The Doctor Digs a Grave

by Robin Hathaway

  “Is this opinion based on your seasoned experience in matters of the heart?”

  Fenimore winced.

  “Well, I hate to admit it,” Rafferty admitted, “but some evidence has come in that supports your theory. When we searched Sweet Grass’s apartment, we found the bottle of her most recently acquired supply of digoxin tablets.”

  “And?”

  “There were a lot left. I’d say she hadn’t taken more than she was supposed to.”

  “There’s only one other possibility, then,” Fenimore said.

  “Right. Shall we review the suspects?” the homicide detective was eager to get down to the business of murder.

  Fenimore obliged. “Her brother strongly disapproved of the marriage, and he would be the logical one to bury her in the traditional Lenape manner. He also is the only one who would benefit financially from her death—by the life insurance. On the other hand, the burial could have been arranged by someone else, to throw suspicion on Roaring Wings.” Fenimore paused, thinking. “Then there are the Hardwicks. None of the family wholeheartedly supported the marriage. They were all against it for one reason or another. Even her roommate, Doris Bentley, wasn’t totally enthusiastic.”

  “There are easier ways to prevent a marriage than by killing one of the partners-to-be,” Rafferty put in.

  “True,” Fenimore said, “but I think they had all been tried—and failed.”

  “Who’s your favorite suspect?” prodded Rafferty.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Don’t be coy.”

  “Seriously, it’s just a hunch.”

  “Her brother? The groom’s mother, father, sisters? Her roommate? Take your pick. More than one, if you like. But it would help to whittle the gang down a bit.”

  “Sorry, Raff.”

  A sigh, reminiscent of the steam engine, puffed down the wire. “Okay. You’ve helped us—coming up with the cause of death. But we need to see that ER report. You can probably get it faster than we can.”

  Rafferty was under the misapprehension that the medical community was one big friendly family in which all knowledge was joyfully shared. The days of getting a patient’s report without a legal hassle were over. “I’ll give it a try,” Fenimore said. But he thought, What I’d really like to get hold of is Sweet Grass’s blood serum sample, but I can’t see Rafferty getting me a court order for that.

  “By the way,” Rafferty said suddenly, “you never submitted a report on that break-in the other night.”

  “I don’t want to make an official complaint.”

  “Off the record, then. What did they want?”

  “Two hoods were sent to rough me up as a warning. Their parting words were, ‘Lay off the Lenape.’”

  “Huh.”

  When Horatio arrived that afternoon, he was in good spirits. A truce seemed to have been reached between Fenimore’s employees. The boy and the nurse spoke civilly to each other and went about their business. For this, Fenimore was extremely grateful. It had been hard for him to believe that Mrs. Doyle had turned into a bigoted monster overnight or that Horatio had maliciously copped one of his favorite slippers. The real cause of their peculiar behavior had dawned on him gradually: simple jealousy. His two staff members were jealous of his attentions. He supposed he should be flattered, but he would have preferred that they be indifferent to him and have a more harmonious office. He was grateful that today, at least, there was an armistice. Afraid of reigniting the contest, he waited until Mrs. Doyle disappeared to the lavatory before approaching Horatio with his proposal.

  “Are you free tonight?”

  The boy looked up from the file drawer.

  “Could you meet me in the parking lot behind Franklin Hospital after dark?”

  His eyes widened, but he nodded.

  “Do you know anything about locks?”

  He gave a slow grin.

  “Fine. Bring the necessary tools.”

  “Right, Doc,” he said cheerfully. His eyes slid over his employer. “You’re not comin’ with me like that.”

  Fenimore glanced down at his shirt, tie, pants, and oxfords.

  “You and me are going shopping first,” Horatio said.

  “What are you two up to?” Mrs. Doyle was back.

  Fenimore grabbed a folder from Horatio’s stack. “Just checking a file.” He carried it over to his desk and buried his nose in it. He hoped she hadn’t noticed the name. It belonged to a patient who had died fifteen years ago.

