No Cure for Murder

by Lawrence Gold

  Arnie smiled. “Maybe we should be careful what we say around you.”

  “Maybe, but it won’t work. Normal people don’t act their lives, they live them. Anyway, Margaret Cohen, Jacob’s office manager, was the first to take notice of Zoe’s behavior. What she described and what Jacob and I saw, was an excellent example of the classic narcissistic personality.”

  “That’s not exactly foreign in the medical community,” said Warren.

  “You’re right, of course. Their psychopathology drives them to succeed, to uphold and maintain the front they’ve created for themselves. Well-compensated narcissists thrive in competitive environments where ruthlessness and the absence of a conscience guarantees success. I have nothing against narcissists...some of my best friends are a little narcissistic, but who’d like to live with one?”

  “There must be more,” said Jack.

  “Much more, but no real smoking gun. Zoe was envious of Jacob, in retrospect, pathologically so.”

  “I’ve worked my entire life to earn the respect, and yes, the envy of others,” said Jacob. “It’s the psychopathology of the oppressed, of the survivor, the desire to prove that your longevity meant something. The drive to feel as good as, or better than, anyone else led me to what I’ve achieved in life, but at what cost?”

  Lola grasped Jacob’s hand. “You never had to prove anything to me. Maybe, for the first time at the age of eighty-eight, you’ll see that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone, yourself included.”

  Lola continued. “Margaret noticed that life had become more complicated since Zoe’s arrival. At first, she wrote it off as resistance to change or an unavoidable alteration in the office group dynamic. We talked about it and hoped that with time, we’d adjust.

  “Then came the problems: Zoe’s lying, her failure to carry her load, her inappropriate emotional distance from her patients, and her odd past religious affiliations. What pissed Margaret off the most was Zoe’s searching for any opportunity to demean Jacob behind his back. Several docs saw this too, but didn’t understand it. I hate to say this in front of you guys, but all that’s pretty par for the course when you’re dealing with humans.”

  “Cynical,” said Jacob. “Very cynical.”

  “Or realistic,” Lola responded. “Then came the real warning signs: Zoe’s paranoia about an affair her husband wasn’t having, and her discordant reaction to the deaths of Jacob’s patients.”

  “Discordant reaction?” asked Warren.

  “She was more upset about Jacob’s reaction to the deaths, than to the deaths themselves.”

  “Still,” said Warren, “Multiple murders?”

  “Trust me,” Lola began, “I don’t have the entire psych profile but my guess is that Zoe was seething with anger and resentment, maybe expanding into the delusional or psychotic.”

  “You’re not giving us the coming attractions for her trial, are you, Lola?” asked Arnie.

  Lola scanned the faces. “What other defense does she have?”

  Warren smiled. “I hear you’re up for an Academy Award nomination, Jacob.”

  “Maybe I should sit down,” said Jacob.

  “Your performance that night,” said Warren, “the confusion, the memory impairment . . . very convincing, I heard.”

  “Jacob was perfect,” said Lola.

  “Maybe too perfect,” said Warren with a smile. “Are you sure it was an act?”

  As Byron watched the Berkeley Police tow truck raise the front of Zoe’s car to take it away, he saw again the disquieting faded bumper sticker: No Jesus, No Peace; Know Jesus; Know Peace.

  I didn’t understand how she embraced that sentiment, he thought. Now I’m more confused than ever.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  San Francisco Chronicle

  Dateline, Berkeley, California.

  Chief Ira Green announced an arrest in the Brier Hospital murders.

  Zoe Spelling, a family practitioner, was placed into custody yesterday on multiple counts of murder and attempted murder.

  Dr. Spelling practiced for five years in the Berkeley community as the partner of Dr. Jacob Weizman .

  No details are available regarding the causes of these alleged assaults.

  The staff and the administration have given a collective sigh of relief at the arrest.

  A nurse stuck her head into Jacob’s room the next afternoon. “I have a Dr. Spelinsky on the line. Can I put him through?”

  Jacob nodded, and when the phone rang, Lola picked up the hand piece. “We thought we’d be hearing from you, Bernie.”

  “My God, Lola. I had no idea.”

  “Pardon my French, Bernie, but you’re full of shit.”

  “Lola, listen to me...”

  “To more lies? I don’t think so. You had to know something. We were your friends. You should have told us. We would have helped.”

  The line remained silent for a minute. “I’m an old man. I love Zoe. I thought she was better, or maybe I made myself believe that she was well.”

  Lola shook her head at Jacob. “I’m waiting, Bernie. Don’t forget to whom you’re talking. I’ve seen just about every form of psychopathology.”

