this will slow me from my work ahead.

  It’s amazing, I think. The opportunities to offer eternal salvation fall gratuitously at my feet. He’s guiding me—that’s enough.

  I share with them the final release and the ecstasy of their last moments.

  It’s addictive. I need more.

  When I walk through the Skilled Nursing Facility, my eyes fix on the name Harry Rodman, room 434, flashing brightly on the white board listing the patients’ names.

  The door to 434 is open as I pass by. Visitors surround Harry’s bed.

  I’m impatient, but not stupid.

  We’ll meet again, Harry...and very soon. I promise.

  The box, gift-wrapped with pink flowers, sat on the roof of Sarah Hughes’s car after school.

  A secret admirer?

  She smiled, then lifted and gently shook the box. It was light and rattled slightly.

  Sarah sat in the driver’s seat and placed the box on her lap, then began removing the wrapping, taking care to preserve the beautiful decorated paper, a habit inherited from her mother, Marilyn. She lifted the lid, then saw the green tissue paper wrapping. Lifting it, Sarah saw the bloody arm, a baby’s bloody arm, then the legs and the head severed from the doll’s body. She gasped, pushed open the door and threw up on the pavement.

  Sarah reached Lola that evening at home. “I’ve got to see you.”

  “What kind of sick son-of-a-bitch sends you such a thing?” Jacob asked as he and Lola sat with a distraught Sarah.

  “Carleton Dix,” said Lola. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s just sick enough.”

  Lola rocked Sarah. “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. I know how upsetting this is, but it’s just the reaction they intended. It’s hate propaganda of the worst form, the vile voices of those who vindicate their beliefs by the violation of others.”

  Sarah trembled. “I thought it was a real baby.”

  “I’m taking this to the police,” said Jacob. “Maybe their forensics lab can tell us who’s responsible.”

  The next afternoon in the office, Margaret entered Jacob’s consultation room. “I have Terrence Wilcox on the line. He says he needs to speak with you. Are he and his lovely family coming back to the bay area?”

  “Not right now, but I think they’ve had enough of the South Dakota winters.”

  Jacob waited until Margaret left the room, then picked up the flashing line.

  “That was quick,” said Jacob.

  “We’re just getting into it, Jacob, but I’m seeing a lot of smoke rising over the Rapid City skyline, pardon the expression.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Right now, all I have is rumor and innuendo, but I have a contact in the DA’s office and we should have more information soon. This is what I know: Carleton Dix was a popular minister at First Rapid City United for five years. Then one day, the president of the church announced that Pastor Dix had left for personal reasons. When Sissy Preston, a fifteen-year-old girl, suddenly moved to San Diego to live with her aunt, the gossip remained about sexual abuse, pregnancy, and an abortion. The news flooded the town like a summer storm. Rumor had it, that the Pastor took a personal interest in several other young women. The Pennington County District Attorney interviewed several teenage girls.”

  “Can you get those records?”

  “Not a chance. They’re sealed, Jacob. Why all the interest in this character?”

  “He’s the director of Pastoral Care at Brier Hospital.”

  Terry’s laugh made Jacob uncomfortable. “A hospital chaplain...great choice, Jacob. Great choice. The next thing you’ll tell me is that he works with a group of teenage girls.”

  Zoe Spelling stood her dripping umbrella in the rack, then hung her raincoat on a hook in the vestibule, and sang out, “I’m home, Byron.”

  Without an answer, she moved into the kitchen and spread the mail over the table. “Byron?”

  Zoe glanced at her watch, 7:30 p.m. Where’s Byron?

  Just then, she heard the beep of the answering machine that showed one message in a blinking LED window. She pressed play and heard Byron’s voice: “I tried to reach you at the hospital, but I guess you didn’t hear your page. I have a faculty meeting tonight that should keep me out until ten or eleven. See you later. Love ya.”

  All of a sudden he’s having meetings of one sort or another.

  Zoe hung up her suit and changed into shorts and a Cal Berkeley, Go Bears sweatshirt. She stared at Byron’s side of the closet and his row of suits and thought, don’t be ridiculous, Zoe...there’s no reason to be suspicious.

  She slid each suit on the support rack then started to leave. Before she reached the door, she changed her mind and returned to the nearest suit, his only Armani. Looking over her shoulder furtively, she placed her hand into each pocket and then the inside jacket pocket finding nothing.

  Why are you doing this? What’s the matter with you? This is stupid.

  Compelled by forces she was unable to control, Zoe continued to search each suit in turn until she reached the next to last one where, in the breast pocket, she found a pack of matches. Palming it in her hand, she moved into the light of their bedroom where she saw the embossed “W.P.H.” the Waterfront Plaza Hotel that overlooked Jack London Square.

  Zoe felt flushed and a little dizzy as she sat on their bed studying the matchbook.

  Don’t do this, she thought…and whispered, “Byron, how could you do this to me?”

