The Inquisitor

by Peter Clement

  "Oh, no?"

  "No. It's whether you'd kill three people and slip two others into a coma to prevent them from saying you did."

  Stewart turned crimson again, and up this close, Earl could see the individual beads of sweat that filled his pores.

  "You bastard!" he said, his voice guttural, as if gathering phlegm from the back of his throat to spit in his face. "Get out! Get the fuck out of my office."

  Chapter 12

  Thomas spotted him the minute Earl entered the ER. "Dr. Garnet!" he called out, and excused himself from a woman who clutched a gauze pad soaked with blood to the palm of her hand. A couple of medical students, circling nearby in hopes of picking up a suturing job, eagerly moved in to fill the void.

  "Walk with me," Earl told him, keeping a brisk pace toward his office at the back of the department.

  "About death rounds-"

  "Sorry, I'm in no mood to discuss that goddamn meltdown, and officially it's out of my hands."

  "But that's why I wanted to talk to you. If I could help in any way, check things out on the QT, the sort of stuff you might not be able to do since Hurst suspended-"

  "It won't be necessary." Earl was in no mood for an overly earnest resident in his way right now, however well-meaning Thomas might be. He had his own plan. "Thanks anyway."

  Thomas continued to trot beside him. "I just thought… well… what Hurst did to you sucks, sir. You, and this hospital, deserve better. And how else can we get to the bottom of what's going on?"

  Earl straight-armed the door leading to the administration wing and strode on through. "Look, I appreciate the offer, Thomas, but I'm not going to involve house staff in cleaning up a hospital mess. The academic requirements of the R-three program are plenty enough to fill your time."

  Thomas stuck at his side. "But that's what I mean, sir. I've got to write a research paper as part of my curriculum. Why couldn't it be on clusters of unexplained deaths?"

  Earl slowed his pace. "Why, that's…" He didn't know what to say.

  "Think of it. The topic is legitimate, exciting, and I hope intriguing enough to get me published so I can pursue more research with my ER work. The result might also provide the key to what's going on in Palliative Care. The beauty of it is that no one, Dr. Hurst included, would know. Who on staff pays attention to a resident doing a project? At this point we don't have to tell a soul what it's about. I could sit at a computer or in medical records, look at anything I wanted, and no one would even notice, let alone get nervous."

  Interesting, Earl thought. So far Janet had done exactly that without anybody being the wiser. But she still had another three months of data to check, and with Hurst bound to be on the lookout for an end run, it might become more difficult for her to continue undetected. Hell, she'd be the first one he'd keep watch on. A resident, on the other hand, just might fly under his radar. Thomas could pull charts from all over the hospital as a subterfuge to keep anyone in records from realizing that he'd zeroed in on palliative care.

  "Let's talk about it," he said, and continued toward his office. He unlocked his door, threw himself into his high-backed chair, and gestured Thomas to take a visitor's seat. "You'd check everything you plan to do with me first?" he asked.

  Thomas quickly sat and leaned forward, his arms on Earl's desk. "Absolutely."

  "And you'd have to keep this totally confidential. Tell no one, understand. You heard about the run-in I had early Saturday morning? I don't want whoever decked me coming after you."

  "Understood. Not a word."

  Earl switched on his computer. "And as your director, I'd have the final say over what we publish."

  He looked puzzled. "Sure, except you wouldn't cover up anything we found, would you?"

  "I'm saying we stick to the definite stuff- a classic cluster study, correlating times of death with staffing coverage. What has no place anywhere, let alone in a scientific paper, is unsubstantiated, poisonous insinuations like the one Yablonsky threw at Stewart this morning."

  Thomas recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "Don't tell me you think he's innocent?"

  "I don't like lynchings," Earl continued, ignoring the question. "That's exactly what the person who blabbed about the proceedings this morning did, probably Yablonsky, and the wolves are already tearing Stewart apart." As he talked, he clicked up a popular search engine for medical topics. "I just came from his office. It's not a pretty sight, seeing a man have his reputation shredded. Especially if it's not deserved. Might as well skin him alive."

