The Sisterhood

by Michael Palmer

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Armstrong said. “I’m truly sorry to have taken so long to get back to you.”

  “I understand.” He cut in, hoping to spare her any uncomfortable explanations of the turmoil he knew was surrounding him—and her—at the hospital. “Any news?”

  “Not really. Our friend the lieutenant has been present on and off since Sunday. He checks in with me or Ed Lipton to let us know he’s around, but that’s about it.”

  “Well, I bumped into Miss Dalrymple yesterday and asked for her copy of Charlotte Thomas’s chart. I thought perhaps I could get some brainstorm from studying it.”

  “And did Miss Dalrymple give it to you?”

  David missed the chord of heightened interest in her voice. “No. I think she would have, but she didn’t have it anymore.” Briefly, he reviewed the conversation with Dotty Dalrymple and his subsequent call to Huttner.

  “So,” she said after a moment’s pause, “the buzzards circle.”

  David smiled ruefully at the image. “Circle and wait,” he said. “I feel so damn helpless. I want to do something to show them all I’m still alive and fighting, but I can’t even find a stick to wave.”

  “I understand,” she said. “If I were you, I would just sit tight and see what develops.”

  “You’re probably right, Dr. Armstrong, but unfortunately passivity has never been one of my strong suits. If I don’t do something to sort this whole mess out, who will?”

  “I will, David.”

  “What?”

  “I told you the other night I would do what I could.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I have a friend in personnel who’s checking the hospital computer for any former mental patients or drug problems or prison records. That sort of thing.”

  David became excited. “That’s a great idea. How about past employment at Charlotte Thomas’s nursing agency?”

  “We could try that.”

  “And graduates of her nursing school. And . . and activists supporting patients’ rights, living wills, things like that. And …”

  “Whoa! Slow down, David. First things first. You just stay where I can get in touch with you, and fight that self-destruct impulse of yours. I’ll do the rest—don’t worry. Are you coming back to work?”

  “Tomorrow. I thought I’d try tomorrow. Anything would be better than sitting around like this waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thanks to you, it’ll be much easier to concentrate on my job knowing at least that something’s being done.”

  “Something’s being done,” Armstrong echoed.

  Margaret Armstrong set the receiver down and glanced through her partially open office door at the patients in her waiting room—half a dozen complex problems that she would, almost certainly, unravel and deal with. Even after so many years, her own capabilities awed her.

  “Mama, please. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  She understood now. She had the knowledge and the power and she understood. But how could she have been expected to know then what was right? She had been still a girl, barely fifteen years old.

  “Kill me! For Gods sake, please kill me.”

  “Mama, please. You don’t know what you’re saying. Let me get you something for the pain. When you feel better, you’ll stop saying such things. I know you will.”

  “No, baby. It doesn’t help. Nothing has helped the pain for days. Only you can help me. You must help me.”

  “Mama, I’m frightened. I can’t think straight. That lady down the hall keeps screaming and I can’t think straight. I’m so frightened. I … I hate this place.”

  “The pillow. Just set it over my face and lean on it as hard as you can. It won’t take long.”

  “Mama, please. I can’t do that. There must be another way. Something. Please help me to understand. Help me to know what to do.… ”

  Margaret Armstrong’s receptionist buzzed several times on the intercom, then crossed to the office door and knocked. “Dr. Armstrong?”

  The door swung open and the receptionist knew immediately that she should have been more patient. It was just one of those times when the cardiac chief was totally lost in thought. One of those times when she sat fingering a small strip of linen, staring across the room. They came infrequently and never lasted long.

  The receptionist eased the door closed and returned to her desk. Minutes later, her intercom buzzed.

  The talk with Margaret Armstrong and their plan of action, however ragtag, injected a note of optimism into David’s day. Some Bach organ music and twenty minutes of hard, almost vicious lifting nurtured the mood. He was showered, dressed, and stretched out, thumbing through a journal, when a key clicked in the front door. He charged down the hall and was almost to the door when Lauren entered. She was carrying her raincoat and a floppy hat, but otherwise looked as if she had just come in from a garden party. Her light blue dress clung to her body, more out of will, it seemed, than design. A thin gold necklace glowed on the autumn brown of her chest.

