Knife Music

by David Carnoy

  “He’s got a good arm.”

  “Yeah, his coach thinks so, too.”

  “Did his coach teach him how to pitch?”

  “Not really. Not like you just did. I take it you played.”

  “Long time ago. In college.”

  “Well, thank you. He’s been having a lot of trouble with his control.”

  “My pleasure.”

  An awkward silence.

  “So you didn’t answer me. What are you doing here?”

  Cogan smiles. “I followed you over from your church. I came to tell you it’s over, detective.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your case is shot. I don’t know who’s got you in his pocket. I don’t know whether it’s the DA or the girl’s father, but you missed some crucial details.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Thanks to the number you pulled over at the Free Clinic, we know that Kristen went there the day after you allegedly had sex with her.”

  Cogan is perplexed. Madden can see he really thinks the fix is in. “So you know she was treated for an STD?”

  “No, we didn’t. We hadn’t tried to obtain a release of her medical records yet. Frankly, we were waiting to see what you’d do with the information before we proceeded along that route.”

  Cogan laughs. “You were going to wait. How long were you going to wait?”

  “Not long.”

  “But long enough to see what trouble I could get myself into.”

  “We didn’t know what you were up to. We didn’t know if you were trying to cover something up. Tell me, how did you become aware she was treated for an STD?”

  “Carrie told me.”

  This time, the ball went right through his mitt and hit him square in the chest. Or at least it felt that way.

  “Carrie told you?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking. And how ’bout this? How ’bout I have proof Jim Pinklow, one of your star witnesses, was treated for the same STD. He’s your rapist, not me.”

  “What’s your proof?”

  “You’re holding it,” he says nodding at the envelope he’d given him with the pitching tips written on the back of it. “The examination reports are in that envelope. Kristen used a fake name, but I’m sure if you do a little investigating—I know that must be hard for your crack staff at the Robbery/Homicide Unit, being so busy following me around—I’m sure you’ll be able to put two and two together.”

  Madden opens the envelope and unfolds the papers. There are three sheets. The first is a short record of Jim’s student clinic history, with references to a treatment for Chlamydia, while the last two are copies of Clinic Visit forms, both with the name Chris Ray at the top. Chris Ray’s date of birth, he notices, is similar to Kristen’s but a few months off—it made her seventeen not sixteen at the time of the examination. Her visits were spaced exactly fourteen days apart, two Sundays from each other, and indeed, the first one fell on the day after the alleged incident. The two pages are filled with medical jargon.

  Page one:

  PMH: 17 y.o. white female here for initial pelvic exam. Reports first intercourse last PM. No BCM used. LMP two weeks ago. Pt c/o small amount of bloody vaginal discharge and vulvar soreness this AM. Denies abdominal or pelvic pain. Past medical history significant for only splenectomy post MVA six months ago. No meds, no allergies. Pt desires emergency contraception.

  PHYSICAL EXAM: BP-116/78 pulse-88 Temp-98.2

  PELVIC EXAM: Several 2-3 cm violaceous ecchymotic areas noted on perineum. Vulva with slightly edematous labia and moderate erythema, no lesions, no excoriations. Hymen with tear at 5 o’clock. Vagina with erythema and serosanguinous drainage, no lacerations. Cervix slightly friable. Uterus normal size, nontender. Adnexa normal size nontender.

  Wet smear - moderate RBC’s, few WBC’s, no hyphae, no trichomonads, moderate active sperm, no foul odor. Urine pregnancy test - NEG.

  IMPRESSION: Normal pelvic exam except ecchymotic perineum. ??Trauma with IC. (Pt denies sexual or physical abuse.) Candidate for emergency contraception.

  PLAN: Pap smear, VDRL, Chlamydia and GC tests pending. Condom use stressed. Offered counseling referrals related to potential abuse. Given 2 Ovral pills stat, with 2 more to be taken in 12 hours. Risks and benefits of emergency contraception reviewed. Advised return to clinic in 2 weeks for follow-up STD and pregnancy testing.