  "My God. From the way you tore into him, I thought you agreed with her-"

  "Oh, I know he lied to try to keep what those patients said from becoming public knowledge. But that's a long way from actually staging some conversation from beyond the grave. And he forced me to ask the one question anyone with half a brain would want to answer before rushing to judge him." He paused, allowing

  Thomas a moment to get the point, and continued to scan the offerings on the Web page he'd selected.

  The resident frowned at him.

  "Come on. Why would Stewart pull something so bush league that pointed so obviously at his own work? Ah- and then there's this." He pivoted the computer screen so they could both see it. Large black letters proclaimed THE KETAMINE-INDUCED NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE.

  "Holy shit," Thomas said, wide-eyed.

  "Before all the trouble started, Monica Yablonsky mentioned in passing that this sort of stuff could be found on the Internet. I didn't think anything of it at the time," Earl said, scanning the summary.

  Thomas hunched toward the screen and joined him in reading it.

  It seemed to be a legitimate paper that described how a team of scientists had induced classic near-death experiences in some subjects using IV ketamine. Everything could be explained by chemistry. Earl knew the intended pharmaceutical action of the drug as an anesthetic, having used it in ER. But what the article highlighted- how ketamine blocked the neurotransmitter glutamate at certain areas of the brain, called N-methyl-D-aspartate (NMDA) receptor sites, and caused subjects to report seeing bright lights, rushing through tunnels, rising above their bodies, and meeting lost loved ones- went into more detail than he'd seen before. When those same symptoms arrived following a shot in an emergency procedure, Earl simply called them side effects.

  "It's a fucking how-to manual," Thomas said, reading alongside him. "And Monica Yablonsky told you about it?"

  "Yes, when I first asked her about the reports from Wyatt's patients."

  "So you think she could be involved after all?"

  "In the near-death stuff? I don't know. Why would she be, unless using ketamine might be connected to some mercy-killing spree she's been part of? But then why would she badger people to describe what they see? And if we're dealing with mercy killings, why are patients left alive to talk about it?"

  Thomas sank back in his chair, and frowned in silence. "Everything you say… it's all pretty vague, isn't it?"

  "Not really."

  "How so?"

  "There's someone prowling around the ward with a set of shoulders on him that could stop a truck. Nothing vague about that at all."

  "Shit!"

  "What?"

  "Stewart Deloram has a good set of shoulders."

  Earl sighed. "And every reason not to shoot patients full of IV ketamine."

  "I hope so, because he's been a great teacher, and I don't want him to be in trouble, except…"

  "Except it's hard to be sure of someone once suspicions about them are let loose."

  "Yeah. I mean, even now I'm wondering, how do we know a guy like Stewart didn't count on people thinking that he'd never do anything so obvious. Being a little too clever is something he might try, except it backfired on him."

  "Maybe." Earl decided not to even mention his worst suspicion, that Stewart might have silenced five patients to avoid the type of scandal that now consumed him. Thomas would really find it hard to believe in Stewart if he heard that one. "We could speculate al
l day," he said instead, and stood up to end the meeting. "But your study will put some real probables on the table."

  Thomas slowly rose to his feet, seeming almost reluctant to leave. "In a way, I'm afraid of what we might find. Finger-pointing can get ugly."

  "Leaving a killer at large would be worse," Earl replied, hoping Thomas could remain objective despite a sense of loyalty to Stewart.

  The young man nodded, but the eager spark he'd had in his eye at the start of their talk had faded. Probably hadn't put faces on the people they might end up going after when he first offered to help.

  "Now, Janet has already done some of the work you'll need," Earl continued. "Of course, it'll save time if she shows you her results, but not in the hospital. Seeing you two huddled together might tip Hurst off."

  Thomas's eyebrows arched. "Dr. Graceton's already been doing a cluster study?"

