Knife Music

by David Carnoy

  “Dr. Beckler,” he remarks to Burns.

  “Yeah,” Billings feels compelled to interject. “I assumed she was a doctor.”

  Burns asks, “Where’d he wait for her?”

  “In the parking lot.”

  Cogan pulled into the back of the lot and waited in his car. Right around five, Billings says, he saw this woman—Dr. Beckler—heading toward the area where Cogan was parked. When she was twenty-five yards or so from him, Cogan stepped out of the car. He didn’t go to greet her, though. Instead, he stood next to his car and waited for her to notice him.

  “Could you tell whether she was expecting him?” Madden asks.

  “Didn’t appear that way.”

  When she saw him, she stopped in her tracks, clearly surprised. From his vantage point, he was having trouble seeing Cogan’s hands. But from the glimpses he got, he didn’t see a weapon.

  They spoke for about five minutes. Their conversation didn’t seem heated. She started to leave, then came back and said something. Not longer after the second exchange they both got in their separate cars and left. Cogan went directly home.

  “Did she give him anything?” Burns asks.

  “No. She had a shopping bag and a briefcase, but never took anything out of either.”

  Madden stares at the photo. He sees the shopping bag Billings is talking about.

  “What do you think, Hank?” Burns asks.

  “That’s a Neiman Marcus bag, isn’t it?”

  Burns scrutinizes the photo.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t picture Dr. Beckler as a Neiman Marcus kind of gal.”

  May 9—5:02 p.m.

  “I need your help, Anne.”

  “Is this one of your pathetic attempts at humor, Cogan?” He shakes his head. “You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was really important. And I would appreciate that if you turn me down, you keep this conversation confidential.”

  “I can’t guarantee that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She sets the shopping bag down.

  “You better not be fucking with me.”

  He is in a way. He’s always fucking with her. But this time there’s no cum line. No, he truly needs her help. He says that he’d heard through the grapevine that she volunteered a couple of times a month at the Free Clinic. “I need you to pull a patient’s chart,” he says. “The name on file should be Ray. Chris Ray. I need to know what she was treated for.”

  “Who’s Chris Ray?” she asks.

  “The girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “You know she came into the clinic?”

  “Using that alias. The Sunday after the incident. The next day.”

  “Are the police aware of this?”

  “I don’t think they are. They definitely poked around, but it doesn’t look like they tried that hard to ID her.”

  She looks at him with renewed skepticism.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he says, anticipating her next question. “Lead singer, Twelve Picassos.”

  Her eyes open wide. “Heather? The admin?”

  “She recognized the girl from a picture I showed her. A certain baseball cap jogged her memory. For the record, I swore I wouldn’t tell you she told me.”

  “And you lament your betrayal with such pride. That’s what I love about you, Cogan, your ability to instill trust.”

  He smiles. “You miss me, don’t you, Beckler? Admit it, deep down, you miss me?”

  She isn’t biting. “What’s there?” she asks.

  “What’s where?”

  “In the chart?”

  “A diagnosis.”

  “That what, exonerates you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe not?”

  “Something like that.”

  He knows she isn’t going to let him get away with such a throwaway response, and the result is about what he expects: she picks up her shopping bag and starts to walk away.

  “Anne, wait.”

  She turns around.

  “Look, it cuts both ways.”

  He tells her the truth. There may be evidence that both exonerates and implicates him. He explains how he thinks the girl had sex with someone else that night, and he believes she was treated for an STD. Having that on paper isn’t necessarily going to help his cause, though.

  “Because, what, you’ve been treated for an STD yourself?” she asks.

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Jesus, Cogan. Recently?”

  “No, a few years ago.”

  “And the other part?”

  Proof, he says. It will give them the proof they’re looking for that she actually had intercourse that evening. What’s more indisputable evidence than an examination report dated the next day?

  Beckler’s face suddenly expresses alarm.

  “You’re not asking me to—”

  “No way,” he says. “I just want to know what’s there. I need to know what’s there.”

  “And then what?”

  “Haven’t got that far. I’m only at the part where I beg and plead with Dr. Beckler in the Parkview parking lot.”

  “And what does she do?”

  “She says she’ll help me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she likes the idea of this pompous asshole trauma surgeon who gives her shit all the time being indebted to her for the rest of his life.”

  “You’re reaching, Cogan.”

  “I prefer to see it as going down swinging.”

  She picks up her shopping bag and smiles. “It’s been a pleasure, as always, Doctor.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I know.”

  Watching her go, he shakes his head, grimacing a little. He’d thrown his best pitch, and it just missed off the corner for ball four. Now she’s heading to first base and the tying run (or is it the winning run?) is trotting in from third. He glances down the line for the imaginary baserunner, and to his mild surprise, there is a person. He’s stationary, though. A guy in a blue polo shirt is facing the entrance of the hospital, standing next to his car, several rows down, waiting—or maybe pretending to wait—for someone.

  May 9—6:45 p.m.

