Mark and Shannon looked at each other, then both shook their heads.
Alston rose. “Well, I should let you folks get back to your Sunday afternoon.” He turned toward the door. “You needn’t show me out.” He turned his eyes on Shannon. “I’ll be in touch.”
In that look, Shannon felt that a message had been passed. Don’t be afraid of me because I’m a policeman. I’m interested in you as a person, not as a person of interest.
After the door closed, Mark said, “That was odd. You’d think that he could have waited until tomorrow to tell you that. Or maybe even done it over the phone.”
Shannon shrugged. “I think the new information was just an excuse to come over.” And I’m betting that’s not the last I see of Detective Steve Alston, even if the crime were solved tomorrow.
Before the conversation could go further, Megan peeked around the doorway. “I heard a car drive away. Police gone?” she asked. “I hope so, because I’ve run out of cookies.”
“Megan, how can you eat all those and still keep your figure?” Shannon asked.
“If you notice, I’m not as slim as you. I like to think of myself as full figured. But believe me, these are the first cookies I’ve had in weeks. Right now, I crave comfort food.”
“I think we all do,” said Mark. “That’s why I brought them.”
Megan took the chair recently vacated by Steve Alston. “So what did the police have to say about your shooting?”
“Not my shooting,” Shannon almost snapped. “The shooting that happened in my front yard.” She took a deep breath. No need to come down on Megan. She had problems of her own. “They found out the name of the man who was shot, but I’m not sure it brought us any closer to figuring out why it happened.”
Megan finished her cookie and dusted her hands together. She licked a few crumbs off the corner of her mouth. “What was his name?”
Shannon looked at Mark. “I’m not sure I got it right. Do you remember it?”
Mark nodded. “It was an unusual name, and it stuck in my mind because I used to know someone with the same last name. It was Radick. Barry Radick.”
If Shannon hadn’t chosen that moment to turn back toward her sister, she might have missed the wide-eyed look that flashed across Megan’s face. Then, as though a shade had been drawn, a neutral expression replaced it. No need to ask Megan if she recognized the name. She’d deny it . . . but Shannon was sure she did. Now what does that mean?
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. WITH HER EYES STILL CLOSED, SHANNON SLAMMED HER hand down in the general area of the snooze bar of her alarm clock, stilling the annoying electronic sentinel. She started to roll over for five minutes, then realized that it was Monday. Mondays were always more demanding, with patients who’d been admitted over the weekend, cases requiring consultation, problems of various sorts. And this would be an especially busy Monday because the new resident year had just begun.
New resident year? With her eyes still tightly closed, she counted back. Friday had been July first, marked by the celebratory dinner that had such a tragic ending. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. One, two, three, four. Today was July Fourth! It was a holiday. True, she’d still need to go to the medical center, make hospital rounds, check with the residents, address any problems. But there was no need for her to be up this early. She could sleep a bit longer.
But, of course, by now she couldn’t sleep. All the mental gymnastics had her wide-awake. Shannon opened her right eye far enough to squint at the LED figures of her clock: 6:08.
Oh well. She’d get an early start on the day. By a quarter to eight Shannon had showered, dressed, applied makeup, eaten breakfast, read the paper over a second cup of coffee, and was ready to head to the medical center. Should she wake Megan? No, she’d let her sleep. Shannon left a note next to the coffeepot. “Megan, gone to work. Call my cell phone if you need anything.”
She was about to walk out the door when the phone in the living room rang. She hurried back to pick up, hoping to let Megan sleep a bit longer. “Dr. Frasier.”
“What did he say?” The voice was masculine, muffled and rough, making the words hard to understand.
“Pardon me?”
“What did Barry say?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Whatever the caller was using to mask his voice essentially robbed his speech of emotion, but there was no mistaking the irritation and menace in the words. “I want to know what Barry Radick said before he died.”
