by G. H. Ephron
I continued along the hall of medical offices. A sign about halfway down said CHANNING TEMPLE, M.D. All staff offices had double oak doors, separated by an air pocket for soundproofing. The outer door was open. I listened. No voices. Whatever Channing needed extricating from was either over or taking place very quietly.
I knocked on the inner door. There was no answer. “Channing?” I said hesitantly. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. “You in there?”
There was a shrill, metallic sound, like feedback from a sound system. I froze. A tinny voice whined, “Please hang up and try your call again. If you need assistance, call the operator. Please hang up now. This is a recording.”
I exhaled. The phone was off the hook. I peered into the spacious office. Channing’s desk was facing me in front of a pair of windows. The base of the phone was on the desk, alongside a laptop computer. I crossed the room and found the receiver, lying on the floor. I set it back into its base.
There was a sharp, metallic smell, almost like something was burning. But there wasn’t even an ashtray on the desk. The laptop drive hummed.
The back of my neck prickled. I could hear rapid, shallow breathing. I turned around slowly. Olivia was standing behind me, pressed against the opposite wall at the corner of the room. Between the black lipstick and the dark around her eyes, she looked like a scrawny wet raccoon in her skinny jeans and black T-shirt. She stared at me, her pupils dilated.
Beside her, partially obscured now by the open door, Channing was sitting in a leather and teak chair that faced the desk. Her eyes were closed, and her blond hair hung loose and soft against a red headrest. In her lap were the ivory chopsticks she had used to anchor her hair.
My stomach turned over. I knew she wasn’t resting. And only the chair’s headrest was red. The seat and back were a creamy butterscotch.
“Kate?” I choked as I heard my wife’s name emerge from my throat. I was looking at Channing, but I was seeing Kate, lying in a pool of blood on the floor of her studio. I felt as if I were captured in the merciless flash of a strobe light, my face held in a grimace of disbelief. Not dead. Please, God, not again! Why was I always too late?
I watched my hand reach out to touch Channing’s face, as if the fingers, the slivers of white at the end of the nails, belonged to someone else. Her cheek was cool, soft, the flesh yielding. I wanted to back out of the room, reset the clock to when I was in the cafeteria, and start over.
As I drew my hand away, Channing tipped to one side. Olivia screamed as blood, bone, and brains smeared across the back of the chair.
I wanted to lash out, to strike whoever was responsible for this, the way I’d beaten and nearly killed my wife’s murderer. I looked from Olivia to Channing, then back to Olivia. There was no one to beat on.
That’s when I realized Olivia had her fingers wrapped around the barrel of a small silver handgun.
“Mom, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whimpered. She pressed herself against the wall and slid down to the floor, hugging her knees and rocking.
“Hullo?” It was a woman’s voice from the hall. “Channing? Is everything all right?” A clipped British accent. It was Daphne. She started into the room and saw me. “Oh, that you, Peter? I thought I heard—” She froze when she saw Olivia. Then Channing.
“What’s happened?” she demanded. She put a trembling hand to her throat and stood very still. She seemed to shrink and grow hunched over. “Channing!” The word came out like a strangled cry.
Olivia made mewling noises and tucked her head down.
“Were you..?” Daphne started to ask Olivia, then thought better of it. She turned to me. “Was Olivia here when this happened?”
It took a few seconds to find my voice. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just got here a minute ago myself.”
“Oh, God.”
“She and Channing were meeting me …”
“Meeting you?” she murmured. She steadied herself against the desk, drew herself up. “Have you rung up Security?”
“Not yet.” I picked up the phone.
Daphne went over to Olivia. She crouched alongside her. “Livvy. Let me have the gun,” she said firmly, placing a hand on Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia flinched. She tilted her head and looked at Daphne without expression.
“Please, Olivia,” Daphne coaxed, holding out her hand. Olivia seemed to shrink from it.
I dialed. The phone rang once.
“Give me the gun,” Daphne said, her voice steady.