  The encounter mystifies Madden. He’d interviewed Dr. Beckler. Discussing Cogan, she’d been very matter-of-fact, unemotional. She didn’t seem to like him, but respected him as a surgeon. He remembered her saying that he was arrogant, had a reputation as a womanizer, and sometimes said inappropriate things. “But that’s par for the surgeon course, isn’t it, detective?”

  They talked briefly about any “inappropriate” incidents in the past involving either hospital staff or patients. She remembered some small incident involving a patient, but it had “gone away.” And that was it. That was all she wanted to say. Her final comment was, “Look, we don’t get along. He pisses me off all the time and seems to enjoy it. But I’m not shallow enough drudge up any dirt that isn’t there just because we don’t get along. And I’m not going to pretend he isn’t good at what he does. The beauty of the situation is that Dr. Cogan seems to be doing a fine job of digging his own grave. My assistance is not required.”

  Why did Cogan wait for her in the parking lot? Was he worried that she had made disparaging comments about him and simply wanted to confront her? Or was it something even more basic than that? Had he left something at the hospital? Did he want her to deliver a message?

  And then it dawns on him. Is it possible?

  He picks up his notebook and leafs through it, looking through his notes for the phone number he’d jotted down. Finding it, he sits down and punches the numbers in on his desk phone.

  “What are you doing?” Burns inquires.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, and just then he gets a voice on the line. “Hi, Rebecca. Detective Madden. Sorry to bother you so late in the day. Quick qu
estion. Does the name Dr. Beckler ring any bells for you?”

  Anne Beckler? Why yes, she says. She volunteers at the clinic a couple of times a month. Why, has something happened to her?

  “No, no. We just interviewed her, and she mentioned something about volunteer work. Thank you.”

  After he hangs up, both Burns and Billings, who are standing, stare down at him with anticipation.

  “What’s up?” Burns asks.

  Madden smiles. “Turns out Dr. Beckler volunteers at the clinic a couple of times a month.”

  “Interesting,” Burns says. “And if you were a betting man?”

  “I’d wager he was asking her to pull a file for him.”

  “You mean shred it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Billings laughs. “I think you boys are hitting the Viagra a little too hard. That woman ain’t shredding shit. Whatever he was selling, she wasn’t buying.”

  “That young lady, Heather, didn’t seem too receptive on that tape we saw at the clinic, did she, Burnsy?”

  “Not the least bit,” he agrees.

  “And yet twenty minutes later she was spilling quite freely.”

  “She was quite porous.”

  Now Billings is really amused. He’s smiling gleefully. “This dude’s got you spooked.”

  “He’s not my dude,” Burns says. “He’s Hank’s.”

  “Well, he’s sure got the Hankster spooked. Got his demon-slayer face on. Nothing like a good medical thriller for Detective Madden.”

  Madden shoots him a cautionary glare. “Not today, Ace. Not now. I’m not in the mood.”

  32/ NOTHING, BUT THE TRUTH

  May 10, 2007—12:33 p.m.

  THE NEXT DAY, A LITTLE AFTER TWELVE-THIRTY, JOANIE’S CAFÉ in Palo Alto: seated at a table near the window of the small, country-kitchen style restaurant that’s known for its good food, Cogan is having lunch with Carolyn Dupuy. Madden, in his car, parked a few doors down on the other side of California Avenue, the main artery into Palo Alto’s second, less posh downtown a mile further south off the El Camino, notes the time in his notebook and writes, “Lunch at Joanie’s with attorney.”

  The detective’s wearing an A’s baseball cap flipped around backwards and a pair of white Oakley sunglasses that he removes from time to time to peer through a set of compact but powerful Nikon binoculars. Whenever he catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, he feels a little ridiculous, but the disguise is effective enough—or so Burns assured him between laughs when they passed the baton just before noon at the entrance to Cogan’s neighborhood.

  From his vantage, the conversation hardly appears to be a client-attorney conference. At first, Cogan does most of the talking while Dupuy listens attentively, a slight smile on her face. They initially appear to be having a light, cheerful exchange. Then Dupuy’s mood suddenly changes. She seems crestfallen. If they’d been complete strangers to him, he’d have guessed he’d broken up with her or confessed to an infidelity. But they’re not, which gives him pause for concern.

  The conversation appears to cease for two or three minutes; they eat in silence. And then something disquieting happens. Not long after they resume talking, Cogan holds up a document and shows it to her. At first, Madden thinks it’s the menu, but when he brings the binoculars to his eyes, he catches a glimpse of a headline he’s all too familiar with: “Detective Doesn’t Let Handicap . . .”

  His heart flutters. He looks down at the passenger seat, wondering whether his mind is playing tricks on him. When he raises the binoculars again, he realizes there’s no mistake. It’s the article about him, and Cogan is pointing to a certain paragraph in the middle of it.

  “Carolyn, I hope you understand what I’m about to tell you. I’m withholding information from you.”

  She blinks, clearly startled by the revelation.

  “It’s not related to the accusation,” he quickly adds. He lowers his voice, though the din of lunchtime crowd, as well as a light breeze, is preventing his words from carrying. “I’ve told you the truth about my relations with the girl. I did not have sex with her and nothing will change that.”