  Later that afternoon, Fenimore called Dr. Robinson. She was brisk and businesslike on the phone, but when he arrived at her office, which was only a few blocks away, she seemed glad to see him and genuinely disturbed by the death of her patient.

  “It’s a complete mystery to me, Dr. Fenimore. I saw her two weeks ago in connection with an episode of rapid heartbeat. But I wasn’t particularly alarmed. She had had similar episodes before, and people who aren’t suffering from tetralogy of Fallot often have episodes of this kind before something as stressful as a wedding. And I understand her situation was an especially stressful one.”

  “Yes, her future in-laws were, shall we say, difficult. Could you tell me what medication you prescribed?” If Dr. Robinson had prescribed digitalis in some other form—in addition to digoxin tablets—Sweet Grass could have taken it and disposed of the container, and a case could still be made for suicide.

  “I prescribed twenty milligrams of Inderal two times a day and later upped it to three. I advised her to continue her regular regimen of digoxin.”

  Fenimore laid the suicide theory permanently to rest. “Exactly what I would have prescribed,” he said. “There are factors involved here that have nothing to do with her previous medical history.”

  “Oh?” She had no knowledge of Fenimore’s avocation.

  “We’re examining them carefully.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll keep me informed.”

  “Of course.”

  Her slightly stiff professional manner relaxed. “I’ve been in practice more than ten years, but I still find it hard to accept a young person’s death.”

  “Don’t expect that to change. I’ve been in practice twice as long, and cases like this still rock me,” he confessed. “I don’t suppose you could let me have a copy of her records?”

  “Not without permission from her next of kin.” Her professional manner was back. “Do you know who that is?”

  “Yes. Forget it.”

  “Very well.” She walked him to the door.

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “If I can do anything more, please call.” She shook his hand warmly.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing more she could do. She had closed one door in the investigation. It was up to him to open another.

  Back at the office, Fenimore placed a call to Rafferty. Officer Santino was sipping yet another cup of tea in the outer office. In a low tone, Fenimore spoke to his friend. “Could you call off your watchdog tonight? I have a heavy date.”

  “Jennifer?”

  “Who else?”

  Ever the romantic, Rafferty agreed. “But he’ll be back at his post first thing in the morning.”

  “Right.” Gleefully, Fenimore went to relieve the watchdog of his duties.

  CHAPTER 26

  FRIDAY EVENING

  Fenimore was no stranger to thrift shops. Whereas most of his colleagues headed for Brooks Brothers for their wardrobes, Fenimore preferred the more relaxed atmosphere of secondhand shops. He could afford better clothes, but it was a matter of principle. Why spend two hundred dollars for a jacket, when you could get a slightly used one for twenty? It was the same with his car. He got a bigger bang out of keeping his battered ’89 Chevy alive than from buying a new BMW or a Lexus. (Jennifer called it “inverted snobbery.”) One of Fenimore’s favorite secondhand emporiums was the Salvation Army outlet on Market Street. Over the years, this store had supplied him with a variety of handsome, barely worn tweed jackets, raincoats, and ov
ercoats. It had even supplied him with a cat. During one shopping expedition, while passing the bin provided for bundles of cast-off clothing, he had heard mewing inside. Peering in, he saw a pair of amber eyes peering back. Assuming she had been cast off along with some old clothes, he scooped her out, took her home, and christened her Sal, after his favorite haberdashery.

  Even though Fenimore preferred secondhand clothing, his taste ran along more conservative lines than Horatio’s. His employee preferred black leather to tweed, and sneakers to oxfords.

  The two thrift shop volunteers watched their new customers suspiciously. The older man stood in front of the only full-length mirror, eyeing himself critically. He had removed all his clothes, except for his underwear. They lay in a heap on the floor of the broom closet that served as a dressing room. His younger companion kept pulling clothes off the racks and flinging them at him. Clad now in a dark blue turtleneck, jeans, and a black leather jacket, the older one seemed satisfied. But the younger one wasn’t. He kept shaking his head, rummaging through the racks, and ransacking the shelves.

