Fatal Care

by Leonard Goldberg

  Sara checked her watch. It was ten and it looked as if this was going to be another wasted night. For seven days she had been following the doctor, and all he seemed to do was eat, sleep, and work. He appeared to have no social life until tonight.

  Sara’s mind went back to the woman who had gone into the house just before nine. Her appearance was tawdry and cheap. She was wearing boots with high heels, a miniskirt and a short coat that was made from some type of animal fur. She could easily have passed for a hooker. A hooker! Maybe the woman was a hooker.

  Sara’s gaze went to the woman’s car. An old beat-up Ford that stood out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood full of Mercedes and Lexus. A hooker, Sara thought again. Maybe part of some escort service. It all fit together now. The doctor was so busy he ate only take-out food, and he probably only screwed take-out women. If this woman was a call girl, it opened up all sorts of possibilities on how to set up the doctor’s accidental death.

  Sara opened the car door and quietly closed it behind her. She waited for some overhead clouds to pass in front of the moon. Then she darted across the street and up the doctor’s driveway. She crept along the side of the house, keeping within the shadows. The adjacent house was dark except for a lighted upstairs window. Sara could hear a child’s voice and a small dog yapping, but they seemed to be away from the window.

  In the doctor’s house the lights were on. Pressing herself against the house, she moved silently up to the first window and peered in. It was a small library with a desk and swivel chair and bookshelves. One wall was covered with framed certificates and photographs.

  Sara heard a female voice and rapidly ducked down. There was more talking—then laughter. A big dog barked in the night, but it was houses away. The moon was bright again, casting shadows everywhere.

  Sara waited for the clouds to block out the moonlight before moving on to the next window. Now the voices were louder. She heard a man’s voice say, “Don’t tell me you forgot the goddamn menthol.”

  “I swear I put some in my bag before I came over,” the woman said.

  “Shit!”

  Very slowly Sara rose up and peeked in from the corner of the window. She quickly dropped back down, not believing what she had seen. Holy Christ! A freak show! Again she slowly rose and peeked in.

  Alex Mirren was lying spread-eagled on his bed with all his extremities tied securely to the bedposts with black silk stockings. Someone had drawn red circles around his nipples and genitals with lipstick.

  “I know the menthol cream is in here somewhere,” the hooker said as she rummaged through her purse. She was a tall, thin woman with bushy red hair and small breasts. A cigarette dangled from her lips. She was wearing boots with spike heels, pink panties, and fishnet hose. “I must have lost it.”

  “Well, go get some, goddamn it!” Mirren demanded.

  “I live out in the Valley,” the hooker complained. “It’ll take me an hour to get there and back.”

  “There’s an all-night drugstore at Wilshire and Dorsey,” Mirren said. “Go get the stuff and get the hell back here. And make sure it’s the double-strength menthol cream.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the hooker said unhappily. “I know.”

  Sara watched the hooker dress, praying that the woman wouldn’t untie Mirren before she left. The setup was so perfect. Alex Mirren would die in what looked like an accident, and someone else would be blamed for it. So perfect. Just leave his freaky ass tied up to the bedposts.

  The hooker was tucking her blouse into her miniskirt. “This is going to cost you extra, you know?”

  “Just get the damn menthol!”

  Sara knew what the mentholated cream would be used for. One of her girlfriends at Columbia had performed the menthol trick on her boyfriend regularly. The menthol cream was gently rubbed over the man’s scrotum and penis. As the man achieved an erection, the woman mounted him and began to slowly ride him. The warmth of the woman’s vagina turned the menthol on his genitals into an erotic heat that went on and on. The boyfriend had gone from having one orgasm per night to three.

  “I’ve got to get some cigarettes anyhow,” the hooker said, picking up her purse.

  “You want to untie me?” Mirren asked submissively.

  The hooker hesitated. “How far away is the drugstore?”

  “About five blocks.”

  The hooker tapped Mirren’s penis with her index finger. “Should I or shouldn’t I?”

