CHAPTER 8
MONDAY, OCTOBER 31
It was Monday morning. Halloween morning to be exact. The city had made it through another Mischief Night relatively unscathed. So had Fenimore. He had recovered from his head wound enough to sit in his office and read a coroner’s report.
Mrs. Doyle, his nurse-secretary for more than fifteen years, and his father’s before him, was at her typewriter. (Fenimore had offered to buy her a word processor, but she had emphatically refused. None of those bits and bites and chips for her, thank you. She’d stick to her faithful old Smith Corona.) The fiery hair of her youth had mellowed to a dusty rose (redheads never turn gray), and her curves had acquired some padding. To the patients she resembled a comfortable old sofa that welcomed them into its depths, offering comfort and solace. But underneath all that mellowness and padding lay a keen mind and a sharp tongue, which, like a taut spring, could break through the upholstery at a moment’s notice.
The spring had sprung that morning when she walked into the office and saw Fenimore’s face: black and blue from eyebrow to chin on one side and a nasty scab over the left ear. “What hit you?” she demanded belligerently. Her concern for the doctor always took the form of anger.
Fenimore, in response to her concern, always acted like a truculent boy who didn’t want to explain things to his mother. “Nothing much. Just a small shovel.”
“A large bulldozer, more likely.” She punctuated her observation with a loud snort. “Have you seen a doctor?” A rhetorical question; she already knew the answer.
Fenimore didn’t disappoint her. “I am a doctor,” he said and returned to his report.
She drew a sharp breath. Every now and then the doctor fell into a pose so like his late father’s that it gave her a turn. They were similar in appearance—slight and wiry with a tendency toward balding. And they both suffered from weak eyesight. Father and son each had the habit of leaning on his right arm while reading and making a visor of his right hand to shield his eyes against the lamp’s glare. Today one was swollen shut.
Fenimore scanned the first page of the report:
Name: Unknown
Address: Unknown
Phone number: Unknown
Social Security #: Unknown
Sex: Female
Age: Between 23 and 25
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Dark brown
Weight: 118 lbs.
Race: Native American
Marks of identification: Scar on chest; evidence of heart operation in childhood to correct tetralogy of Fallot
“Tetralogy of Fallot?”
Mrs. Doyle looked up from her typing. “Doctor?”
He was reading again.
Stomach contents: Residue of recent meal. Shreds of beef, mushrooms, onions, peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, bread
Cause of death: Heart failure
The phone rang at his elbow.
“Ready to man the battlements for Liska?” It was Larry Freeman, his resident.
Fenimore outlined the plan he had conceived to rescue Mr. Liska from one of the more aggressive cardiology teams at the hospital. He gave the young doctor detailed instructions. When he hung up, he was satisfied that another blow had been struck for the welfare of the patient. He had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang again.
“Help.”
Rafferty. “The pathologist just left. She was here for over an hour jawing about blue babies. I didn’t understand a word. Can you get over here and translate?”
“I’ll be right over.” Fenimore fumbled in the side drawer of his desk. He found what he wanted and stuffed it in his pocket. “I’m going out, Doyle. If there’s an emergency, get me at Rafferty’s office.” He disappeared down the long narrow hall.
“Doyle”? He called her that only when they were about to embark on a case. That, combined with the state of his face, assured her that he was up to something. Mrs. Doyle returned to pounding her typewriter. If there had been a law against typewriter abuse, she would have been serving time long ago. But she wanted to finish her office work in order to be free to help with this new case—and more important, to get her hands on the monster who had banged up the doctor’s face.
When Fenimore came in, Rafferty examined him critically. “Typical doctor, won’t see a doctor.”
“Don’t you start. I’ve just escaped Doyle. And what’s the idea of squealing to Jennifer.”
“I just thought you needed a little TLC.”
“Well, next time you feel like playing cupid, don’t.”
“Whew. What side of the bed did you get up on?”
“I slept on the couch. So you want to know about blue babies?” Fenimore swiftly changed the subject.
“Yeah. And keep it simple. That pathologist talked a lot of gobbledygook.” He rubbed his temples. “What’s that?” He was quick to notice the bulge in Fenimore’s jacket pocket.
Fenimore took out an object about the size of a softball and set it on Rafferty’s desk. It was a small plastic model of a heart. “Take it apart.”
Rafferty, after a startled look, began to dismantle it, laying the pieces in a neat row in front of him. When he had it all apart, he looked up like a good child expecting a pat on the head.
“Now for the hard part,” Fenimore said. “Put it back together.”
After a few false starts, Rafferty succeeded.
“Good. Now you’re ready.” Fenimore launched into a definition of tetralogy of Fallot.
“Tetralogy of Fallot is a heart condition found in some newborns that causes cyanosis—the so-called blue babies. The cyanosis is caused by some of the blood not getting enough oxygen in the lungs. Blood without enough oxygen is blue.” Fenimore pointed to the veins in his left hand. “After the blood gets oxygen in the lungs, it becomes red. In tetralogy of Fallot there are four, or tetra”—he held up four fingers—“factors that prevent blood from getting to the lungs and receiving oxygen. Oh, and Fallot is the French fellow who discovered it all. Now there’s a surgical operation that can correct this condition, and with the help of medicines, the kid can live a relatively normal life.”