  Page two:

  F/U HISTORY: Pt c/o vulvovaginal itching and irritation with moderate discharge. Denies fever, dysuria, abdominal or pelvic pain. Denies intercourse since last visit.

  PHYSICAL EXAM: Perineum clear, no ecchymosis. Vulva with moderate erythema, no lesions. Thin drainage at introitus. Vagina with erythema and copious foamy discharge. Strawberry cervix friable with moderate mucopurulent discharge at os. Uterus normal size, nontender. Adnexa normal size, nontender, no masses.

  Wet smear - moderate RBC’s, moderate WBC’s, numerous trichomonads, no hyphae, no clue cells. Urine pregnancy test - NEG.

  IMPRESSION: Trichomonal vaginitis

  Cervicitis R/O Chlamydia vs. GC

  PLAN: Azithromycin 2 gms. stat. No ETOH X 48 hours. VDRL, Chlamydia and GC tests pending

  When he’s through skimming the documents, he asks Cogan, “There’s another follow-up visit. Where is it?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “How’d you get these?”

  “Not important. But what you’re going to do about it is.”

  “The other day, when you were in Joanie’s with your attorney, did you know I was outside?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “So your attorney was in on it?”

  “On what?”

  “The whole Mercury article gag?”

  “No, she didn’t know. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know those documents exist. But she will soon.”

  “So what were you asking her?”

  “When?”

  “When you were showing her the article.”

  “About your bias.”

  Madden feels the hairs on the back of his head stand up. “What bias is that?”

  “Your predetermined bias in this case. Against me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were molested by a doctor, detective.”

  “I wasn’t molested, Doctor, I was raped.”

  “My point exactly.”

  He stares at him heatedly. A wave of paranoia. Suddenly, he’s scared he’s being set up.

  Is he wearing a wire?

  Suppressing an urge to frisk him, he asks, “How long have you had these documents?”

  “Not long.”

  “You like pizza?”

  “What?”

  “Did you have pizza delivered to Carrie’s home two nights ago?”

  “A pizza? Why would I have a pizza delivered to Carrie?”

  His disbelief seems genuine. Too genuine.

  “A pizza was delivered to her home,” he says. “And you spoke to her earlier in the week.”

  Cogan shrugs. “What, was it poisoned or something?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about a pizza. All I know is that I’ve got a meeting with my attorney tomorrow morning at nine. I’m going to give her those documents. And if the charges against me aren’t dropped within twenty-four hours, I take it all to the press.”

  With that he walks off the mound. Nearing the first base line, Madden calls out him.

  “Doctor.”

  He turns around. “What?”

  “I’m not in anybody’s pocket. There is no conspiracy here.”

  Cogan smiles. He looks at the ground and contemplatively kicks at the dirt a little. After a moment, he says, “You know, detective, before this all happened, I used to get some really difficult patients. And I mean difficult from a behavioral, not a medical, standpoint. There are some patients you really don’t like. But I still treat them to the best of my abilities.” />
  “I’m not on a personal crusade. What happened to me happened a long time ago.”

  “Maybe. But you still dislike me. You have from the beginning.”

  “Like you said, whether I like you or not has nothing do with how I do my job.”

  Another smile, this one broader.

  “You have a good day, detective.”

  40/ THE DOG GETS MANGIER

  May 13, 2007—9:30 p.m.

  DURING THE NFL SEASON, THE DUTCH GOOSE ATTRACTS A healthy crowd on Sunday, right through the ESPN late game, which starts at five-thirty on the west coast. In the spring, however, Sunday evenings are quiet, and by nine, the place has pretty much cleared out, except for a handful of hopelessly single over-forty males and hard-drinking, heavy-smoking women who step outside every half hour or so to take their drags. Madden, even with his tie loosened and his hair mussed, doesn’t exactly fit in with this amiably sorry bunch. But he’s doing his best.