Shannon hugged herself, despite the comfortable temperature of her house. She looked all around, scanning the room as though the speaker might be there. She’d left the front door standing open to answer the call. Shannon carried the cordless phone with her as she hurried to close and double lock it.
“Look, I don’t know what you mean. If this is about the man who died in my arms, I wasn’t paying attention to what he might have mumbled. I was trying to save his life.” She took a deep breath. “Now I’m going to hang up and call the police. Don’t call here again.”
She ended the call, only faintly aware that her caller was saying something more. Shannon rummaged in the pile of papers on her desk until she found the cards of the two detectives. She shuffled them, one in front of the other, considering which man to call. In the end, the decision was easy. She read the front of the card she’d chosen, then flipped it over, consulted the number written on the back, and dialed.
DETECTIVE STEVE ALSTON SAT IN SHANNON’S LIVING ROOM, HIS LEGS crossed, a leather-covered notebook open on his lap, a Bic pen in his hand. Today he wore a light gray sports coat with a faint maroon stripe. His shirt was white, the tie a paisley of gray on a maroon background. His cordovan oxfords appeared freshly shined.
When she called his cell number, Alston told her he could stop by on his way to work. For reasons she either didn’t understand or wasn’t prepared to accept, Shannon had checked her makeup in the mirror and put on a fresh pot of coffee while she waited.
“You say the man’s voice was muffled. Like he was talking through a handkerchief, maybe?”
Shannon thought back to the conversation, trying to be analytical, her initial fright at the call fading a bit. “I’m no expert on disguising a voice, but he was doing something. The only person I’ve ever heard talk like that was a man with cancer of the throat.”
“And tell me once more what he said.” Alston held his pen at the ready.
Shannon related the conversation as accurately as she could recall it.
“Did Radick say something to you before he died?”
“Who . . . Oh, the man who was shot.” She closed her eyes, trying to go back to the scene she’d attempted to wipe from her memory. “He mumbled something right before he died, but I couldn’t really make out what he was saying.”
Alston closed the notebook and stowed it in the side pocket of his coat. “If it became necessary, would you submit to hypnosis to see if we can clarify your recollection?”
Shannon shook her head.
Alston smiled. “Surely, as a doctor, you realize that hypnosis, in the hands of a trained professional, isn’t a parlor trick. It can be a useful tool.”
“I . . . I’m not sure I want to be hypnotized.”
“Well, keep it in mind.” Alston crossed his legs and leaned back.
“What do I do if he calls again?” Shannon asked. “Is there some way you can trace the call?”
“I’ll see about getting an order for that. But it generally doesn’t help. Criminals used to use different phone booths. Now they’ve gone to throwaway cell phones, totally disposable and untraceable.”
“So what will you do next?”
“Right now, I’m sure Jesse is running Barry Radick through our computers. We’ll see who his known associates are, interview them.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Police work is largely a matter of routine. We keep digging, keep asking questions—lots of them—until eventually we find out what we need to know.”
Shannon felt a cold c
hill creep down her spine. The police wouldn’t just look into the background of the man who’d been shot. What would the detectives find when they dug into Megan’s past? Or Mark’s? Or Lee’s? Or hers? Had they already unearthed secrets best kept hidden? She dreaded finding out.
SIX
MARK WAS AT A TABLE IN THE HOSPITAL CAFETERIA WHEN HE SAW Shannon come in. He watched her as she went through the line, and as she turned away from the cashier with her tray, he caught her eye and beckoned her over.
They exchanged a quick hug. “How’s the head?” she asked.
Mark touched his temple and flinched slightly. “It’s going to be sore for a few days, but I’ll live.”
“Are you working today?” she asked as she unloaded a tuna sandwich and milk from her tray. “It’s a holiday.”
“Got some things to finish, and it’s always nice to be here when it’s relatively quiet.” He took a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich, washing it down with a drink of Diet Coke. “How about you?”