  "Obviously our secret held," Earl said, once more pleased with himself for having had the sense to recruit his wife's aid. "So how about dropping over to our house for dinner this evening? You can review her material safely enough there. Until now she's covered only the staff in Palliative Care, but it looks as if we'll have to go beyond them and check the whole hospital. And she can continue to process the data you collect. It'll take the two of you to track everyone we need- nurses, doctors, residents, orderlies, and porters, including who entered the hospital after hours when they weren't on duty."

  "But-"

  "You see, key card access leaves a computerized record. Of course, I'll have to call in a few favors to get into those databases."

  "Yeah, but-"

  "So we'll talk more tonight," he said, determined to keep him speechless so that they wouldn't start arguing in circles again, guessing who did what to whom. "And bring your appetite. Janet's the best cook in Buffalo-"

  "Dr. Garnet, I'm sorry, but I've been trying to tell you, I already have a dinner engagement tonight."

  Feeling sheepish, Earl invited him for tomorrow evening.

  5:55 p.m. Palliative Care

  Sadie Locke had left Dr. Earl Garnet a message requesting to see him.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, picking her way through a dinner tray that held several bowls of different-colored mush, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. I'm definitely better for my weekend at home with Donny, she thought. The pallor of her face had picked up a coppery tinge of tan, and her eyes sparkled, a change that only family and love could evoke.

  She looked at her watch. Dr. Garnet had said he'd be here before six.

  "Hi, Mrs. Locke," said his now familiar voice from the doorway. "Don't let me interrupt your dinner…"

  "Dr. Garnet! Come in, come in." She pushed the meal aside and waved him closer. "The nurses told me you had some excitement here after I left."

  He chuckled. "Afraid so."

  "Are you all right?"

  "My back still twinges after an hour in a chair, and if I turn my neck too quickly, I get a reminder of what happened. Other than that, I'm fine. Now, what can I do for you?"

  She motioned him closer still. "It's what I can do for you," she said in a whisper. "I may have seen the person who knocked you out."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Someone tried to come in here in the wee hours of last Tuesday morning, but I scared off whoever it was."

  "What!"

  "Well, not scared so much as surprised. The individual apparently didn't think I'd be awake."

  "What happened?" He sat beside her on the bed.

  "I heard someone come in, and thought it might be Father Jimmy- the dear man always drops by, no matter how late his day goes- but saw this form. It was too dark to see his eyes-"

  "It couldn't have been one of the nurses?"

  "Don't think so. Too big."

  "Man or woman?"

  "Couldn't tell. Too dark."

  "Did he or she say anything?"

  "Just that it was the wrong room."

  "What about the voice? Might you recognize it?"

  "No. The person spoke in a whisper." Her wisps of hair stood up like Dairy Queen curls, and her eyes flashed with pleasure from telling what she knew.

  Yet the story troubled Earl. If the visit on Saturday morning had been a second attempt to get in the room, then theories about someone looking for an empty bed for a quickie with a nurse, or even an attempt to rob the old lady's belongings while she'd been on a weekend pass, went out the window. He wanted to ask her if she had any reason to think someone would want to do her harm, but first, he thought, it was better to reassure her. "Sadie, I want you to know it won't happen again. You may have noticed that I've posted a security guard in the hallway."

  "Yes." She leaned her head toward his in a conspiratorial gesture. "That's how I knew you took what happened seriously and would want to know about the Tuesday visit." A curt nod punctuated the claim.

  More excited than afraid, he thought with a grin. "Okay, then here's what I need to know. Any enemies?"

  Her eyes widened in delight. "Me?" She sounded honored, as if someone thinking she could matter enough to be the target of who knew what was high praise indeed. Back went her head and out came a hoot of laughter. "Go on!" She waved a hand at him, the way one fends off flattery while enjoying it to the hilt.

  He asked her a few more questions, not so much because he thought she could tell him anything else, but to feed the relief most patients got from being part of something bigger than their disease. As they talked, his gaze roamed over the same simple belongings on her nightstand that he'd seen before, and once more his eyes fell on her calendar. Yet this time he noticed she'd marked about a quarter of the days with crosses, occasionally two and three at a time. Looking for a way to wrap up their conversation- Janet wanted him home on time this evening- he changed the topic. "Are those the visits Father Jimmy paid you?" he said, pointing at the markings.

