Trace (Trace 1)

by Warren Murphy

  “You think it came from the Plessers?” Trace asked.

  Matteson shrugged. “Who else? I mean, I haven’t murdered anybody else recently.”

  “You need the money?” Trace asked suddenly.

  “No. I don’t know anybody poor enough to need a hundred thousand dollars. Of course, I need the money.” Matteson hesitated. “No, actually, I guess I don’t. Somehow I stayed single and I live here in the hospital and I don’t have a lot of expenses and no family, so, no, I don’t need the money, but damn sure I’m going to take it now.”

  “If you get it. You have all the medical records?”

  “I gave them to my lawyer.”

  “Anything there that can hurt us?”

  “Nothing at all. The treatment was absolutely consistent with the best medical practices.”

  “Chances, are, then, that we go to court,” Trace said.

  “Guess so,” Matteson agreed glumly.

  “Would you mind if I talked to”—Trace checked the sheet of paper in his hand—“this Dr. Darling and Nurse Simons.”

  “No. Talk. Keep me out of court. Anything you want.”

  “You know, I’m surprised at this place. When you hear the word ‘sanatorium’, you instantly start thinking of some kind of funny farm, but this place is really a hospital, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. A poor thing but ’tis my own,” Matteson said.

  Trace said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “I haven’t minded so far. You’ve asked about a hundred.”

  “Why do you have all this crap on your walls?”

  “I don’t think it’s crap,” Matteson said. “I happen to believe in those things.”

  “You believe in seals?”

  “I never got sued by a seal,” Matteson said. “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me where to find Darling and Simons?”

  “They’re both in the East Building on the first floor.”

  “I’m sorry,” Trace said. “I only know east when I stay up all night and see the sun coming up. That’s east, right?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want you staying in my office until daybreak. So go out the front door and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Trace said. He walked to the window and looked out, but the sun was almost overhead.

  “Okay. I can’t count on the sun for help. Tell me where to go.”

  “We’ve got four buildings here. This is the North Building. That’s ’cause it’s on the north side of the parking lot. So when you go out and walk to the parking lot, the building on your left will be the East Building.”

  “And on my right would be the West Building?”

  “Right. And across the parking lot will be the South Building. You’re not really this dumb, are you?”

  “I think I’ve got it,” Trace said. “Could I have your phone number to call you in case I get lost?”

  “You wear a watch?” Matteson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “On your left wrist?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. When you get to the parking lot, turn in the direction of your wristwatch. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Trace said. “Oh, before I leave, there was something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “While I’m in town, my boss asked me to look up an old friend of his. A Mitchell Carey. I found out that he’s here, one of your patients. You know him?”

  “Sure. I know Mr. Carey.”

  “How’s his health? I’d like to tell my boss.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matteson said. “I can’t really talk about him to you. His medical condition’s a matter for his family.”

  “I’m going to see them.”

  “If Mrs. Carey wants me to talk to you, she can call me. Otherwise…well, I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” Trace said. “It was nice meeting you.” He shook Matteson’s hand and walked to the office door.

  He opened the door, waited until the receptionist had turned to look, then called back to Matteson, loudly, “And thanks for the help about Mr. Carey. I appreciate it.”

  He closed the door before Matteson could say anything, and turned to the receptionist. “Mitchell Carey’s room number?”

  She spun the Rolodex on her desk.

  “He’s in the East Building. Two-thirteen. That’s the second floor.”

  “And the East Building is on the right when I reach the parking lot?” Trace asked.

  “On the left,” the receptionist said. “There’s a sign next to the door says EMERGENCY ROOM. Just remember E for Emergency, E for East.”

  “It’s very simple, the way you explain it,” Trace said.

  “No. Today is Wednesday. Wednesday. Tomorrow is Thursday when we have a movie. So today is Wednesday. Yesterday was Tuesday and the day before that was Monday. On the day before, Sunday, we had a lot of visitors at the hospital. Write it down. Put Sunday at the top, then Monday, then Tuesday, then Wednesday. And tomorrow is Thursday. Write it down.”

  The woman speaking was blond and pretty. She wore a hospital smock and Trace could see the fringe of a red skirt peeping out from under it. She had nice legs, but her voice was brisk, hard, and chilly. Trace stood in the back of the room and watched as she turned her back on the two dozen elderly patients and wrote on a blackboard.

  Sunday.

  Monday.

  Tuesday.

  Wednesday.

  Thursday.

  “I want you to copy this down in your notebooks,” she said without turning.

  She had nice hips, Trace thought. He liked the way women’s bodies moved when they wrote on blackboards. American students’ SAT scores started dropping when men entered the teaching profession in great numbers and there was no reason anymore for anyone to look at the blackboards. This was one of many facts in his head that Trace held to be incontrovertible.

  When he had first entered the room and handed her his card, the woman had nodded to him to wait. Now she turned around, after finishing writing out all the days of the week, and told the patients, “I want you all to look at your wristwatches now and figure out how long it will be before dinner. We eat dinner at six o’clock. Figure it out and no cheating. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Look at that on your watches too. Ten minutes.”

