The Inquisitor

by Peter Clement

  Thank God Earl had had the good sense not to blab out that particular risk- he must have seen it as readily as she had- or the already skittery Thomas would really be climbing the walls.

  She glanced sideways at him and saw that he remained hunched forward as he drove, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his features ghastly as they moved in and out of the shadows between overhead streetlamps. Maybe he'd already figured it out anyway.

  Back at the house Janet had insisted to both men that she be the only one to talk with J.S. tonight. "For no other reason than she's my patient, and I won't have you two descending on her, scaring her silly. Besides, I may be able to keep what she says under doctor-patient confidentiality," she told them, figuring it sounded reasonable that she'd also want to protect Jane from the police. Mostly she needed as many reasons as possible to keep Thomas away from J.S. until he calmed down. The last thing J.S. needed would be for him to pass all his anxiety on to her. "And I'm going to briefly see her tonight, warn her to watch what she says, so she doesn't incriminate herself with some off-the-cuff comment about her schedule to the likes of Monica Yablonsky." At this point she'd managed to slip her husband a private little wink. He'd fired one right back. He knew her real concern, just as she'd thought. "I should give her a post-op check anyway, so my dropping by won't seem too out of the ordinary or alarming. So why don't both of you stay here until I come back?"

  Thomas had refused to wait behind.

  Now as she watched him drive, the tension in his neck and shoulders grew, subtly sculpting the shape of the muscles visible at the open collar of his white golf shirt. Definitely not in a state of mind to calm J.S.

  "I have to see her alone," she reiterated for about the tenth time. "Until we know more, for her own good. Of course there's a perfectly plausible explanation for her schedule, but it may take a while to figure it out, and until then we must be careful."

  He slowly turned and looked at her, a dappled yellow hue playing across his cheekbones from the rain-filtered glare of sodium lights. His eyes seemed sunken in their sockets and glittered at her through the darkness. "It's only right that I be at her side," he said, his voice a grim monotone.

  She felt a chill at the flatness of it.

  Earl punched redial.

  "You have reached the home of Dr. Stewart-"

  He slammed down the receiver.

  He couldn't just stay here, pacing the floor and trying to figure out connections that didn't make sense.

  The flashback of a dark form hurtling at him in the darkness increased his sense of urgency. He had to get answers before the real killer realized J.S. could identify him.

  Best just go over to Stewart's house. Confront the son of a bitch face-to-face. Force him to reveal what he knew about the pattern of DNR and non-DNR deaths. Pin him down over what J.S.'s schedule might have to do with the killings. Grill him to admit who might want to get even with him for Jerome Wilcher's suicide.

  He phoned Annie, their housekeeper, explained that an emergency had come up, and asked that she watch Brendan.

  "Be there in five minutes, Doc."

  Always willing to bail him out, bless her heart.

  As he waited, he racked his brain over how J.S.'s name could have come up, but as before, got nowhere. He even considered the possibility there could have been a glitch in the program.

  He went back to the computer screen and typed in his own name.

  Zero correlation.

  Janet's.

  Same result.

  He stood there, unable to think of what else to try.

  Into that vacuum crept a gloomy acknowledgment. Even as the three of them had stood in this room and openly proclaimed that J.S. had to be innocent, a little stir of protest had wormed its way along the dark veins of his pessimism. In complete contrast to the way Janet's instincts could give J.S. a pass or Thomas's love could preclude his doubting her, Earl would test whether his comfortable assumptions about J.S. withstood scrutiny. It always had been his way of ordering the world- troubleshoot it and avoid nasty surprises- which meant he allowed himself to ask questions that no one else dared raise. In this case, could J.S. be someone he didn't know at all?

  Annie arrived, using her own key to let herself in.

  "Off you go," she said, waving him out. Then she gave Muffy a big pat and shook the rain from a soaked umbrella before folding it up. "I'm sure you've got lives to save." Though sixty, she wore her white hair in a Gl cut and still had a figure that let her borrow some of Janet's dresses. She swept by him into his den to plunk herself down in front of the computer.

  Muffy, having long ago decided that here was a lady who knew how to pamper a poodle, settled happily at her feet.

  "I'm in the middle of a Rogue Squadron game with my grandson on the Internet and can't talk right now," Annie called over her shoulder.

  "You're an angel, Annie."

  She grinned and clicked open a Web page picturing a heavily armed man in a Special Forces uniform. "Oh, I know I am," she said, without so much as a glance in his direction.

  Sixty seconds later he reversed out of the driveway and started up the street, forced to lean forward, his visibility nil because of the storm. Plowing through shimmering black pools that covered the streets, his tires started to hydroplane, and his knuckles went white from holding the steering wheel against the pull.

  "Christ," he muttered, regaining control.

  In ten minutes he came to a stop under the black canopy of trees drooping over Stewart's driveway.

  The house remained in absolute darkness.

  Not at home?

  Earl couldn't tell if Stewart's Mercedes was gone, the garage being closed up tight.

  He got out of his van and ran for the front door.

  A four-chime bell sounded inside, then died out in the answering silence.