  The clock read 10:45 p.m. when she heard their front door open.

  When he entered their bedroom, she lay with her back to him. He whispered, “Are you awake?”

  She kept her breathing regular as she listened to him change for bed, brush his teeth, then slide into bed beside her.

  You won’t get away with this, my love, she thought.

  Sixty seconds later, she heard his regular breathing and irritating snore.

  Chapter Fifty

  When Shelly Kahn and a uniformed patrolman arrived at Milo and Angelina Cass’s home, nobody answered the doorbell or their repeated knocks.

  A passing neighbor pointed to the driveway. “I think he’s in the back.”

  Shelly and the patrolman walked up the driveway toward the garage. They heard movement from within and when they entered, the tall thin man in overalls jerked up, banging his head on the raised hood.

  “Shit!” he said, holding his head.

  “Milo Cass?” asked Shelly.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Shelly pulled her coat away from her belt exposing her badge and her service revolver. “Shelly Kahn, Berkeley P.D., and this,” she said signaling the officer to enter, is patrolman Hastings. “We’d like a word with you.”

  Milo wiped the grease from his hands, then sat on a stack of used tires. “Well, make it fast.”

  “Where were you the night Angelina got so sick?”

  “Got sick,” he cackled, “she’s always sick.”

  “Don’t play games with us, Milo.”

  “I was right here.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Can you prove where you slept last night?”

  Shelly continued, “It’s common knowledge in the neighborhood that you and Angelina didn’t get along.”

  “I wished them damn people would mind their own fucking business.”

  “Milo?”

  “Shit yeah, we didn’t get along. Big deal. I’ve had it with that bitch. Don’t expect me to shed any tears over that loser. She’s always in and out of the hospital and I’m plain sick of it.”

  “Since you don’t have an alibi, I think we better continue this downtown.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” he said pointing a grease-stained finger at Shelly. “I didn’t want to say n
othing, but I had company that night.”

  “Company?”

  He wiped his face with a oil-stained rag. “You know...a lady friend.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Misty...Candy...damned if I know. Met her in a bar in Oakland.”

  “What bar?”

  “I don’t like this shit. Maybe I need a lawyer,” he said pacing and looking into the right rear corner of the garage.

  Shelly’s eyes followed his glance to a shelf on which stood an open container of antifreeze.

  When Shelly’s eyes returned to Milo’s, he made a sudden sprint for the open door only to meet Hastings who grabbed him by his overalls. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere buddy.”

  “Cuff him,” said Shelly, “and read him his rights.”

  “Got good news for you, chief.”

  “I could use it.”

  “We arrested Milo Cass for attempted murder this afternoon. Once he started talking, we couldn’t shut him up. He hated Angelina and got the idea from a TV episode of E.R.. He snuck into her room and pushed three syringe-fulls of antifreeze into her feeding tube.”

  “Brier Hospital’s going to give a great sigh of relief,” said Ira.

  Word of the arrest flashed through Brier.

  “That’s great news,” Bruce Bryant said to Warren Davidson and Jack Byrnes. “Finally, we can get things back to normal.”

  Warren looked at Jack and shook his head. He turned back to Bruce. “You must be kidding. You think that Milo Cass, an auto mechanic, wandered through Brier Hospital, unseen. That he killed or tried to kill our patients with morphine, Lidocaine and heparin. That’s pretty sophisticated stuff for someone without medical knowledge.”

  “You can learn anything on the Internet,” said Bruce.

  “Don’t live in a dream world,” said Jack. “We have an attempted murderer, but someone’s out there a lot smarter and much more dangerous.”

  Tommy Wells walked toward Kelly’s Bar, glancing down at his new black Adler slip-on shoes. Four hundred bucks. A few more with the habit of Morgan Ferris and I’ll get that Porsche, he thought.

  When Tommy rounded the corner, he came to a complete stop.

  The Oakland Police cruiser sat in front of Kelly’s bar, blue lights flashing. A moment later, Morgan Ferris, hands cuffed behind his back and a policeman on each arm, bent over to enter the police car’s rear door.

  As the officer placed his hand over Morgan’s head to protect it, Morgan’s eyes widened as they met with Tommy’s.

  Tommy turned and walked away. I’m screwed. They’re going to want his supplier...he’ll make a deal. I’m fucked.

  One more score...a big one...right away, then I’m out of here.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Jacob looked for an opportunity to sit and talk with Zoe. It was unlike him to procrastinate on anything, especially things that involved his practice or people he cared about. Jacob couldn’t see much of himself in Zoe. In many ways they were polar opposites.

  Maybe I’ve been projecting, one of Lola’s favorite words, too much on Zoe as my legacy, the guardian for a sixty-year practice.

  He watched her in the office and on rounds in the hospital. He read her notes with particular attention to her thoroughness. He made subtle inquiries of physicians who worked with her and patients she treated.