  “I don’t go to the movies all that often,” he says a little too loudly with the hint of a slur creeping into his speech, “but here’s one that has special meaning for me tonight.”

  They’re playing a little game with the bartender, Eddie, a gentlemanly Irish guy in his early forties who’s almost as bald as him. Someone recites a line from a movie and Eddie has to guess which movie it’s from. Unfortunately, it’s now his turn.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” he says.

  “Oh, that’s lame,” says a rather weathered, buxom, bottle blonde named Peggy who’s sitting next to him at the bar. She’s wearing a black v-neck T-shirt that leaves enough cleavage exposed to reveal a small tattoo of the cartoon character Taz, the Tasmanian devil, on the upper portion of her left breast. Earlier she’d suggested that if he played his cards right she might show him her Yosemite Sam.

  “Apollo 13,” says Eddie.

  “Yeah, that was a good movie,” Peggy remarks hoarsely. “Tom Hanks. He had to lose a lot of weight for Survivor.”

  “Hello, Hank.” He feels a large arm over his shoulder and looks up to see Pastorini standing next to him.

  “Oh, hey, Pete. Welcome to my impromptu retirement party.”

  “Twenty-four years a dick,” Peggy says.

  “Fourteen,” he corrects her.

  “Oh, shit, sorry.” She lets out a loud, raspy laugh. “Twenty-four was the age of my last boyfriend, what a useless prick he was. Except for the sex, of course.”

  “Of course,” Madden says, raising his glass as she leans into him suggestively.

  “How many has he had, Eddie?” Pastorini asks.

  “He’s working on his fifth,” says the bartender.

  “He’s fine,” Peggy says.

  “He’s pretty snockered,” says Eddie. “I was going to call him a cab. But then he said you were coming.”

  “Come on, Hank. Let’s have a little chat,” Pastorini says.

  His boss, whom he just notices is looking very hip-hop, dressed in a navy-colored, velour Adidas sweat suit, now has him by the arm and is tugging him gently, trying to get him off the barstool.

  “Where’s your bling-bling, Sarge?”

  “Hank, a word.”

  “Careful, big boy, he’s got a bum foot,” the blonde warns.

  “I know he’s got a bum foot. And if you don’t shut up, I’ll give you one, too.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” she says. “Someone had too much caffeine today.”

  With some further encouragement from Pastorini, he manages to stand up. Swaying a little, he declares, “Pete, I’m drunk.”

  “No shit. Eddie, bring us over a couple of Diet Cokes, would ya? No ice.”

  Pastorini leads him to one of the booths and deposits him onto the banquette side. Eddie arrives with the Diet Cokes, which look awfully like Guinness Stout because he’d served them in pint glasses.

  “Drink that,” Pastorini orders. “Then I want to see those documents.”

  He takes two big gulps of the Coke. It tastes much better than the beer.

  “What happened, Hank?” he goes on. “Everything seemed fine when I spoke to you this morning. You told me you had a partial thumbprint from the pizza that was his.”

  He isn’t sure whether it’s the beer or the reminder of all that had gone wrong, but he’s hit with a wave of nausea. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he’s staring down at a sea of initials, names, and assorted other words that have been carved into the table. For some reason his eyes fall on the words “The Clash.” He’s totally mystified by what it means. Clash of what?

  “I let it get too personal, Pete. I told myself I wouldn’t. But I did. I’m a friggin’ disgrace.”

  “Stop that.”

  Leaning back, he manages, after a brief struggle, to pull the envelope—Cogan’s envelope—out of his front pants pocket and hands it to Pastorini. It’s still folded in three, and, unfurling it, Pastorini reads what he sees written.

  “Four steps to proper pitching,” he says, puzzled.

  “No, no, inside. Look inside.”

  Pastorini takes out the pages and looks them over. While he pursues them, Madden drinks the rest of the Coke.

  “How did he get these?” Pastorini asks.

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  He stares down at the table, running his finger over one of the grooves of a carved letter. It was the first B in Bob. It said “Bob + Liz.” He wonders where they are now.