  She walked briskly toward the back of the room and let Trace follow her out into the hallway, where she asked him, “What can I do for you, Mr. Tracy?”

  “First, tell me, why were you yelling at those poor people?”

  “I wasn’t yelling,” she said. She had a soft smooth voice and in normal conversation it was buttered with a slight Southern accent. Her eyes were very blue.

  “Sorry,” Trace said. “My mistake. It’s just that I thought when people raised their voices and shouted, it was called yelling.”

  “It’s called emphasizing and just who are you? Are you here to criticize my teaching techniques?”

  “No. I just came from Dr. Matteson. He said to talk to you about this Plesser insurance thing. I’m representing the company.”

  “Oh, that again,” she said, and sighed. She glanced around and said, “Come on across the hall. I think that office is empty.”

  Trace followed her into a barely furnished office with just one desk and one chair and a bookcase that was largely empty.

  Dr. Darling sat in the chair and Trace perched on the desk and pressed the record button on his tape recorder.

  “Now what is it you wanted to know?”

  “You were a witness when Mr. Frederick Plesser changed the beneficiary on his insurance policy. When he changed it over to Dr. Matteson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything while he was doing it?”

  “What kind of question is that?” she asked.

  “Pretty straightforward,” Trace said. “Did he say anything about the insurance or about Dr. Matteson?”

  “No. We didn’t even know what we were witnessing. He just folded the paper over and then we witnessed hi
s signature. He signed it first and then we signed it.”

  “He didn’t say anything about it?”

  “Well, he did say something. He said this is going to make two people very happy. Something like that.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Do you have any idea, Dr. Darling? What did you think he meant at the time?”

  “I didn’t think about it,” she said. “What do you think he meant?”

  “I think he meant he was going to make Dr. Matteson happy if he died, and probably himself too.”

  “Then that’s it,” she said.

  “What did you think of Mr. Plesser?” Trace asked.

  “He was okay,” she said without much conviction.

  “I heard he was the salt of the earth, helping with patients, cleaning out bedpans, that kind of thing.”

  “Yes. He did that.”

  “And?”

  “He was always grabbing at me,” she said.

  “I applaud his taste,” Trace said.

  She ignored the remark. “Sometimes people with borderline senility get strange ideas. He had this notion that because his wife was a couple of weeks younger than he was, he was the scourge of younger women.” She shrugged and said, “It’s not abnormal, I guess, but it was a little disconcerting. I could never let him get behind me.”

  “How did he get along with Dr. Matteson?” Trace asked.

  “Fine. Why shouldn’t he? I mean, Dr. Matteson was his—Oh, wait, I get it. You think there’s some kind of nonsense going on and George twisted him around to get him to leave the money.”

  “People have been known to do it for a hundred thousand,” Trace said blandly.

  “George doesn’t care about money,” Dr. Darling said. “If he cared about money, would he have started this place?”

  “I never heard of a hospital director starving,” Trace said. “If he doesn’t care about money, what does he care about?”

  “He cares about old people, Mr. Tracy. That’s what we do here. Do you know he went into hock to buy this old place from the county? This used to be an asylum and he took every penny he could raise and pumped it into here. To treat the elderly. The only reason we do anything else, like that emergency room, is because that was part of the price the county wanted when they sold the place. This is the only emergency room for miles around.”

  “Why does Matteson do it?” Trace asked.

  “Because he cares. This kind of work is his life.”

  “Is it your life too?”

  “Yes, it is. And one more thing while we’re at it. You were wondering why I was yelling at those patients out there. Well, I wasn’t yelling. I was lecturing and you have to do it the way it works. I could mumble and smile and pat them on their heinies, and by next week they wouldn’t know what day it is and the week after they’d forget how to tell time. You keep them alive by making them keep working and I don’t appreciate any cheap shots from you, particularly when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m talking about keeping these people functioning. You want polite, go talk to a rutabaga. I’m not into vegetables and I’m not into letting people turn into them.”

  Trace got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Dr. Darling,” he said.

  “I’ve got to go back. Anything else?”

  “Just tell me where I can find Nurse Simons.”

  The angry look on her face mellowed. “Come here,” she said, and led him outside. She pointed down the corridor. “Far corner back there is her office.”

  “Thanks for the help,” Trace said.

  Nursing Supervisor Thelma Simons was in her early fifties. She wore nursing whites so highly starched that they looked stiff enough to support a person born without bones. Her graying hair was pulled back into a severe bun and Trace knew that he could get to her anytime just by telling her that her hair was coming undone. Her face jutted forward, a prominent chin, a needle nose, and a forehead that seemed to loom over her eyebrows. She gave the impression of having stayed too long too close to a strong suction. It was as if her face were a full inch in front of where it should be.

  “Well, Mr. Tracy,” she said after he explained who he was, “you know I can’t just talk to anybody who comes in here, don’t you?”

  “I know that. That’s why I went to see Dr. Matteson first. He said it was all right.”