Olivia looked at the gun, as if seeing it for the first time. Her fingers tightened around the barrel and the gun wavered.
The phone rang again.
With what seemed like extraordinary presence of mind, Daphne took off her sweater, wrapped it around her hand, and took hold of the butt of the gun. With her other hand, Daphne pried loose Olivia’s fingers. When she had the gun, Daphne stood, stepped over, and set it on the floor beside Channing.
Security picked up after the fourth ring. “This is Dr. Zak,” I said. My voice sounded calm. “I’m in 407, the Drug and Alcohol Unit. There’s been”—Daphne coughed and looked at me expectantly—“there’s been an accident. Dr. Temple is dead. Call the police”—I felt my voice breaking up—“and come right away.”
I hung up before they could ask any questions. I closed my eyes but opened them immediately. The horror in the room was preferable to the memory of Kate that came roaring back to me, her throat slit, her life’s blood spilled on the cold cement floor of her studio.
“They’re on their way,” I said.
I steadied the tremor in my shoulders. I tried to focus on the top of the desk—the phone, the computer, a neat pile of purple file folders, the gleaming metal letter opener, its handle engraved with an elegant Gothic C, a glass paperweight with a miniature bouquet of glass flowers entombed inside, an empty white porcelain mug with the blue-and-white Acu-Med logo.
A beep from the computer cut the silence. Olivia’s head jerked up. I rotated the laptop around to face us. Fat black words scrolled across a brilliant red background. “Can’t live with myself. I’m so sorry.”
I touched the mouse. Instantly, the message disappeared, replaced by a sky-blue background, white clouds, and a white rectangle with the message You have new mail.
From the hall came the heavy sound of feet. A security guard arrived. The heavyset African American had a fist-size ring of keys jingling at his waist, his walkie-talkie squawking static. He scanned the room. When he saw Channing, he approached gingerly. Dealing with gunshot victims isn’t exactly standard operating procedure for our security personnel. He touched her neck. Then he unhooked the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I caught the words ambulance and police.
“Has anyone touched anything?” he asked.
“I used the phone,” I said.
The guard glanced at Olivia, then raised his eyebrows to me in a question.
“Dr. Temple’s daughter,” I said.
“Poor kid,” he replied. “She wasn’t here when it—?”
“No, no,” Daphne rushed in with the answer. “Thank heavens.”
“I think we should step outside and wait,” the security guard said.
Daphne crouched alongside Olivia and put her arm around her. Olivia pulled away. “Come on. Let’s go outside and wait for the police,” Daphne said.
Daphne talked to her quietly and stroked her head. Olivia was dry-eyed, in shock, her face pale. She stared at her mother’s lifeless body, then at me. Daphne pulled her to her feet and guided her from the room. Olivia submitted, stiff-legged. I followed them into the hall.
A few minutes later, I heard sirens approaching. Soon after that, there were footsteps on the stairs. The security guard met the two uniformed police officers and my old friend Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae as they emerged from the stairs. MacRae, whose compact, powerful frame would have made better sense in jeans and a sweatshirt, wore a brown suit that puddled a bit at the ankle. His red crewcut migh
t actually have acquired a fleck or two of gray in it since our last encounter—one in which we’d developed a grudging respect for each other. Our head-butting in the Sylvia Jackson case had convinced him that the memories of a victim with traumatic brain injury may not be what they appear to be. And he’d convinced me that not every cop is as clueless as he seems. He was the kind of guy I’d much rather have with me than against me.
MacRae gave me a surprised look of recognition. Our eyes locked briefly, and he gave a quarter-inch nod before he charged the door. Daphne stood, blocking the way. She drew herself up, stiffened her face. “There’s been a suicide,” she said firmly, clipping her words. It was the old Dr. Smythe-Gooding, scourge of hospital residents and senior administrators. “Dr. Temple has shot herself. Please, before all hell breaks loose, promise me that you’ll handle this case without unnecessary grandstanding to the press. Her family and the institute will appreciate your discretion.”