  “She’s great! A real asset to your practice, Jacob,” said several physicians.

  Questioning patients about Zoe was more difficult, no less interrogating them, but Jacob got a series of reactions: “I love Dr. Spelling, Doc...don’t take it personally, but it’s nice to have a woman physician for a change. Smart as hell, and great to look at, too. Good move, Doc. It’s great knowing she’s around. And, sometimes her mind seems elsewhere, Doc. Maybe she’s overworked.”

  At the end of a busy afternoon, Jacob knocked on Zoe’s office and stuck his head in. “I have a few things to do, then can we sit for a minute and talk?”

  “Why sure, Jacob. Is anything wrong?”

  “You drink decaf? I’ll make a pot and meet you in the lounge.”

  “Decaf’s fine.”

  Zoe listened to the ‘goodnights’, the ‘see you in the mornings’, as the last of the staff left for the day. She entered the lounge to the smell of freshly brewing coffee. She sat on the aging sofa, picked out a magazine, but only stared at the pages, unable to read. After a few minutes, she stood and paced, becoming agitated. Just when she decided to seek him out, Jacob arrived.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone with a patient about to lose it. It took me a while to bring her down.”

  “I don’t know how you still have the patience for that after all these years.”

  “It’s no different from looking at a throat or prescribing antibiotics, Zoe. It’s giving patients what they need.”

  “What did you want to see me about?”

  “Have a seat. I only want to take a few minutes to see how you’re doing...how we’re doing.”

  Zoe sat on the sofa’s edge twisting a lock of hair. “Have I done something wrong? Is anyone complaining about me?”

  “You’re a sophisticated woman, Zoe. I don’t expect perfection from myself or anyone else. You can bet that one time or another, the world will blame you for what you do right and praise you for what you did wrong. That’s why Lola says the only critic that counts is the one in here. ” He pointed at his head.

  “I still don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”

  “People have noticed that you seem troubled. They don’t know if it’s personal or professional, and I’m not sure that it’s any of my business.”

  “What people?” Zoe’s face began burning.

  “I’m not making this a matter of personality, Zoe. I’ve noticed, as have others, that something’s affecting your work.”

  “My work. Who’s complaining about my work?”

  “How are things at home?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “God damn it, Zoe! I’m trying to help you. I don’t want to be your shrink. I’m your partner and your friend. If that’s not enough for you,” Jacob said rising, “then goodnight.”

  Zoe choked over each breath. She reached for Jacob’s arm. “No...don’t...I’m sorry, it’s just...”

  “It’s just what?”

  “I only want to please you, and Lola too. You’re the kind of person...the kind of doctor I’ve always wanted to be.”

  “You’ve heard the term ‘feet of clay’? It’s Biblical, you know.”

  “I know. It’s from the Book of Daniel.”

  “You know your Bible,” said Jacob then he continued, “I have my faults and like any thoughtful person, I want people to appreciate me as a real person, not as fantasy. I’ve made my mistakes...you’ve seen some yourself.”

  Jacob hesitated. “These are our observations: You make promises to staff and patients, then you don’t keep them. You don’t return patient phone calls. You slough off reports and letters to me...I really don’t need the extra work, and your interest in your patients goes from disinterest to dismissive. You’ve got to know how I feel about that.”

  “That’s unfair...I’m trying so hard...”

  “I’m not sure that I want you to respond to these observations. The last thing I want you to do is go on the defensive. Something’s going on with you, Zoe. I know it. People you work with know it, and I think you must know it too.”

  “Maybe I should resign.”

  Jacob ran his hand over his scalp. “That’s great. You want to take the easy way out. For what? What’s so terrible that you’re unwilling or unable to work out some simple problems?”

  Zoe’s eyes focused on a point behind Jacob. With shoulders rolled forward and neck muscles taut, she looked like a spring stretched to its breaking point. “Jacob, I can’t talk...If you only knew what I’m going through...”

  “I’m trying to help you like a father.”

  “I know. Since
we first met, I thought of you as a grandfather...no, a father is more accurate.

  “If you can’t talk to me, talk to Lola or have her refer you to someone who can help. We love you, Zoe. The last thing we want is to lose you.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Carleton Dix had finished his last counseling session of the day.

  I’m sure glad that one’s over, he thought. How much teenage whining I can take?

  Carleton Dix’s secretary came to his door. “I have a woman on the phone, chaplain. She refuses to identify herself.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “She says she’s an old friend from up north.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll take the call.”

  He pushed the flashing line button. “Reverend Dix. How can I help you?”

  “My, my, how formal. Is that the way to treat a special old friend?”

  “My God...Rita, is it really you?”

  “In the flesh, and it’s good to hear those soothing tones again. It’s been a while. We really miss you up here, especially on those cold winter nights. How are you doing in the land of Sodom and Gomorrah?”