  In those first few moments, standing there, looking at her, nothing else mattered. Then, as he focused on her face, she looked away. Suddenly David felt frightened even to touch her. “Welcome home,” he said uncertainly, reaching a tentative hand toward her. She took it and moved to him, but there was no warmth in her embrace. Her coolness and the scent of her perfume—the same fragrance she had worn the morning she left—filled him with a sense of emptiness and apprehension. “I had no idea when you’d be coming back,” he said, hoping that something in her response would dispel the feelings.

  “I told you when I called the other day that I’d be tied up with the Cormier story,” she said, settling into an easy chair in the living room. David noted that she had avoided the couch. “What a shitty thing to have happen,” she went on. “Of all the people I ever interviewed in Washington, Dick Cormier was the only one I really trusted. Everyone did. His funeral was very moving. The President spoke, and the Chief Justice, and …”

  David Could no longer stand the tension inside him and in her nervous chatter. “Lauren,” he said. “There’s more, isn’t there? I mean it’s not just the senator. Something else is eating at you. Please talk to me. I’m … I’m very uncomfortable with the feeling in this room right now. There’s a lot I have to tell you, but first we’ve got to clear the air a little.” Another man, he thought. Lauren’s met another man. There was nothing in her face to discourage that notion. She stared out the window, biting at her lower lip. For a moment David thought she was about to cry, but when she finally spoke, her voice held far more irritation than sadness.

  “David,” she said, “a policeman was waiting for me when I arrived home. I spent more than two hours at the police station answering questions from Lieutenant Dockerty—some of them very personal—about you, and about us.”

  “Did Dockerty tell you what it was all about?” he asked, relieved that he’d been wrong about another man.

  Lauren shook her head. “Only briefly. He was nice enough at first, but his questions got more and more pointed—more and more offensive. Finally I just stalked out and told him I wouldn’t talk to him again without a lawyer. He made it sound like you were really sick and I was protecting you in some way. David, I can’t have—”

  “Damn that man!” David shouted. “When this is all over, he’s going to answer for this shit. I’ve had about all I can take.” His fists were white and tight against his thighs. “Lauren, this is a nightmare. The man’s on some land of vendetta. Ever since he came on the scene he’s gone after me like he had blinders on. I didn’t do anything. He’s taken a pile of circumstantial horseshit, and he’s been trying to mold it into some kind of case against me.” His control was disappearing. He sensed it, but was unable to back off. One after another, his words tumbled out, each louder and higher pitched than the last. “I could handle the crap he’s been laying down at the hospital. That I could handle. But hauling you in … The bastard’s gone too far.” He was pacing now, t
humping his fist against his side.

  “David, please!” Lauren screamed. “You’re acting crazy. Please get hold of yourself. It frightens me to see you like this.”

  He stopped in his tracks and forced his hands open. A deep breath, then he said, “I’m sorry, babe. I am. First it’s too much joking, then too much crazy.” He managed a thin smile. “I guess I’m just … too much, huh?” He sank numbly into the couch. “Lauren, could you hold me for a minute?” he asked, reaching his hands to her.

  Lauren’s lips tightened. She looked at the floor and shook her head. “David, we’ve got to talk.”

  “So talk.” He folded his hands in his lap.

  “My wire service has people all over, David. Including the police department here. Business like this—being questioned at the police station and all—my boss is very straight and very conservative. If he gets wind of this—”

  “Jesus Christ!” David exploded. “You make it sound as if I’m doing all this to give you a black eye. Can’t you understand that I haven’t done anything? My God, here I am being harassed up and down by some monomaniac, in danger of losing my career—or worse—and my girl friend is worried about being embarrassed in front of her bureau chief. This is insane. Absolutely insane!”