“How come you didn’t just say, ‘This condition keeps blood from getting to the lungs to pick up oxygen’?”
Fenimore sighed. “And have you think I spent all those years in medical school drinking and carousing?” That was how Fenimore had met Rafferty. One balmy spring evening he and some other medical students had been involved in a harmless, drunken prank (hurling water balloons at unsuspecting passengers seated next to open windows in trolley cars). Rafferty, barely more than a rookie himself, had threatened him and the others with arrest on charges of assault and battery. The lean, dark policeman (he could have been a stand-in for a young Gregory Peck) had even had the temerity to accuse Fenimore of being the instigator. But the silver-tongued medical student had managed to convince him that no harm had been done. Not only did Rafferty let them go, he agreed to meet Fenimore later, when he was off duty, for a few beers at The Raven, a shabby dive with pretensions to having once served the famous author, Edgar Allan Poe. It had been their favorite haunt ever since.
“Now let’s get down to the important business.” Rafferty tipped back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. He still looked like a movie star, albeit an aging one. His black hair had some gray in it, and there was the slightest hint of a bulge at his waist—even though, Fenimore knew, he worked out regularly—but his eyes were the same deep blue, and his gaze was, if anything, sharper and more penetrating. “Could the condition revealed in the coroner’s report cause sudden death many years after the operation?”
Fenimore pondered. “It’s a definite possibility. You see,” he pointed to the septal wall in the model, “this area where the surgical repair took place is also where the electrical conductor of the heart is located. When this conductor is disturbed by surgery, it may not conduct beats properly. And more important, years after the surgery it might cause ventricular arrhythmias that c
ould result in ventricular fibrillation and syncope—”
“Whoa!” Rafferty held up his hand. “You’re beginning to sound like that pathologist. Back up and give me those last three again.”
“Sorry.” He took Rafferty’s pencil and wrote down the three technical words. “‘Arrhythmia’ is any disturbance in the rhythm of the heartbeat: ‘Fibrillation’ is when the heart muscle stops contracting and merely quivers, making ineffectual wormlike motions, and the blood doesn’t get pumped around: And ‘syncope’ is fainting due to lack of blood getting to the brain.”
“And all these developments are bad?”
“Very.” He nodded.
Rafferty was thoughtful. “If someone knew this woman’s medical history, could any of these disturbances be artificially induced, by, say, the introduction of a drug?”
Fenimore looked up. “You think her death was unnatural?”
“Her burial sure was.”
“Not for a Native American.”
“Come on, Doc. How many Native Americans bury their friends and relatives in vacant lots?”
“That ‘vacant lot’ happens to be a sacred Lenape burial ground. But you have a point. It’s been neglected and it’s unprotected. A Lenape would not be likely to use it, unless …”
“Unless?”
“Unless they wanted the body to be found.”
Rafferty pondered this, drumming his fingers on the desk. Then he said, “Another thing. If this was a traditional Lenape burial, why didn’t the family lay her out in something more appropriate—some kind of ceremonial dress? She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals.”
“True. But not all Lenapes own ceremonial garments. The younger ones may have lost or discarded them, the way we might give our grandmother’s wedding dress to a thrift shop or rummage sale.”
“Yours, maybe. If I did that, my grandma would come down and haunt me ’til I bought it back.” Rafferty had been pacing the office; now he turned on Fenimore. “And if this was a simple family burial, how do you account for someone bashing you on the head? Is that a quaint Lenape family custom too?”
“Totally unrelated. Some mugger—”
“Who left a wallet behind with two hundred bucks.”
“He might have been interrupted.”
“By what?”
“You.”
“And disappeared into thin air?”
“No, into the back of the hotel. I saw a man come out of there to dump some trash. It wasn’t locked.”
They sat in silence, glaring at each other. Finally Fenimore said, “Turn up anything in Missing Persons?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Rafferty shot a computer printout across his desk.
Fenimore scanned the list:
He paused. There was a small penciled cross next to Field. “Let’s see this description,” he pointed.
Rafferty had it ready. He passed it over.
JOANNE FIELD: Age: 24. Height: 5′4″. Weight: 118 lbs. Hair: Dark brown. Eyes: Dark brown. Race: Native American. Marks of identification: Scar transecting lower left quadrant of chest.
Fenimore raised his eyes to Rafferty’s. “What are you waiting for?”
“A small canvas bag was found buried with her,” he said. “There were no obvious forms of identification in it, but the contents are being examined now and I’m waiting for the report.”
Fenimore pulled the list of missing persons toward him again and studied it. “I know a Ned Hardwick,” he said slowly.
Rafferty perked up. “Could this be his son?”
“Could be. Have you notified him yet?”
“Not yet. Would you like the pleasure?” He placed his feet on his desk.
“How much time do I have?”
“We have to notify the next of kin within twenty-four hours of identification.”
“Fiancés aren’t ‘next of kin’”.