  “It started when Zoe went to prep school in upstate New York. They sealed the records of her assaults on several girls and they referred her for psychiatric evaluation. Initially, since Zoe was so well compensated and functional, and so damn smart, they refused to make a diagnosis. Later, after extensive evaluation and treatment at The Menninger Clinic, Zoe received the diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia, although her psychotic symptoms were transient at best. Later they labeled her as having a Borderline Personality Disorder.”

  “I know the problems of categorizing such patients,” said Lola, “but what about her behavior?”

  “I really don’t know. If you think I may be blind to Zoe and her problems, you should see her parents. They don’t have a clue.”

  “I don’t believe she just came here and started her killing spree. You need to take a good look everywhere she worked. What you find may surprise you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lola. Can I talk with Jacob?”

  Lola handed the phone to Jacob.

  “If I had known it would come to this, Jacob, I...”

  “Bernie, damn it, you should have said something...anything. We would have been in this together and perhaps our patients would still be alive.”

  “You can’t make me feel worse than I already do. I tried to live a good life, an honorable life. I tried to help others or at least not to hurt them. This will be my legacy.”

  “Don’t worry about your legacy, Bernie. Worry about your conscience.”

  “I’m hearing a lot of holier than thou crap, Jacob. You’re telling me everything was perfect with Zoe, that you had no inkling of a problem?”

  “Bernie, please. She’s your granddaughter, a graduate of Columbia University, College of Physicians and Surgeons with incredible recommendations, and who could resist hiring someone awarded Resident of the Year.”

  “Resident of the Year?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I know all about her achievements, but never heard of that one. I think she exaggerated.”

  “Exaggeration is nothing compared to all she’s done.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Bernie.

  “Look, we all make mistakes. We justify and rationalize our decisions to protect our frail egos. Could we have done better? Probably, but that doesn’t change your responsibility one iota.”

  Later that day, Jacob saw Lola and Marion Krupp in heated conversation in the corridor outside his room. He heard the raised voices and saw the gesturing, the heads shaking yes and no. Finally, Lola nodded and Marion entered the room, Lola followed.

  She walked up to Jacob and grasped his hand and smiled.

  Jacob pulled his hand away. “What the hell.”

  Marion looked down. “I just want you to know that I was worried.”

  “That I wouldn’t
die?”

  “Good one,” she said, laughing.

  Jacob stared at Lola who stood mute.

  “I know we’ve had our differences, Jacob...is it okay if I call you Jacob?”

  Jacob remained silent.

  “I’ve had to do some soul searching,” she continued. “I’ve been angry and bitter. The only thing that kept me from total destruction was Abby, my little girl.”

  When Marion leaned over to hug him, he turned away in discomfort.

  This is like being hugged by Attila the Hun, he thought.

  Marion grabbed Jacob’s other hand. “We owe so much to you. I can never thank you enough.”

  “Marion, I’m overwhelmed by this incredible change in how you feel about me, but I don’t understand it.”

  Marion turned to Lola. “He doesn’t know?”

  Lola shook her head, no.

  “The little girl they presented at grand rounds, that was my Abby. You made the diagnosis of typhus. You saved her life, Jacob. I’ll thank you every remaining day of my life.”

  Byron sat across the bulletproof glass waiting for Zoe to arrive. This was his first visit to a jail of any kind. The discordant pastiche of tattoos, do rags, dreadlocks, short skirts and tight tops mixed with the stench of the unwashed, guests and visitors, kept Byron ill at ease.

  The steel door clanged open and Zoe appeared in institutional orange. The uniformed guard looked like a prison matron from a 50s movie. She released Zoe’s chained wrists, and pulled her by the upper arm to the chair across from Byron. Zoe tried to shake her arm free, but the guard simply forced her into the chair.

  Even with the too large orange jumpsuit, no makeup, and her hair a mess, Zoe looks great, Byron thought.

  They picked up the phone handset in mirror-like synchrony.

  “I wish you hadn’t come,” she rushed to say, staring behind him at the exit sign.

  “How could I not come?”

  Zoe’s face lighted up with a broad smile as she stood and placed her hand on the glass.

  Byron placed his hand on his side opposite hers.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Sit down...do not touch the glass,” came the voice over the loudspeaker.

  “I can’t stand it in here, Byron. You must get me out.”

  “I have a call into Alan Hayes. He’s the best criminal defense attorney in Northern California.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Are you sure he’s the best?”

  “The guy hasn’t lost a case in ten years. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

  Zoe paused and studied Byron. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “What way?”

  “You haven’t asked my why? Don’t you want to know?”

  Byron turned away.

  Zoe stared at him. “Byron?”

  “You’ve formulated a rational explanation for serial killing. Justification for the murder of patients who placed their trust in you.”

  “You’re upset. I know, but you must understand that I’m sick...there’s no other explanation.”