  “Please.”

  The hooker grabbed his testicles and squeezed, making Mirren groan loudly and hump up against her hand. “You stay right where you are, Tiger.”

  Sara watched the hooker leave the room. Mirren remained tied to the bedposts. Like a chicken ready to be plucked. The front door slammed loudly. The door wouldn’t be locked, Sara thought. There was no way Mirren would give his key to a hooker.

  The clouds moved away from the moon once more, causing eerie shadows. Sara glanced up at the lighted window in the adjacent house. For a moment she thought she saw something—then it was gone. She waited and waited. Whatever had moved was no longer there. Maybe it was a shadow from the moonlight, Sara guessed, still watching the window. The clouds passed over and blocked out the moon completely.

  Sara dashed to the front entrance of the house and quickly entered through the unlocked door. She studied herself in the mirror in the foyer and adjusted her blond wig to make certain it was on straight. Then she hurried across the living room and down a narrow hallway. Sara took out her revolver and attached a silencer to it.

  She took a deep breath, calming herself, and then burst into the bedroom.

  Mirren looked over, momentarily dumbfounded. “Wha—?”

  Sara pointed the revolver at Mirren’s head. “You make a sound and you’re dead. Understood?”

  Mirren nodded quickly, his eyes glued on the silencer attached to the weapon. She’s going to kill me, he thought. She’s going to blow my head off.

  “I’m here for your money,” Sara said coolly. “Do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

  Mirren continued to stare at the blond woman, not believing her. She and the hooker had planned the robbery. And he could identify both. They were going to rob him, then kill him.

  “Where’s your wallet?”

  “In—in the top drawer of the dresser,” Mirren stammered.

  “Good,” Sara said agreeably. “And where’s the money you hide?”

  “In the closet,” Mirren croaked, his throat so dry he could barely form the words. “In the blue blazer.”

  “Good,” Sara said again. “Now open your mouth so I can stuff some Kleenex in. I don’t want you screaming your head off after I leave.”

  Mirren breathed a silent sigh of relief. She wasn’t going to kill him after all. “How am I going to get myself untied?”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’ll think of a way.”

  Sara reached for the box of tissues at the bedside. “Open wide.”

  Mirren did as he was told. One tissue after another was forced into his mouth. His cheeks bulged out like someone holding his breath underwater.

  Sara went into the bathroom and came back with a pair of scissors. At the foot of the bed she grabbed the end of a black silk stocking and stretched it out. She cut off a two-foot length of stocking and pocketed the scissors. Then she held the piece of stocking by its ends and began to twirl it until it became ropelike.

  “Wh—fo—?” Mirren garbled through the mouthful of tissues.

  “What’s it for?” Sara asked him back. “Why, it’s for fun and games. Here, let me show you.”

  Mirren suddenly realized something was terribly wrong. She hadn’t bothered to look into his wallet or to search the closet for hidden money. Now she was walking toward him, still twirling the black stocking.

  Quickly Sara placed the black stocking around his neck and crossed the ends over each other. “So far so good, huh?”

  Mirren’s eyes were bulging out of his head.

  “No
w watch.”

  Sara tightened the stocking around his neck, cutting off Mirren’s air supply.

  Mirren’s eyes bulged out even farther, his face turning a purplish red. He twisted and turned so violently that the bed came off the floor, but the bonds held him in place. Gagging and choking, he tried to spit out the Kleenex tissues that were stuffed in his mouth.

  Sara tightened the noose even more and rode him, as if she were on the back of a bucking horse. Slowly his resistance weakened, and then he stopped moving altogether. He died with his eyes and mouth wide open.

  Sara quickly removed the Kleenex tissues from Mirren’s mouth and flushed them down the toilet. She took the scissors from her pocket and placed them back in the medicine cabinet where she’d found them.

  Returning to the bedroom, she carefully scanned Mirren’s body to make certain everything was set up perfectly. Her gaze went to the area of the sheet just beneath Mirren’s crotch. There were small pools of drying semen on the sheet from his earlier encounter with the hooker. That made for a very nice touch, Sara thought.