“I’ll see a couple of post-ops, check with the residents to see if there are any problems. But mainly I wanted to get away from the house for a while.” She lifted her sandwich from the plate, thought for a moment, and put it down. “Glad I ran into you, though. I need to talk.”
Mark wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “That’s me, ‘listeners ’r’ us.’ What’s on your mind?”
Shannon told him about the phone call and Detective Alston’s visit. “Could you hear the man who was shot—Radick, I guess his name was—did you hear him say something?”
“I was in the doorway, too far away to hear much of anything. Lee was right there with you. Maybe he knows.”
“Of course. I should check with him.” Shannon shoved her plate away. “Alston said the police would run Radick’s name through their computers. Do you suppose they’ll do the same with us—you or me or Lee? Even Megan?”
Mark shrugged. “Maybe. But what difference does it make? They may turn up a few traffic tickets, although it’s been years since I got one. Are you worried they’ll find something in your past?”
Shannon was silent, looking out the windows with what Mark had heard called a thousand-yard stare. He gave her a minute or two before he said, “Shannon, are you there?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind wandered. What was it?”
“Were you thinking about Todd’s shooting?” She’d shared that experience with Mark, but only superficially. He guessed that she wasn’t about to discuss it today either.
Shannon nodded. “I was going over it in my mind again.” She reached over and took a sip of his Diet Coke. He shoved the rest of it toward her.
“And . . .”
“I’ve had two men die in my arms, and I couldn’t save either one of them.” She crumpled a napkin in her fist. “How do you think that made me feel?”
Mark leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “When Todd was shot, you’d barely started medical school. You weren’t into your clinical courses, weren’t treating patients. You didn’t—”
“I know. But it was such a helpless feeling. I’d never seen anyone die, much less have their blood on my hands.”
“Shannon, that was then. This is now. Nothing you or Lee could have done would have saved Radick. You couldn’t start an IV to give fluids or replace blood loss, you couldn’t open his chest to clamp off the bleeders, you couldn’t . . .” He leaned forward. “There was nothing you could do. It was a miracle he stayed alive that long.”
He watched her fight back tears. Mark knew Shannon well enough to be certain she wasn’t going to cry, not right here in the hospital cafeteria, not in front of everyone. That was another part of the doctor persona she’d worked so hard to put in place. Patients and families didn’t want to see their doctor cry . . . or show fear . . . or uncertainty.
Oh, Shannon. If I could just get inside your head for a bit and help you get some things straight. Mark took her hand and spoke just loudly enough to be certain it carried over the low din of the cafeteria. “Listen carefully. Ten years ago, there was nothing you could do to save Todd. Three days ago, there was nothing you could do to save Radick.”
“But I’m a doctor.”
Mark nodded. “True, now you’re a doctor. But you’re not God.”
ALL DURING THE TIME SHE WAS MAKING ROUNDS WITH THE SURGICAL resident on call, while she was at her desk reading lab and X-ray reports, even on her walk to the parking lot, Mark’s words ran through Shannon’s mind. You’re a doctor. But you’re not God.
Finally, she could no longer postpone the visit she dreaded. Shannon climbed into her car and pulled out of the medical center’s physicians’ parking lot. It would probably be quicker to walk the few blocks to her destination, but unfortunately that would mean crossing a busy freeway, and she’d seen the results when others tried, only to end up critically injured or DOA in the emergency room. No, she’d drive.
She wasn’t sure whether her UT Southwestern parking sticker would work at the Southwestern Institute of Forensic Sciences, but she was unlikely to need it anyway. Most people never spared a thought for the office of the Dallas County Medical Examiner, much less had a desire to visit the offices. The examiner and his deputies, like baseball umpires, worked in obscurity unless they made a mistake, at which time everyone noticed them.
Once in the building, she sought out the person she hoped could give her the answers she needed. It took her fifteen minutes, but soon she was seated in the office of Dr. Gordon Taylor, Deputy Medical Examiner. She and Gordon had gone through medical school together. Now they saw each other occasionally in the faculty club at lunch. But she’d never visited him where he worked.