  “David”—Lauren’s voice was low and measured with anger—“I’ve told you over and over again how much I dislike the label ‘girl friend.’ Now please calm down, and try to understand my position in this thing, too.”

  Speechless, David could only look at her and shake his head. Lauren straightened her dress, sat rigidly upright, and met his incredulity with defiance. “I know you’ll be pleased to hear,” she said, “that of all the things you have to worry about, having to endure the Art Society dinner dance Thursday will not be one of them. After the lieutenant brought me home, Elliot May called and asked if I was planning on going. I knew how little you were looking forward to the affair, so I took the opportunity of relieving you of the burden.” The wildness in his eyes was frightening. She forced her lips into a proud pout and turned toward the window.

  He rose and took a step toward her. In that frozen, terrifying moment, he sensed his self-control slipping away. Fists clenched, he took another step.

  Suddenly, the buzzer from the downstairs foyer sounded. David whirled and half stalked, half stumbled to the intercom in the hall.

  “Yes?” he shouted.

  “It’s Lieutenant Dockerty, Dr. Shelton.” The policeman’s voice crackled from four floors below. “May I come up, please?”

  “Do I have a choice?” David said as he pressed the door release.

  For the next half-minute the only sound was David’s breathing—bitter, frantic gulps, gradually slowing as he fought for composure. He had been expecting a visit from Dockerty for the past two days. Typical of the man to pick a time like this to show up. He heard the clank as the gears of the rickety elevator engaged. Standing by the door, he shook his head disdainfully at the groan from the straining cables. The antiquated box took more than a minute to make the four-floor trip. A second clank, and the rattle of the automatic inside gate signaled its arrival. David stepped from his apartment just as Dockerty pushed open the heavy outside door of the elevator. He was accompanied by a tall uniformed officer.

  “Dr. Shelton, this is Officer Kolb,” Dockerty said. “May we come in, please?” It was an order. David thought for a moment about Lauren, then shrugged and led them into the living room.

  “Miss Nichols.” Dockerty nodded, but made no move to introduce Kolb to her.

  Lauren stood and picked up her raincoat. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said formally, “I was just leaving.”

  She had taken one step toward the door when Dockerty said, “I think perhaps you had better stay, Miss Nichols.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed at him. She stiffened, then strode back to her chair.

  Inside David confusion and panic began to build.

  Dockerty stared at the floor for a few silent seconds, then reached into his coat pocket and produced a manillacovered pad. The forms inside it were green. “Dr.Shelton,” he said, handing the pad to David, “do you recognize these?”

  David flipped through the sheets, then stammered, “Yes, they’re my C two-twenty-two order forms. But I don’t see what …”

  “For ordering narcotics?” Dockerty asked.

  “Yes, but …”

  “They’re preprinted with your name, aren’t they?”

  “Enough!” The word shot out. “I’ve had enough of this. Would you tell me what you want, or … or leave.” He was nearly screaming. Inside his gut, inside his chest huge knots formed and began to tighten.

  “Dr. Shelton, I sent notice to all the pharmacies in the city, asking for the names of everyone who purchased injectable morphine in the last month.” He produced a single green form from his breast pocket. “This form C two-twenty-two was used to purchase three vials of morphine sulfate from the Quigg Pharmacy in West Roxbury. It’s dated October second, the day Charlotte Thomas was murdered. It’s your form, Dr. Shelton. There’s your name printed right on it.”

  David snatched the form away. “That’s not my signature,” he said automatically. He stared at the writing, then closed his eyes. For years he had been kidded—had himself made jokes—about the scrawl that was his signature. “An unscrupulous chimp could prescribe for my patients,” he had once quipped. The signature on the C222 would have passed his desk without a second notice.

  “Perhaps,” Dockerty responded tonelessly. “But I suspect that it is. You see, Doctor, there’s more. The warrant I obtained to search your office allowed me to remove not only your forms, but this.” He reached in his pocket again and produced a small, gold-framed photo. “Mr. Quigg at the pharmacy has positively identified you from this photo as the one who purchased the morphine from him.”