  Silence. She looks down at her salad in an effort, it seems, either to collect her thoughts or check her anger.

  “I don’t know how to respond,” she says after a moment. “I don’t know how to respond to someone telling me nothing.”

  “Anything?” Burns asks, checking in by cell phone.

  “He’s over at Joanie’s with the Dupuy woman.”

  For some reason—and he finds it irksome—he has a hard time referring to her as Cogan’s “attorney.” He can do it on paper, but not in conversation.

  “At least he’s out,” Burns says.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just little bit down on the other side of the street. I’ve got a pretty good shot.” He trains the binoculars on their table as he speaks. “They’re outside near the front.”

  “Me and Billings are over at the Mexican place. You want me to drop off a burrito or something?”

  “Thanks. I packed a sandwich.”

  “Pete was looking for you.”

  “He knows how to get ahold of me.”

  “He asked how we were doing with the ex-girlfriends. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him what we always tell him.”

  “We’re working on some promising leads?”

  “Very promising.”

  “Are we?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something weird going on here.”

  “What?”

  “Hard to tell. I sure wish I had some audio, though. I’d really like to know what they’re talking about.”

  Cogan takes a sip of his iced tea and glances out the window of the café. The dark sedan that followed him to Joanie’s is now parked across the street. He can’t tell exactly who’s in the car, but since this morning, when he spotted Madden’s partner doing his best to blend in with the predominantly white customers outside his neighborhood Safeway, he’s certain that the police, not some private eye hired by the family, is tailing him. The girl from the Free Clinic must have tattled on him, which is OK; he feels in control now.

  “Why’d you tell me you’re withholding information, Ted?”

  He turns and looks at Carolyn. She’s adopted what he recognizes as her challenge posture: leaning toward him slightly, she has her elbows on the table and her hands folded resolutely in front of her face.

  “Would you have preferred I not?” he asks.

  “No. But it puts me in a very bad position.”

  “You’re protected this way.”

  “How considerate.”

  “I also wanted to give you the opportunity to drop me as a client.”

  “Do you want me to drop you?”

  “No. But I didn’t want you to later regret not having the opportunity.”

  “I seem to remember a similar offer a couple of years ago.” The words weren’t quite the same, she recalls, but he delivered them in a similar tone. One might describe it as icy. Something about Ted being Ted, live with it or move on.

  “It’s different this time,” he says.

  “What, besides the fact that I’m working for you instead of fucking you?”

  “I value your friendship.”

  Stunned is too strong a description for her reaction, but the way he said it, so bluntly and earnestly, caught her off guard.

  “You return all my calls promptly,” he goes on in the same tone. “You listen to all my whining. You’re consistent and reliable, and you’re supportive.”

  He watches as her eyes fill with sadness so profound that he thinks for a moment she might cry. He knows she’d wanted those exact qualities from him at one time. He knew back then, but knowing it only made things harder.

  “And I haven’t billed for enough of it,” she deadpans, trying to shake herself of the emotion.

  “That’s not it.
You care, Carolyn. You genuinely want to save me, even if you think I did it.”

  “You’re a good doctor, Ted,” she says, not denying his accusation. “Everybody says so, even the people who aren’t your biggest fans.”

  “And what about the person part?”

  “The truth?”

  “Always.”

  “You’re a better person when you’re doctoring.”

  Now it’s his turn to get emotional. He misses it then. Wexler, Kim, kvetching with Klein in the cafeteria, even the nameless interns and DocToBe Rosenbaum. But he especially misses the feeling of walking down the corridor to the trauma room not knowing exactly what’s waiting for him but utterly unconcerned at the same time. He misses who he was then. She’s right, he thinks, and suddenly has a vision of his brother, Phil, sitting out in the backyard many years ago, smoking pot, staring up at the stars, missing his old self, too, the guy who got left behind in Vietnam.

  “You know,” he said, “I haven’t told my brother about any of this. He doesn’t know. I was hoping it would . . . well . . . go away quickly.”

  “I know. Still, there’s going to be a moment when we have to make our case more publicly. Pretty soon, Ted, we’re going to need to do some PR.”

  “I think about him sometimes. My brother, Phil, the one who was in Vietnam.”

  “I remember you talking about him.”

  “Do you remember what you said that one night? About the takeaway?”

  She squints a little, the recollection within reach but fuzzy. “Remind me.”

  “I asked him what his takeaway from the war was.”

  When he came back from Vietnam, his brother, who was usually pretty subdued, would get really angry sometimes, come home fuming about some random person he’d encountered, another “useless fucking idiot.” When his father asked him what was wrong, he’d just say, “You wouldn’t fucking understand.”

  He’d always wanted to ask Phil about what his father didn’t understand, but he was thirteen, and in some ways his brother scared the shit out of him. Years later, after his graduation ceremony from Yale, they’d gone and had a beer, just the two of them. In the bar that night, he asked him what he’d taken away from Vietnam. He wanted to know the one thing that he carried around with him after that experience. He wanted to know how it had shaken his soul. What lesson had he learned from it?