She dropped MacRae in his tracks. He flashed his silver badge. “Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae. Of course, we’ll follow standard police procedures.”
“Dis-cre-tion.” Daphne enunciated each syllable. “Right?”
“Right,” MacRae muttered, gritting his teeth.
Just then, there was a crash. Olivia was no longer with us in the corridor. MacRae pushed Daphne aside, and I followed him inside. The room had turned cool, and the acrid smell was gone. Through the broken window, blue lights from the police cruiser pulsed against the tree branches. Olivia was sitting on the floor, covered in blood. She breathed heavily; her face was flushed. She held a shard of glass and drew it along her inner arm, creating another long, bright red line.
“Olivia, no!” I cried out. I took hold of her wrist and held firm. She dropped the glass. It wasn’t until Olivia screamed in pain that I realized how hard I was holding her, much harder than was necessary to keep her from hurting herself. I picked her up in my arms. She was trembling.
She stared at me, terror in her eyes. “We’re going to get you somewhere safe,” I told her. “No one’s going to hurt you. Please, don’t struggle. We need to stop the bleeding.”
“Take her to Admissions, Peter,” Daphne said. I started off. “I’ll telephone and have someone meet you in the foyer downstairs,” she called after me.
“Hold on …” MacRae bellowed.
I hurried to the elevator and stood there, listening to the sound of my own breath heaving, like the bass line to Olivia’s shallow, rapid panting. MacRae caught up with us.
“This is Dr. Temple’s daughter,” I said before he could ask. Olivia had gone limp in my arms. “She was here when I got here. Dr. Temple was already dead.” It was, strictly speaking, the truth.
“I’ll need to talk to her,” he said. “And I’ll need to talk to you, too.”
“It can’t be right now,” I told him. “You can see that for yourself.” The elevator door opened. I stepped in and turned to face him. He had his mouth open and his arm half raised, but he let the doors slide shut.
A pair of burly mental-health workers were waiting for me in the lobby with a gurney. I set Olivia down, and they strapped her in place. As we went out onto the walk, a police officer emerged from the shrubbery carrying Channing’s laptop computer. I realized then how the window in Channing’s office had broken—Olivia had thrown the computer through it.
The police officer shouted. MacRae appeared at the open window. The officer held up the laptop. Now Olivia screamed and strained to sit up. She was staring, wild-eyed, at the police officer. One of the straps came loose. One of the men held her down, and the other one snapped the buckle and pulled the strap taut. She was no match for them.
Olivia kept screaming as we ran the quarter mile from the Drug and Alcohol Unit to Admitting. By the time we got up the ramp and inside, her voice was hoarse and her head was thrashing from side to side.
Nurse Dot O’Neill and the admitting doc were expecting us. Nurse O’Neill was a formidable figure of indeterminate middle age, monolithic and apparently without joints. She inspected the slashes on Olivia’s arm and didn’t seem impressed. She leaned over Olivia and held her by the shoulders. “Ms. Temple, you need to calm down and relax,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “We’re going to dress your wound and try to help you—”
Olivia spat at her.
Calmly, Nurse O’Neill wiped her face. She gave me an irritated look. The admitting doc nodded, and Nurse O’Neill went to the med room and came back with a hypodermic syringe. She pushed up Olivia’s sleeve, steadied herself, and jabbed the needle in. Slowly, she depressed the plunger. Even before the syringe had been withdrawn, Olivia started to go limp. Within moments, her face went from screaming red to pink. She seemed to shrink as her body turned slack. Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes lost their focus.
I called hospital personnel from the lobby and got Drew’s phone number. I stood there, holding the phone to my ear, but I couldn’t dial. The numbers I’d written on the pink message pad seemed to swim together. My knees buckled, as if someone had given them a chop from behind. I sat, my head buzzing. How could this be happening again? Another woman I cared for, killed violently.