  David stared down at the picture. It was one he had never been able to put away. The whole family—David, Ginny, and three-year-old Becky—posing by the swan boats in Boston’s Public Garden. It had been taken only two months before the accident.

  For a time Dockerty seemed unable to speak. Finally he shook his head. “David Shelton, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Charlotte Thomas.”

  The words fell on David like hammers. An uncomfortable, high-pitched buzzing noise began swelling in his head. He tried to shake the sound loose as the tall policeman read him his rights from a frayed, cardboard card. The man’s words seemed jumbled and slurred. David watched, a detached observer, as uniformed arms reached out and handcuffed his wrists behind him. Dockerty’s apology for having to use the restraints was nearly lost in the mounting buzz.

  David was disoriented, frightened almost beyond functioning. He tried to pull away. Without a flicker of expression, the patrolman tightened his grip.

  Bewildered and mortified, Lauren backed away as David, needing support to stand, was led out the door.

  Dockerty moved to follow, then turned to her. “He’s going to need a lawyer, Miss Nichols,” he said grimly. “If I were you, I’d make sure it was a damn good one.” With a nod, he headed down the corridor.

  The wind had died off, but a cold, heavy rain was still falling. Dockerty threw a windbreaker around David’s shoulders and zipped it up the front. Even so, by the time they dragged him the short distance to the squad car he was soaked to the skin. Through bizarre, disconnected scenes, David watched the events of his own arrest. The eerie blue light, a strobe atop the squad car … tiny, perfect diamond shapes in the metal screen … pedestrians bundled against the downpour, frozen through the screen and the front windshield. David saw them all in stop-action. A grotesque slide show.

  The station house … the lights … the uniforms. Then it was the voices. “Empty your pockets …” “… son, can you hear me? Son? …” “… here’s his wallet. Get the shit you need from his license …” “Give me your right hand, thumb first …” “Over here, stand over here …” “… the other hand now …” “Look, fella, it’s just
a number. Let it hang there …” “Face straight ahead … now turn … no, this way, this way …” “Three’s empty. Put him in there …”

  Next it was the noises. Scraping of metal on metal … a loud clang—the elevator?—no, not here. Can’t be the elevator … music … from where? … where is the music coming from? … More voices … “… here, boss, over here …” “… a light, I need another light. My fucking cigarette’s soggy …” “When the fuck’s dinner? Don’t we even get fed here? …”

  Finally, the wide, blurry bands … up and down in front of him. Gradually the blurs narrowed and darkened.… Bars! They were bars!

  Again the buzzing crescendo. Images of other bars, other screens exploded through his mind.

  “No! Please, God, no!” he screamed. He whirled and dropped to his knees by the toilet, retching uncontrollably into water already murky with disinfectant.

  Barely aware of the bile singeing his nose and throat, David crawled across the stone floor and pulled himself onto a metal-framed cot. He descended into a cold, unnatural sleep long before his sobs had faded.

  CHAPTER XV

  “Time to move out, son. There’s some Listerine in this cup. Splash some cold water on your face and swish this stuff around in your mouth for a minute. It’ll help you wake up.”

  David worked his eyes open a crack. His first sight of the morning was the same as his last the night before. Bars. This time the narrow blue and white bars of the sweat-stained pillow beneath his face.

  The officer was a plethoric man, fifty or so, with a belly that hung several inches over his belt. He leaned against the doorframe of the cell and watched patiently while David pulled himself up and wiped sooty sleep from his eyes. “Are you able to talk, son?” he asked.

  David nodded, squinted at the man, then took the mouthwash. The officer seemed in no great hurry, so David took a minute to stretch the ache from the muscles in his neck and back, trying at the same time to get some sense of himself. For the moment, at least, the terror and confusion of the past night were gone. In their place was a strange but quite comfortable feeling of well-being. Knees locked, he bent forward and put the tips of all ten fingers on the floor. Peaceful, he thought. This shithole, all the madness, and here I am feeling peaceful.