  Once more she surveyed the room, looking for anything that might be out of order. Satisfied, she went back into the bathroom and searched for any mistakes she might have made. Everything was fine. And for added good measure, some strands from the hooker’s red hair were in the basin. Perfect.

  Sara hurried out of the house, closing the front door behind her. She used a handkerchief to wipe the doorknob clean of fingerprints.

  The moonlight was bright, even brighter than before. And the clouds around the moon weren’t moving. Sara ran for her car and started the engine. As she was about to switch on the lights, she saw approaching headlights in her rearview mirror. She slumped down in her seat, keeping the engine running.

  An old Ford pulled into Alex Mirren’s driveway. The hooker got out carrying a package and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Sara drove away slowly with her lights still off.

  17

  “Why?” Girish Gupta, the medical examiner, asked in astonishment. “Why risk everything for this kind of nonsense?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said, circling the body of Alex Mirren. The doctor was still tied to the bedposts and spread-eagled. His face was colored a deep purple, his eyes bulging out.

  “I mean, this fellow had everything in the world,” Gupta went on. “And he throws it all away for a few moments of sexual gratification.”

  “So you figure it was all fun and games?”

  “Most certainly.” Gupta pointed at the black stockings that tied the corpse to the bedposts. “It’s a straightforward case of bondage. And the man was a willing participant.”

  “How do you know he was so willing?”

  “Two findings,” Gupta said, his tone now clinical. “First, there was no sign of a struggle. Second, the red circles around his nipples and genitals are evenly drawn. Had he resisted, the lipstick lines would have zigzagged a bit.”

  “Good points,” Jake agreed, examining the ligature around the corpse’s neck and the deep imprint it made into the skin. Then he went to the foot of the bed and inspected the cut-off end of a black stocking. “But there is something here that bothers me.”

  Gupta moved in closer. “What is that?”

  “The stocking has been twisted into a rope. And that would be sure to leave a deep indentation in the skin. A pro would never do that. He or she would use a flattened-out stocking. That would leave less of a mark.”

  “Maybe she was inexperienced,” Gupta suggested.

  “I guess,” Jake said, still unconvinced. He studied the corpse of Alex Mirren and wondered about the mind-set of people who shut off their air supply for sexual gratification. Orgasms were supposedly magnified by momentarily depriving the brain of oxygen. But sometimes people went too far and ended up dead, like Dr. Alex Mirren.

  Jake glanced at the area beneath Mirren’s genitals. On the sheet were two dried semen stains. A hell of a price to pay for an orgasm, Jake thought. And then there was the price Mirren’s family would pay. The public embarrassment and humiliation would last for the rest of their lives.

  “We are very fortunate that his maid came in today.” Gupta broke into his thoughts. “She comes in only once a week, and had she not come in this morning the body would have lain here for six days. He would have ended up being a pile of jelly. And that would have been bad for us. Very bad.”

  Jake nodded, hating cases that had become putrid. Not only was most of the bodily evidence destroyed, but the smell that came from the remains stayed in Jake’s nostrils for days afterward.

  His mind drifted back to the maid who had found the corpse just after 10 A.M. The Mexican woman had screamed her head off until the neighbors came running. They saw what the maid had seen and called the police. At least five neighbors had entered the house, and all swore they had touched nothing. Which was bullshit, Jake thought. They had touched the phone and the door and the night table and trampled over any evidence that might have been on the carpet or floor. The neighbors were all visibly upset, but at least one of them had taken the time to call a local television station.

  The first black-and-white unit arrived on the scene just before a television truck pulled up to the curb. And the news had spread like wildfire. Now a circus was going on outside the Mirren home. Television trucks with antennas were parked across the street, and news reporters were yelling out questions to anyone who entered or exited the house. A goddamn circus, Jake thought sourly, with Alex Mirren the freak show.