  "Oh, no. He's here almost every night. Those are the times some pitiable soul tries to pass on but gets jumped on by that team of young doctors with the squeaky cart. Why people here can't at least slip away without all that fuss, I'll never understand."

  Earl noticed the DNR bracelet on her own wrist. She certainly had a point, he thought, but said nothing. Still, the large number of crosses disturbed him.

  11:07 p.m.

  Stewart stepped inside the entrance to his house, closed the door, and slumped against it. If only he could just as easily bar the outside world from his life, not allow it to rampage through and trample everything, he thought. Except it already had.

  He looked around at his marble entranceway, its polished gray surface softened in the dim glow of recessed lighting. Tonight it looked like a mausoleum, but a well-furnished one. A rosewood end table supported a small brass lamp with a green shade. It funneled a golden spot on the mail his housekeeper had placed there for him. Usually the sight of letters waiting for his attention had an uplifting effect- the prospect of reading the latest news from admiring colleagues was one of the pleasures he savored at the end of a marathon day. Not anymore.

  From the dimly lit living room to his left came the quiet strains of Mozart. His stereo was programmed to come on at the same time as the lights so he wouldn't return to a silent, dark home- the ruse of a man who'd allowed his personal life to become stripped bare by work. This clever tactic now struck him as pathetic, and underscored the emptiness of the place.

  Tocco came running down the stairs from where she'd been sleeping on his bed, black coat gleaming, brown eyes full of warmth, and pink tongue ready to slurp him a kiss. The Labrador retriever, big as a bear cub, greeted him the same way she had every night for the last ten years.

  It didn't comfort him at all.

  Couldn't.

  Maybe never would again.

  He dropped his briefcase and walked in a trance through the tasteful arrangements of antique chairs, a pair of sofas, more end tables with brass lamps, all chosen by a hired decorator, to where he had a wet bar in a recessed corner.

 
He never drank. At parties club soda would be his choice of beverage. "ICU may call," he told any host who tried to ply him with liquor. The truth was that he didn't like the taste. Never had, not even at beer parties in med school.

  Nevertheless, he poured himself a tumbler of brandy and downed it the way he would some foul medicine.

  It burned his stomach. Little wonder, with nothing to eat all day.

  Tocco pushed her snout under his free hand and turned her head so he'd have an ear to rub.

  He poured himself another drink, wandered into the dining room, and slumped at a table made of Brazilian mahogany that could seat twelve but rarely did. Then he got up and, leaning against a matching hutch filled with seldom used fine china, admired his little-seen collection of wall tapestries, each one a van Gogh recreation.

  Still restless, he abandoned his untouched drink on the polished wood and entered a kitchen that had every appliance known to chefs, but a refrigerator with little more than staples and the freezer filled with gourmet frozen meals. As he stared at the selection, feeling less like eating than before, Tocco walked up to the cupboard that held her dog biscuits and wagged her tail expectantly.

  He walked over, pulled a few from the bag, and threw them at her feet. She plopped down, captured the nearest one between her paws, and gnawed happily on its upright end, oblivious to the collapse of her master's world.

  He strolled through a swinging door to a den with a plasma screen the size of a billboard and a thirty-speaker theater center. A stack of overdue DVDs lay on the floor. At the top of the heap, Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief teetered precariously, ready to fall to the floor.

  He ended up back in the entranceway, sank to the marble floor, and proceeded to add up the score.

  The first dozen calls had been more of the "Is it true?" crap that he'd fielded with Garnet there.

  And he'd danced the same I'm-all-right, if s-all-a-big-misunderstanding jive, but knew he'd ended up conning no one.

  Next the ones who had already made up their minds signed in.

  "It's not just you. All the research money is drying up," they lied apologetically. "Of course you'll be the first to be funded again once the economy improves…"