I barely heard the dial tone disappear, then chimes and the voice, “Please hang up the phone and try your call again … .” I could see the door to Channing’s office swing open. There, sitting erect in the butterscotch leather chair, my wife, Kate, was staring back at me, eyes wide open. Something about her look made me snap to.
Ralston Bridges had created a scene that pointed to me as my wife’s murderer. Was that happening again? Had someone created a scene that was supposed to make it look … look like what? Like Channing had killed herself? Only Olivia walked in, just as I had? And like me, she was too late.
When I looked at the piece of paper again, Drew’s phone number was in perfect focus. I punched in the numbers. His assistant answered. She put me on hold.
As I held the phone to my ear, I noticed the smell of coffee. I sniffed. It was my hand. I looked down. There was blood all over my shirt, on my trousers. My stomach turned over. But where had I picked up the coffee smell? I didn’t remember spilling any on myself while I was waiting for Channing in the cafeteria. Had to have been from somewhere in Channing’s office.
Drew’s assistant came back on the line. “I’m sorry, he’s off-site.” She promised to page him and get him to return my call ASAP.
It was another thirty minutes before Drew called back. Apologizing, he said he had his beeper turned off. I told him what had happened. He didn’t say anything. Just that he was on his way, and thanks for being there for Olivia.
I was waiting on the front steps when he pulled up in his silver Mercedes and parked in a tow zone. He looked tired, his dark suit rumpled, his ice-blue silk tie loose at the neck. His bloodshot eyes gleamed, slightly manic. That’s what it was like, those first few hours. You sped along on some chemical the body produced to make you numb and functional, leaving you unprepared for the full body-slam of grief that would flatten you later. And then, even months later, a little detail, a smell even, could catapult you into despair.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I grasped his hand in mine and put my other hand on his shoulder. What else was there to say?
“Did she suffer?” he asked. He smelled unwashed, musky under a veneer of aftershave.
At least I could answer that with certainty. “No.”
Drew pulled away. “Did she leave a note? Anything to explain …” He looked haggard, his jowls hanging loose from his jaw.
I told him about the message on her computer screen. “Can’t live with myself? I’m so sorry?” He echoed the words in disbelief. “That’s it?”
“I didn’t see anything else.”
“But that explains nothing.” He blinked, held his hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe …”
“Maybe she was under some additional stress?”
Drew looked at me, stone-faced. “She was angry, Peter. Not suicidal.”
He just stood there, staring up at the building, his arms dangling useless at his sides. “Olivia’s in there?” he asked.
A cell phone rang. Then again. It wasn’t until the third ring that Drew roused himself, pulled it out of his pocket, and answered it. A look of annoyance crossed his face as he listened. He turned away from me and cupped his hand over his mouth.
“I can’t talk now,” he said, his voice impatient. A pause. “She’s dead, all right?” He exhaled a sigh. “I don’t know. I’ll call you later.” Then a softer, gentler “Promise.”
He turned back. He seemed confused, as if he didn’t know what the next thing should be. “Would you like to see Olivia?” I suggested.
He nodded, grateful. “Is she okay?” he asked.
I licked my lips. “No, she’s not.”
“She didn’t try to—” Drew started.
“She’s fine now. She threw a computer through a window and cut herself with broken glass. She’s being evaluated.”
Drew was already moving up the front steps. I followed him. In Admitting, Dot O’Neill presided from the nurses’ station.
“I’m looking for my daughter,” Drew said.
“This is Olivia Temple’s father,” I told her.
She indicated down the hall. “One-twelve.”
Drew rushed ahead of me. He pushed open the door to the room and took a step inside before freezing. A nurse and two doctors already filled the small space. Olivia was on the bed. Her forearms were bandaged and her eyes were half closed. The nurse was taking blood while the younger of the two doctors was listening to her chest.
“She’s been sedated,” I told Drew.
“For God’s sake,” Drew sputtered, “she’s just a kid.”
“She tried to harm herself,” the older doctor said as he wrote in her chart. He looked at Drew. “You’re the young lady’s father?”
Drew swallowed. “Yes.”