Gordon had changed since Shannon worked across from him in the gross anatomy lab. His hairline had retreated, his waistline expanded, and it seemed to her that the horn-rimmed glasses he always wore were a bit thicker. But despite all that, he was the same Gordon—cheery, unflappable. She hoped his disposition would be the same after she asked her favor.
He shrugged his shoulders to settle his crisply starched white lab coat, leaned back in his desk chair, and smiled. “So what brings you to our humble abode?”
“I need a favor, Gordon.”
His cherubic face never changed expression, but his eyes reflected caution. “You know I’ll do anything I can, but I work within some pretty stringent rules. What do you need?”
“Did you do the autopsy on Tony . . .” What was Tony’s last name? Had Megan even mentioned it? Then it came to her. “Lester. Did you do the post on Tony Lester?”
“Name’s not familiar, but sometimes the old memory slips,” Gordon said. He turned to the computer on his desk, tapped a few keys, and said, “Dr. Rao did that autopsy earlier this morning. Nothing in the system yet about the results.”
“If I asked him, would he tell me the cause of death?”
Gordon frowned. “Why would you want to know that? Are you involved in some way?”
Shannon hesitated, then decided that if she wanted the information, she’d have to tell Gordon why. “He was my sister’s boyfriend. She was one of the last people to see him before he died, and I think the police consider her a suspect, or at least a person of interest.”
“Shannon, you know this as well as I do. Although the results of that autopsy may eventually become public record, at present they’re not. They’ll go first to the detective in charge of the case. I’m not sure your personal interest justifies my asking Dr. Rao to give you what, at this time, amounts to privileged information.”
Shannon leaned forward in her chair, as though by her posture she could convey the importance of her request. “I know it may take awhile for Rao’s report to be typed up, proofread, and signed. And the toxicology might not be available for six to eight weeks. But it’s important that I know the gist of the report now.” She decided she had to trust Gordon with the information. “Tony was drunk when my sister last saw him. He was combative, tried to hit my boyfriend, who had accomp
anied her. She had to defend herself. She . . . she hit him on the head with a bottle.”
“Spunky girl.”
“Spunky, but misguided sometimes. Anyway, I was worried that Tony might have developed intracranial bleeding afterward, and that was what killed him. All I need to know is whether Rao found a subdural hematoma, anything like that.”
Gordon turned back to the computer and scanned a few lines. “I think your sister can relax,” he said. He swiveled around to face Shannon. “The notes that accompanied the body say he came in with a gunshot wound to the head.”
SHANNON WASN’T ON CALL. SHE’D TAKEN CARE OF A FEW THINGS at the medical center. There was nothing pending that seemed more important than the two deaths that had suddenly taken over her life. She decided to head home.
When Shannon had left that morning, Megan’s car was at the curb in front of the house. Now it was gone. Once inside, Shannon went from room to room, not sure what she was looking for, but thinking she should see what her sister might have been up to in her absence. Some might call it snooping. Given Megan’s history, Shannon thought it made sense for her to look around.
Megan’s room was surprisingly neat. Shannon guessed her sister had finally developed the habit of cleaning up after herself, rather than waiting for someone else to do it. In their teen years, that someone was often Shannon.
Here I am again, cleaning up after her, but this time it’s not picking up clothes or washing dishes. How long before Megan became a responsible adult? How many more messes, both figurative and literal, would Shannon have to clean up for her sister?
In the living room, Shannon noticed that she’d left her address book by the phone. It was open to the page with the name of the attorney she was going to call if the police appeared to be coming after Megan. She closed the book and stowed it in a desk drawer.
As she was about to close the drawer, something nibbled at the edge of her memory, something that didn’t seem right. She stood there for a moment before it came to her. And when it did, she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
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