“You must’ve been a whiz at genetics.”
Ignoring him, Fenimore asked, “Does she have any blood relatives?”
“When the fiance reported her missing, he mentioned she had a brother.”
“Where is he?”
“South Jersey, near Riverton.”
“That figures. The Lenapes settled around there.”
“There you go. At last you can put that history hobby of yours to some practical use.” Rafferty enjoyed poking fun at Fenimore’s academic pursuits.
“Look, do you think you could bend the rules a bit?” Fenimore asked. “I have a light schedule today, and I think I may know these Hardwicks. Maybe I can dig something up.”
“Haven’t you dug enough up?”
Fenimore waited patiently, like a child who has asked for a special treat.
“Okay,” Rafferty brought his feet back to the floor with a thud. “You can have ‘til nine o’clock.”
Fenimore was heading for the door when Rafferty hailed him. “You left your heart behind.”
He turned and grinned. “Why, Raff, I didn’t know you cared.” He pocketed the plastic model and exited before the policeman could throw something at him.
CHAPTER 9
STILL MONDAY MORNING
In the dim corridor outside Rafferty’s office, Fenimore waited for the elevator and thought about the Hardwicks. Ned was already an established surgeon when Fenimore was a mere intern. As soon as Ned had begun practice, he had married Polly Matthews. Because Polly came from a prominent and wealthy Philadelphia family and her father was chief of surgery, everyone thought Ned had made “a good match.” This had nettled the young surgeon at the time, because he prided himself on his own origins. His family was of old Boston stock; his ancestors had arrived on the Mayflower in 1620. But the Hardwicks had lived in Philadelphia for only two generations, relegating him to a slightly lower rung than Polly’s on the social ladder, even though her ancestors had not arrived in Philadelphia on the Welcome with William Penn until 1682.
Giving up on the elevator, Fenimore took the fire stairs.
While a young doctor, Fenimore had seen the Hardwicks fairly often. Polly was famous for her dinner parties. (People in Polly’s circles never asked you over for dinner—they invited you to dinner parties.) She often invited a few younger staff members to liven up the parties, and Fenimore, known even then for his witty repartee, was frequently included.
Fenimore had early grown tired of the Hardwicks’ form of entertaining. By the time he was thirty, he preferred to spend his spare evenings at home with Sal and a good mystery. (That was before he met Jennifer, of course.) Now, Hardwick was a prominent surgeon. There wasn’t a prestigious board in Philadelphia that didn’t bear his name, and the only time Fenimore ever saw the famous surgeon was when he bumped into him at some medical meeting. Funny, he couldn’t remember his son, or any of his children, for that matter. Of course that was more than twenty years ago. The children would have been very young at the time and not permitted to eat with the grown-ups. They probably lived their small lives upstairs under the watchful eye of an expensive nanny.
Fenimore pushed open the fire door and stepped into the foyer of the Police Administration Building. He captured a pay phone and dialed his office. After learning that there were no messages, he gave Mrs. Doyle her instructions. First, call Dr. Hardwick’s home and ask for Ted. If Ted answers, or is called to the phone, pretend to be doing a television survey and ask what program he’s watching. If the person who answers has never heard of Ted, say, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hang up. Second, call Dr. Hardwick’s office. If he’s in, ask how long he’ll be there. If he’s out, ask where he can be reached.
While Fenimore waited for Doyle to call back, he jealously guarded his pay phone and surveyed the scene before him. Armed men in blue uniforms led scruffy, handcuffed youths in and out of a network of mysterious rooms. None of the offenders looked particularly upset. On the contrary, they had the air of being in a familiar place, following a well-known routine and being bored with the whole procedure.
The telephone jangled in
his ear. He grabbed the receiver to learn that Ted Hardwick had answered Ned Hardwick’s home phone; he did not watch morning television. Dr. Hardwick was not in his office. He was on his way downtown to chair a meeting at the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons at 1:00.
Fenimore glanced at his watch. 12:30. “Thanks, Doyle.” Dodging an assortment of police officers and alleged criminals, he reached the sidewalk and hailed a cab, a luxury he indulged only in cases of emergency. He gave the cabby the uptown address, “Eighteenth and Spruce.”
The home of the Philadelphia Society of Physicians and Surgeons, or PSPS (pronounced “pisspiss” by some heretical nonmembers), was an imposing combination of brick, marble, and wrought iron, located in the once fashionable part of town near Rittenhouse Square. The doctors who had founded the society in 1789 had held monthly meetings there to parade their titles and degrees while partaking of tea, sherry, and elegant pastries. The present members carried on this time-honored tradition.
But the society wasn’t entirely social. It had some excellent academic resources: a museum with such tantalizing exhibits as the largest tumor excised in the United States before 1900; a library containing a firsthand account by Benjamin Rush of the yellow fever epidemic; and a small but exceptional herb garden providing specimens of plants and herbs used for healing before the advent of pharmaceuticals. Finding these resources useful on occasion, Fenimore paid his annual dues and skipped the social gatherings.
The Doctor Digs a Grave Page 3