  At one point, he brought Fenimore a cap with a visor. Fenimore put it on, visor in front. With a quick flip, Horatio turned it to the back. The transformation was amazing. Mrs. Henderson would never have called out “Doctor,” to him now, in her hour of need. On the contrary, she would have probably crossed the street to avoid him.

  Horatio looked at Fenimore’s brown oxfords. “Shoe size?”

  “Nine B.”

  He disappeared to the back of the store where assorted shoes lined the wall in pairs. He came back hugging three pairs of sneakers, one black and two brown. Fenimore sat on the floor (there were no chairs) and tried on each pair.

  The younger volunteer stifled a giggle. The more seasoned one frowned at her.

  The black pair was a perfect fit. He stood up.

  “Cool.” Horatio gave the outfit his highest recommendation.

  Unaccountably pleased with himself, Fenimore gathered up the clothes he had worn when he came in and carried them over to the cash register.

  “You’re wearing those home?” Even the seasoned volunteer failed to hide her astonishment.

  He nodded. Her helper murmured, “I’ll get a bag for your things,” and turned quickly away.

  The vintage volunteer came out from behind the counter to check the price tags on the clothes he was buying. For the price of the sneakers, she asked him to raise one foot: $1.50 was scrawled across the sole with a magic marker.

  Horatio was fooling with some trinkets in a dish on the counter. Finding one he liked—a heavy metal cross on a chain—he paid a dollar for it. Vastly overpriced, Fenimore thought. Funny how quickly your values changed in a thrift shop. Twenty dollars, the sale price for a shirt in a department store, seemed exorbitant after thumbing through a rack of shirts for $2.50 each.

  When Fenimore had paid for his things, the assistant handed him a large shopping bag. Inside, his original clothes lay neatly folded on top of his shoes. Fenimore said, “Thank you very much. That was very kind—”

  Horatio hustled him out before he could finish. On the sidewalk, he chastised him. “When you’re dressed in rags like this, you can’t talk like that.”

  “You mean, I can’t say thank you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Just grunt. Uh,” Horatio grunted.

  “Uh. Like that?”

  “You gotta work on it. And your walk—it’s terrible. You walk like some working dude. Watch me. Get behind me and do what I do.”

  Fenimore followed, observing Horatio. The boy hunched his shoulders, swung his hips slightly, and looked from side to side at regular intervals. About every half block, he glanced over his shoulder. Fenimore imitated him.

  Horatio stopped and turned. “Now get in front of me.”

  Fenimore obeyed.

  Horatio observed him. “Better. But it still needs work. You gotta act. Pretend you’re in a movie and you’re playing the part of the hood.”

  It worked. All of a sudden Fenimore felt relaxed. He slouched. He swung his body easily. “Uh,” he grunted.

  A banker type, rushing home from work, cast a nervous glance at him and quickened his pace. Horatio looked approvingly at Fenimore. “You’ll do,” he said.

  It was too early to go to the hospital. Darkness was settling in, but there was still a streak of orange in the sky. Fenimore was hungry. “How ’bout a hamburger?”

  Horatio nodded. They turned into Market Street and entered the first fast-food place. Fenimore chose a table toward the back and let Horatio do the ordering. He was still uneasy with his new persona in public. While they ate, Fenimore filled Horatio in on the job.

  “The lab’s on the fifth floor. There’s a fire escape on the wall right outside. One of those metal ones with the hanging steps. You can go up and try the window, while I keep watch down below. If I see anyone coming, I’ll hoot like an owl.”

  Horatio looked at him. “This is the city, Doc. Better coo like a pigeon.”

  “Right. Hoots are out.”

  “If someone comes, you beat it and I’ll take care of myself,” Horatio said.

  Fenimore looked doubtful.

  “What’s so special about this serum, anyway?” He squeezed a blob of ketchup on his bun.

  “We’re trying to find out if this woman’s death was caused by an overdose of digoxin.”

  “A druggie, huh?”

  “No. It might have been an accident, or someone may have increased her dose deliberately.”