  Shit. Tocco usually barked up a storm whenever anyone came calling if she had Stewart in there with her. But leave her alone in the house and she would hide in the basement, never making a sound. Dog lovers said she knew enough to protect people, not belongings. Stewart had a slightly different take on the matter. "The mutt barks when I'm there so I'll come and protect her. Otherwise she's a scared wimp, and anyone could break in."

  So maybe Tocco's silence meant Stewart had gone out again. Damn, he should have checked the hospital. Probably the guy went back to the sanctuary of ICU. He used the place the way lesser mortals found comfort in a tavern.

  Lightning sent molten cracks through the black sky.

  Earl hesitated about using his cell phone out here, never having seen anyone get their brain fried while making a call during a thunderstorm, but not willing to risk the remote chance of being a first. Before returning to his car, he turned the front door's ornate brass handle, figuring it a useless gesture.

  The door opened.

  He quickly stepped inside and pulled it closed behind him.

  "Stewart!" he called out, fumbling for a light switch as he stood dripping on the marble floor of the foyer. He braced himself to feel Tocco's cool nose coming out of the darkness to give him a sniff. Although the dog was timid, it took only one meeting to be her friend for life. Whenever he'd visited before, once she recognized him, he inevitably got a good going over, probably because he carried Muffy's scent.

  He found what felt like a row of rheostat dials and pressed. The overhead chandelier flooded the room with an amber glow.

  No Tocco and no Stewart.

  "Hello?" he called out again.

  Absolute stillness.

  Stewart must be out, but there was one way to be sure. Earl made his way to the kitchen, flicking switches as he went, and found the door to the garage.

  The dark blue Mercedes glistened in the light streaming past him.

  Out for a walk with Tocco? Could be. But back at the main entrance he'd seen Stewart's big umbrella in its stand as usual. Still, the leash didn't occupy its regular spot on a varnished pine coatrack.

  So he'd wait, Earl
decided. Stewart wouldn't be long in this downpour.

  After ten minutes of sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase leading to the upper floor, he figured hanging around any longer would be a waste of time.

  But Stewart must have the dog with him, so he wouldn't have gone far, especially without an umbrella. Maybe he'd taken shelter somewhere.

  He got up and went into the living room to peer out the front window, trying to catch a glimpse of the pair returning home.

  The streetlights illuminated falling rain but no people or animals of any kind.

  At least the downpour had started to recede. It no longer hit the glass with the force of a fire hose, and the accompanying roar had begun to diminish.

  Good. If Stewart and Tocco had holed up someplace, they ought to be back anytime now. He sat on the sill to keep watch.

  Over the next few minutes the rain became a gentle patter, and quiet filled the empty house, except now he could hear what sounded like faint voices.

  What the hell?

  He got up and walked back into the foyer.

  "Stewart," he called upstairs, wondering if he'd been in his bedroom watching television the whole time and hadn't heard he had a visitor.

  No answer.

  And Tocco would have barked by now.

  Besides, the noise, more a distant murmur than distinguishable talking, didn't seem to be coming from there.

  For a second Earl thought it might be outside, and went to the front door. When he opened it only the hiss of a gentle shower filled his ears. The voices remained at his back.

  Closing up, he wandered into the interior of the house and paused where the hallway met the kitchen. The murmurings came from behind a door he thought led to the basement.

  Turning the handle, he pushed. Immediately faint words floated up from the darkness below. They sounded like something on a radio or from a television. Had Stewart a den down here?

  "Stewart?"

  He expected a response.

  Again none came.

  He flicked the light switches.

  The blackness remained.

  A blown fuse?

  He began to catch snatches of what seemed to be a conversation between two people.

  "Any more pain?"

  "None. It's gone…"

  "Do you see anything?"

  "Only blackness…"

  The questions were whispered, the words barely loud enough to make out. The rasping replies, more audible, seemed to come from a woman. "Hello?" he called.

  Still no answer.

  "Look harder! Now tell me what's there."

  "You're not my doctor…"

  "No, I'm replacing him tonight…"

  Definitely a television left on, or a radio.

  "Just leave me be. It doesn't hurt anymore…"

  "Do you see anything yet?"

  "Yes…"

  He wanted to go down but needed a light and had no idea where Stewart might keep one. He stepped into the kitchen and, after a little looking, found a handheld spot on a charger in the pantry. The harsh white beam probed the thick blackness like a sword as he started down the steps with it, still listening to the voices.

  "Do you sense yourself rising?"

  "Leave… me… alone…"

  "Not until you tell me what you see. Are you looking down on us yet?"

  There followed what sounded like static.

  "What did you say?" the whisperer asked.

  "I… see… me…"

  What the hell? Earl thought, and slowed to a halt halfway down the steps, unable to believe he'd heard correctly. But the conversation continued, the telltale reverberation of speakers evident now.

  "What else can you make out?"

  "The… bed… nightstand… pictures… all my pictures…"

  "Is that your husband?"

  "Yes…"

  In that closed space Earl caught a whiff of a very medicinal smell that tingled the inside of his nose. A more cloying, fecal aroma joined it, causing the back of his throat to tighten. Oh, no, he thought, and started down again, the spot throwing garish shadows against the walls.