  “Hank.”

  He lifts his head.

  “What?”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He said I’m a pathetic excuse for a detective. And you know what, Pete? He’s right.”

  “Hank, I’m not listening. You’re drunk and you’re talking gibberish. I refuse to listen.”

  “Well, you’d better. This case was a dog from the beginning, Pete. I told you it was a dog. And you wouldn’t listen to me. And now it’s the ruin of me.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  He shakes his head melancholically. “She forgot. It slipped her mind.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Carrie said when I asked her why she didn’t tell me about Kristen saying something about how Cogan should see a doctor. ‘I forgot. There was a lot of stuff going on in my head,’ he says, mimicking her high-pitched voice. ‘And you never asked me anything about that stuff.’ And you know what? She was right. Isn’t that a hoot, Pete? I never asked. You know why?”

  “Because of the diary,” Pastorini said impatiently. “I know, you told me.”

  He lets out a little belch and, seeing his Coke is finished, takes the one that’s sitting in front of Pastorini.

  “I see why you like this stuff,” he says after he’d gulped down half his drink. “Very refreshing.”

  “So let’s recap, Hank.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “We’ve got a bunch of inadmissible, illegally obtained evidence, a victim who’s suddenly highly lacking in the credibility department, an insecure detective who he thinks he’s full of shit, and a key witness who very possibly may have had sex with the victim while she was in a severely debilitated state.”

  “Sounds about right,” he agrees, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Your dog is looking mighty mangy at this point. What do you say we put him out of his misery?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Just then he feels his phone vibrating. He takes the Motorola out of its belt clip and hands it to Pastorini.

  “It’s my wife,” he says, flipping it open for him. “Can you talk to her? I don’t think I’m in any condition to talk to her. She’s called twice already.”

  Pastorini takes the phone.

  “Maria, it’s Pete.” A beat, then: “No, I’ve never seen him like this. But he’s all right. I’m going to get him home shortly. I’m going to drive him, so don’t worry.”

  Handing the phone back to him, he says, “We’re right back at square one, Hank. Nothing’s changed except that we have another bad guy to
take down.”

  “I’m the bad guy.”

  “No, you’re not. This guy’s the bad guy,” he says, holding up Jim’s student clinic report.

  “Maybe. But it’s too messed up. I already fucked it up. Crowley’s going to have our collective asses when he sees the bad press. I’m done for.”

  “Let me handle Crowley. You work on getting a confession.”

  He laughs. “And I thought I was the only one at the table who was intoxicated.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I don’t think you understand. We’re never going to get to the bottom of this, Pete. You know why? Because there is no bottom.”

  “We get the girl to play ball again. We do another Open Wide.”

  “With her own brother? Are you insane?”

  “Well, we get the doc to play, then,” Pastorini counters, realizing his mistake. “He’s got a vested interest. If you’re going to let him off the hook, at least make him earn it.”

  Madden considers that. He’d considered it earlier, when he was sober, and it had seemed like a poor option. And now that he’s drunk, it still seems poor.

  “And what? What kind of leverage does he have against the kid?”

  “I don’t know,” Pastorini says. “That’s up to you to figure out. All I know is that he sure seemed to do a number on you, so he must have something going for him. Now drink the rest of that and let’s go.”

  41/ BART’S JOURNAL

  May 15, 2007

  To whom it may concern:

  Pretty soon I’m going to meet Dr. Cogan at the little park near the Linear Accelerator. I suppose it’s an apt place for our meeting because ever since that night I’ve felt like a particle that’s been split in two and I haven’t been able to quite put myself back together the way I’d like.

  Dr. Cogan called me yesterday and said he wanted to meet privately with me. He had something he wanted to show me, which he couldn’t talk about over the phone. I’m not sure what it could be, but it couldn’t be good. But after talking it over with Watkins, we decided I should go meet him, and that if the doc accuses me of anything, I should admit to nothing. Watkins knows the park and suggested it as a meeting point.