  Horatio stopped chewing and looked up.

  “If only she’d stayed at the hospital and let them give her FAB.”

  “Like in fabulous?”

  Fenimore shook his head. “It’s a medicine, antigen binding fragments.”

  At this point, most people’s eyes would have glazed over, but Horatio’s were alert and curious. Fenimore felt obliged to explain the procedure to him. “FAB is an antibody that combines with the antigen or poison—in this case digoxin—in the body and inactivates it, making it harmless. We use antibodies all the time. Take tetanus, for example. If you step on a rusty nail, the doctor immediately prescribes a tetanus shot. That shot is full of antibodies that inactivate the tetanus and keep you from getting lockjaw. The same is true of rabies.” That ought to satisfy him. Fenimore bent to his burger.

  “Where do antibodies come from?”

  Fenimore took a deep breath. “Antibodies are made in the bodies of animals and humans, to fight infections and poisons.” Carefully, Fenimore explained how digoxin was injected into sheep, and the sheep, in turn, produced antibodies to fight against it. “These antibodies are then taken from the sheep’s blood and purified. Then they’re given to people who, for one reason or another, have too much digoxin in their systems.”

  “How do the sheep make the antibodies?”

  “Whew!” Fenimore held up his hand. “You’d need a year’s course in immunology to answer that one.”

  Reluctantly, Horatio returned to his food, and Fenimore was struck by a strange thought. Could he possibly be sitting across from a potential med student?

  “Let’s go.” Horatio swallowed the last of his soda. He grabbed Fenimore’s trash and his own and stuffed it all into the overflowing can.

  As they were leaving, Fenimore caught sight of a tough-looking hood in a cap with the visor turned to the back, staring at him in the mirrored wall. He tensed, ready to fight, but Horatio grabbed his arm.

  “Quit admiring yourself,” he said and hurried him out the door.

  Twilight was over. The street was dark except for the glow of streetlamps and neon signs in rainbow hues. They headed for the hospital. The parking lot was half empty. Fenimore glanced at his watch. Visiting hours had ended. The cars that remained must belong to the night staff and security personnel. They surveyed the back wall of the building. Lights glowed in a few windows, belonging to patients who were either TV addicts or suffering from
pain or insomnia. But the row of four windows of the laboratory on the fifth floor was black. He pointed them out to Horatio.

  The boy nodded, his eyes on the fire escape. It was metal all right, and it hung on the outside of the building. “How d’we get the ladder down?” Horatio asked.

  “Shoot!” Fenimore’s curses were not up to his new attire.

  Horatio’s eye fell on the shopping bag. Fenimore had set it down next to the Dumpster that partially shielded them from the parking lot. Quickly, he began rummaging through the bag. He pulled out the shirt and tie, and tied one shirtsleeve to one end of the tie. Reaching in again, he drew out the pants. He attached the end of one pant leg to the remaining shirtsleeve. When he had finished, he gave each knot a yank to test it. Stepping back, he gripped one end of the makeshift rope and hurled the other end at the fire escape. It grazed the bottom rung and fell to the ground. He tried again. Same thing.

  Fenimore looked nervously around. No one in sight. He reached into the bag and came up with one of his shoes. Grabbing the rope, he attached the shoe to one end by a shoelace and heaved it at the fire escape. The rope slipped over the bottom rung, and stayed there, shoe dangling.

  “Cool, Doc.”

  “It just needed some ballast.”

  Horatio had no time for the laws of physics. He lowered the shoe end of the rope until it met the end he was holding, then caught them together and slowly hauled down the steps. They had barely touched the ground when he began to scramble up them. Fenimore looked on, while the french fries he had eaten earlier congealed into a hard knot. When the boy reached the fifth floor, he turned and waved.

  “Careful,” Fenimore started to yell but caught himself Silently, he watched Horatio test the window within his reach. It refused to budge. The boy took a penknife from his hip pocket, put it into the crack, and fiddled with the catch. Seconds later, the window rose and he climbed inside.