  “Well, we’ll just check on that, won’t we?” Trace wondered if she began all sentences with “well.” She sounded like a British schoolteacher taking the cat-o’-nine-tails from the closet. “Well, we’ll see about your behavior, won’t we?” He also hated, on general principles, people who ended sentences with “won’t we?”

  She seemed to hesitate in reaching for the phone and Trace said, “Would you prefer I waited outside?”

  “Well, yes. If you would,” Nurse Simons said.

  In the hallway, Trace started chatting with a young nurse who was filling out reports at a desk. The telephone rang on her desk, and when she answered it, Trace saw her face blanch. She said, “Yes, ma’am,” and hung up. “Nurse Simons will see you now.”

  “Sorry if I got you into trouble,” Trace said.

  She mumbled under her breath, “Being under fifty got me into trouble.”

  “Not with me.”

  Inside the office, Nurse Simons said, “Well, we’ve talked to Doctor and Doctor says it’s all right to answer your questions, so let’s get right to it, shall we?”

  “One important question,” Trace said.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do nurses call doctors Doctor?”

  “What do you suggest we call them? Milkman?”

  “I suggest that you call them ‘the doctor’ or ‘Doctor So-and-so.’ ‘We’ve talked to Doctor’ doesn’t make any grammatical sense.”

  “I see no need to change anything that has served our profession well for so many years, Mr. Tracy.”

  “My father used to feel that way about his undershirts until my mother got him to Undershirt City,” Trace said. “Then he finally got straightened out. Family liked him a whole lot better then too.”

  “Have you come here to tell me disgusting stories about your relatives?” she asked.

  “No, and you’re lucky. If I got to telling really disgusting stories like the time my aunt Billie fell off the wagon and barfed in the soup tureen, well, we’d really find that disgusting, wouldn’t we?”

  “Doctor told me to answer your questions. He did not tell me to let you waste my entire working day. Good day, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Just one question,” Trace said.

  “Please hurry.”

  “Why did Patient name Doctor as his beneficiary? Did he tell you?”

  “No. He never said a word to me.”

  “Did Patient say he was unhappy with Family?”

  “We did not have many personal discussions, actually.”

  “I can believe it. Did Patient say he was happy with Hospital?” Trace asked.

  “You’re really very insolent, Mr. Tracy. Yes, Mr. Plesser said he was happy here and I do believe that you can leave now.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” Trace said.

  “Well, you’ve been most obnoxious.”

  “Investigator apologizes,” Trace said as he left.

  11

  As he walked down the long hallway, Trace sensed the steely eyes of Nurse Simons still burning into his back. He turned casually into the corridor leading toward the front door, then ducked quickly into a stairwell and walked upstairs.

  Mitchell Carey was in Room 213.

  It was a large private room with two assortments of fresh flowers on a small table across the room from the foot of the bed. Carey lay in the bed, sleeping or unconscious, and Trace could see he was a large man, burly and robust. Big hands and thick wrists protruded from the sleeves of his rough-textured white hospital gown. But the man’s face seemed puckered and tired, the look that seems to come onto the faces o
f politicians and popes who are shot and never regain their look of full vigor. Carey had a lion’s mane of white hair, and Trace thought he looked like the kind of man you’d expect to see in a meadow, with a shotgun folded over his arm, looking skyward for ducks. There was a green oxygen tank standing next to the bed, and on the wall over Carey’s head was a small panel that looked like the channel selector box for cable television, which held a half-dozen monitor lights. All the lights were green.

  The man hissed noisily as he breathed.

  Trace looked at the cards on the flowers. One said, “You are always loved. Amanda.” The other read, “Same message as the last time. Get better. These flowers are expensive. Will.”

  Trace looked around the room. There was nothing to see, really. He walked to the cabinet next to Carey’s bed and opened the top drawer. Sure, he thought, it’s going to have a hundred legal documents changing the beneficiary of his insurance and the heirs to his estate. It contained a small box of Kleenex.

  He closed the drawer softly, and as he turned toward the old man, Mitchell Carey’s eyes opened wide and he stared at the ceiling, as if in horror, as if death had just entered the room and roughly shook him awake. Trace knew the feeling. It was the sense one gets waking up in the middle of the night and knowing, despite all evidence to the contrary, that there is someone in the bedroom.

  The man stared, unblinking, at the ceiling for a moment. The eyes were pinched with fright or terror. Trace reached out and touched the man’s hand with his.

  “Easy, old-timer,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”

  Slowly, as if the act took every bit of his strength, Carey’s unblinking eyes turned toward Trace. He stared at the big man, seemingly unable to focus his eyes. Trace saw his lips move slightly.

  “Just take it easy,” Trace said. “Everything’s okay.” Should he call a nurse? Should the man be awake?

  Carey’s lips began to move, the movement of a toothless man gumming a soft piece of bread. A soft low sound emanated from his mouth. Mitchell Carey was trying to speak, and as Trace leaned over, putting his face near the man’s mouth, he instinctively pressed the record button on his tape recorder.