  "Is he dead?"

  "Yes…"

  "Do you want to find him?"

  "Yes…"

  He rounded the bottom landing and stepped into the basement proper.

  "Are you still looking down on yourself in bed?"

  "Yes…"

  "Let go. Allow yourself to float, escape the hospital, go high above the building. You must do this before you can see Frank…"

  He swept the lamp's beam toward the sound. A miniature cassette recorder, the kind doctors often used when they dictated clinical notes, lay on the floor not far from his feet, and the tiny, slowly turning spools glistened as they caught the light. He guided his cone of light onto a small dark mound against the wall. It became shiny black fur that stood out in stark relief against a background of gray cinder blocks. He took a step closer and saw a motionless pink tongue lolling out over white fangs like a carefully placed ribbon. Farther into the darkness something much larger loomed. By reflex, he started to breathe through his mouth, and the sounds from the tape seemed swallowed by the heavy stillness of that suspended shape.

  He slowly brought his beam to it.

  Stewart's swollen, purple face stared back at him, eyes protruding from their sockets, the whites crisscrossed with broken veins, the pupils so huge they seemed filled with a starless night.

  Chapter 16

  That same Wednesday night, 9:35 p.m. ICU, St. Paul's Hospital

  You're doing fine," Janet said. A quick check of J.S.'s vital signs and abdominal and chest incisions assured her that the young woman remained stable. Sitting on the side of the bed, Janet leaned closer to her, determined no one would listen in on what she had to say next. The curtains that ringed the cubicle from ceiling to floor and the vertical shadows caught in their folds might make the place feel as claustrophobic as a jail cell, but the easily heard conversations from all the other beds dispelled any illusions of privacy. She also chose her words carefully, so as not to frighten the girl. "How are you feeling?"

  "As expected, I guess." Her voice sounded frail, as if her struggle in the OR had drained all the fight from her.

  But she must be warned. "J.S., I need help with a problem that's completely unrelated to your being here. Are you up to answering a few questions?"

  "My help?" She seemed incredulous that anyone would ask anything of her.

  Janet nodded, already wondering if it would be better to stop.

  But a sudden spark of interest in J.S.'s eyes said otherwise. "I'll try."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yeah. Shoot."

  "I must insist this stays absolutely hush-hush."

  The caution further ignited J.S.'s pale brown irises toward far warmer tones, and her black eyebrows inched upward with curiosity. "Of course."

  "Have you discussed your schedule in ER with anyone recently, even casually?"

  "What?" Her forehead relaxed, and she frowned, looking disappointed.

  "Just answer, please. Believe me, it's important."

  "My schedule? Not at all. Work's the furthest thing from my mind."

  "You're sure? Not with a visitor here, or anyone else even before today?"

  "Before today? You mean at work? Probably. You know how it is with nurses. People want to switch all the time. And of course we all discuss what shifts we want with Susanne. But what do you want to know for?"

  "Just bear with me. Do you have any particular criteria about when you choose to work, especially at night?"

  "Not really. Why?"

  Janet hesitated, still not sure how much to say. Even if Jane hadn't accidentally tipped anyone off, could she identify the killer? "Have you noticed anybody who always works when you do?"

  "I think I'd like to know what this is about," she said, her voice hardening.

  Janet noticed the change. Had she struck a nerve? "J.S., you've heard about the trouble Dr. Deloram is in?"


  "Who hasn't?"

  "And you're aware he may be tied to a rise in the death rate on the Palliative Care ward."

  J.S. scowled. "Yablonsky ought to be shot, spreading that kind of garbage against him. Hell, I told Thomas a week ago I thought there were more codes being called up there lately, but it's probably a function of her bad nursing, the bitch. I sure as hell don't think Dr. Deloram has anything to do with it. I mean, he helped save my life…" The angry flash in her eyes extinguished itself.

  Janet guessed that she'd realized the man's heroics didn't exclude him from being a killer. "Look, J.S., none of us wants him to be guilty," she whispered, "but to help him, we need evidence, not only that he didn't do it, but of who did. I won't tire you with the details now, but at least half of those deaths, if not all, were murders. So Thomas, Dr. Garnet, and I were looking at shift schedules, trying to see if any single person in the hospital had been around when people died unexpectedly in Palliative Care."

  "You're doing a cluster study, like the one Dr. G. always gives a lecture about?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement, their washed-out appearance vanishing. "What a great idea! And Thomas is helping? That's wonderful." She made an effort to raise her head and sit up. "Who'd you find? Yablonsky?"

  Janet gently motioned her to lie flat. "Easy, girl," she whispered, "or you'll pop a stitch. And remember-" She paused to hold a finger to her own lips. "Keep it down. No, we didn't get Yablonsky, or anyone else on the ward. So I threw the search open and ran a program on the entire nursing roster for St. Paul's."

  The anticipation in J.S.'s stare sharpened. "And?"

  Janet hated what she had to do. "Now, I assure you that Dr. Garnet, Thomas, and I know it's some kind of fluke, that there's no link whatsoever with anything illegal."