  “Of course you’re sick, but so sick that you couldn’t stop...so sick that you were delusional...so sick that you didn’t know right from wrong?” He paused. “Trust me, Zoe, you don’t want me on the jury.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “What you did makes me ill...maybe somehow I should have known and stopped you.”

  Zoe laughed. “You? You’re pathetic.”

  Byron reeled back from her vicious assault. “Was any of it real? What were we doing together all these years? What I’m doing now?”

  “You’re doing what you’ve always done, protecting me.”

  “No. No More. I’m done.”

  Zoe placed her palm on the glass and Byron placed his opposite. He closed his eyes while her warmth flooded his body.

  “Do you think I choose to be this way? Look what it’s gotten me. I’ve lost everything I love, you, my practice, my friends, and Jacob...Jacob more than anything, I’ve lost Jacob.”

  Byron shook his head in disbelief. “Zoe, you tried to murder him.”

  Zoe lowered her head and wept. Suddenly, she stopped crying, blotted her eyes with her sleeve then scanned the room. “Have Mr. Hayes get me out of here. I can’t stand one more night, Byron. They’re talking about me.”

  “Who’s talking about you?”

  “They are.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The voices.”

  “You mean the other inmates.”

  “I don’t know. I’m hearing them...the men. They want me. They’re threatening to hurt me. I’m frightened, Byron. Please you must help me.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but with the charges against you, bail may be impossible.”

  “Time,” said the loudspeaker.

  The guard approached, stood Zoe and replaced her cuffs and chains. As he led her away, Zoe turned. Tears ran down her cheeks as she mouthed, “Please... please.”

  Byron exited and turned to the guard at the door. “Is it possible to put my wife Zoe Spelling into a woman-only area of the jail?”

  The guard stared at Byron.“Your wife’s in the woman’s section. Even the guards are women.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Carleton Dix’s car sat in his apartment’s driveway. He’d filled it with his personal possessions. Inside, he gathered his laptop computer, his leather attaché case, and his father’s King James Bible. His mind was a thousand miles away as he heard heavy feet echoing down the corridor.

  Please, God, he thought, anyone but the police.

  The footsteps stopped at his door. After ten seconds, he heard the sharp rap of something hard against his door. “Berkeley Police. Open up.”

  Dix scanned his apartment looking for an escape route.

  “Open up. This is the Berkeley Police. We have a warrant for your arrest. We know you’re in there. Open up now or we’ll break in.”

  Dix moved in slow motion toward the door. He watched his hand reach slowly for the knob, heard the lock click, then stood back as the door swung open.

  “I see you’re going somewhere, chaplain,” said the uniformed officer, his eyes moving around the room. “I’m officer Baños and this is my partner, officer Amelia Martin.”

  “What’s this all about? I’m already late.”

  Amelia pulled the handcuffs from her belt. “You’ll be later. We have a warrant for your arrest for unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor...otherwise known as statutory rape.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Dix, stepping backward.

  Baños moved his massive frame toward the chaplain. “Don’t make this more difficult for yourself, padre.”

  Dix lowered his head, turned his back to the officer, and like an experienced felon, placed his hands behind his back for the handcuffs.

  “I see you’re familiar with the procedure,” said Amelia. “Good. You have the right to remain silent...”

  Bruce Bryant, Brier’s CEO, sat across the desk from Kevin Walters in his downtown office.

  Bruce held up the Oakland Tribune’s front page. “We’re getting killed with negative publicity.”

  “Did you expect that the media would ignore three arrests of Brier Hospital employees?”

  “Zoe Spelling was a physician on staff, and Carleton Dix was an independent contractor, neither were hospital employees.”

  “You think that distinction is going to make much of an impact on the front page or on television?”

  “Where do you stand with these cases?”

  “We’ve come to an agreement with Tommy Wells on the drug and narcotic charges. He’ll be going away for ten years. Your chaplain won’t take a chance with a jury, not with the testimony we have from Kelly Cowan and his previous history. Sooner or later, he’ll agree to a plea.”

  “What about Zoe Spelling?”

  “Dr. Spelling is a serial killer. We caught her in the act. Her only defense is
a psychiatric one, which since the Dan White Case is unlikely to succeed in the State of California. She was smart enough to hire Alan Hayes. He’s good, but nobody’s good enough for this case. I’ll be meeting him in a day or so.”

  “This is so unfair,” said Bruce. “These individuals have smeared the reputation of a great hospital. We live and die by our public image.”

  “We can’t change the facts, sir. Maybe they’ll all plead out and you can get it off the front page. Otherwise, I’d prepare for another O.J. Simpson media fiasco.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Lola as Jacob dressed that morning to return to work. “It’s only been ten days.”

  “The office is going crazy with no physician all this time. My friends have been great covering for me, but I can’t impose on them any more.”