  Jake walked into an adjoining bathroom and quickly glanced around. Everything was in order. The towels were neatly folded, the soap dish clean and dry. The medicine cabinet contained the usual—a bottle of aspirin, shaving materials, toothbrush and toothpaste, a pair of scissors. Closing the cabinet door, Jake glanced down at the basin and saw several strands of hair. They were long and coarse and red. Alex Mirren’s hair was short and black. Jake carefully placed the red strands in an envelope.

  Jake returned to the bedroom, where Girish Gupta was holding a thermometer up to the light.

  “From a temperature standpoint,” Gupta reported, “he’s been dead approximately twelve hours.”

  Jake counted back in time. “So he died at about eleven last night?”

  “Correct.”

  Jake grumbled under his breath. Eleven p.m. was late. Most people would be in bed asleep. Witnesses would be hard to come by.

  “Are there any particular studies you would like, Lieutenant?”

  “The usual,” Jake said, and slowly walked around the bedroom, checking to see if he had missed anything. The phone was next to the bed, and beside it was an unopened box of Kleenex. Jake looked into a nearby wastebasket. An empty box was inside. Nothing wrong about that. Jake looked under the bed and, seeing nothing, moved on.

  The dresser drawers were closed, the clothes in the closet neatly hung. There was nothing to suggest robbery. He went back to the bed and again inspected the sheet. Between Mirren’s knees was another long strand of red hair. The hooker had red hair, Jake told himself, and that narrowed the list of suspects down to about ten thousand.

  Jake’s eyes drifted over to the dresser. A small, white plastic bag was atop it. He strolled over and looked into the bag. It contained a bottle of mentholated backrub cream. Double strength. The sales receipt stated that the cream had been purchased at 10:20 the evening before at a nearby drugstore. Jake could think of at least a half-dozen ways the hooker might use the mentholated cream on Alex Mirren.

  Lou Farelli hurried into the room and came over to Jake. He paused a moment, catching his breath. “We might have gotten lucky.”

  “You got a witness?” Jake asked quickly.

  “Maybe,” Farelli said. “The woman who lives next door—the one who called the police—told her son that something bad had happened to Alex Mirren during the night. And the little boy told her he saw two women leave the Mirren house late last night.”

  “Two wo
men?”

  “That’s what the kid told his mother.”

  Jake shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Unless the guy was doing a double-header.”

  “The mother says the kid has a real active imagination, like any eight-year-old would,” Farelli said. “So the mother isn’t sure how much the kid says is going to turn out to be fact.”

  “You talk to the kid?”

  “Can’t,” Farelli told him. “The boy has got real bad asthma, and his doctor is over there now. They’re treating the little guy with inhalers and all that kind of shit. The doc says we might be able to talk to the kid in an hour or so.”

  Jake rubbed his chin, wondering if the little boy’s story would be valid. And even if it was, what could the boy have clearly seen at night from a distance of forty or fifty feet? Still, an eyewitness was an eyewitness. “What time did the little boy say he saw the women?”

  “About ten-thirty.”

  Jake nodded to himself. That fit. The sales slip said the mentholated cream had been bought at 10:20. The drugstore was less than ten minutes away. Jake squinted an eye at Farelli. “Ten-thirty is kind of late for an eight-year-old to be up, isn’t it?”

  “Like I told you, the little boy has got bad asthma,” Farelli explained. “He was having an attack last night, and it kept him up. The mother says the boy will sometimes watch TV until past midnight. She said it takes his mind off his trouble breathing.” Farelli gave the matter a moment’s thought. “It sounds right to me.”

  “And me,” Jake said. “Put a uniformed cop outside that house. Nobody but family and police gets in.”

  Jake and Farelli walked out into the narrow hallway. The crime scene unit was dusting everything for fingerprints and vacuuming the carpet in the living room for possible evidence not visible to the naked eye.

  Jake said, “Some of the pieces don’t fit together here.”

  Farelli’s brow went up. “Did you find something?”

  “Just a lot of little things that don’t add up to much yet.”