Breach of Ethics

by Sharon St. George

  “I assume it had to do with the dead doctor,” Nick said. “Want to fill me in?”

  “It did, but I’m pretty tired. I’d rather not get into it tonight. How about tomorrow?”

  “Maybe, if I’m home in time. My sister just had her first baby and they’re all going nuts over it. It's my parents' first grandchild, and apparently I’m its godfather. I promised my folks I’d visit, so I’m driving down first thing in the morning.”

  Nick’s family lived in a small town in the hills above Placerville. His parents were retired schoolteachers, and his only sibling, a younger sister, was an oral surgeon in a busy practice with her husband.

  “Okay then, have a good visit.” I’d only met his family once, back before Nick and I hit a snag in our relationship. They seemed like good people, and Nick was fond of them.

  “I’ll call when I get back tomorrow evening,” he said. “I’m guessing I’ll be showing off photos of the little tyke. Sis named him Bradley Nicholas Brooks.” Nick sounded so proud, I couldn’t help wondering how he’d react when he had a little tyke of his own.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday morning at work my email was clogged with messages. Most were questions about Lowe’s death that I couldn’t answer. There were several more on my voicemail. I ignored them all and went to work filling routine requests for articles and interlibrary loans.

  An hour into the morning, I called Cleo to see if she had heard anything about Natasha Korba’s condition and whether she was still in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.

  “She’s still in the PICU, and from what I hear, she could be in for a long stay. She’s on antibiotics and cardiac monitoring, among other things. But at least she’s alive, thanks to poor Dr. Lowe. I feel bad that the last thing I said about him was so negative.”

  I remembered. Horse’s patootie.

  “You were being honest. He did have a reputation for being volatile.”

  “I know, but he wasn’t always like that.” I heard her sniffle. “He used to be easygoing and caring. His temperament seemed to change in the past year or so.”

  “Do you know who’s taking over as Natasha’s primary physician?”

  “I heard it was Dr. Snyder.”

  That was odd. Dr. Snyder? “Curious. I didn’t know she treated children.”

  “She doesn’t usually, but she does have pediatric privileges, and Hector Korba asked for her, specifically. Apparently Natasha’s mother agreed.” Cleo’s information pipeline was obviously working. “I guess you don’t refuse the president of the governing board.”

  We ended the call and I searched my memory for what little I knew about Dr. Snyder. She and her husband, Glen Capshaw, were internists who had practiced together in Timbergate for ten years. No one seemed to know much about them, except that they were childless and guarded about their private lives.

  Later in the morning I spotted Sanjay D’Costa coming through the library’s entrance door. That was a first. He had never visited the library in the three months since he had been hired. The ink was barely dry on his degree in health services administration, but Quinn appeared to be satisfied with his work.

  Still, I had trouble thinking of Sanjay as my superior. He looked like a skinny teenager and wore thick glasses with dark frames that made his eyes seem perpetually wide with surprise. Watching him approach my desk, I thought twenty years and thirty pounds would look good on him. And contact lenses.

  “Hello, Sanjay,” I said. “What brings you to the library?”

  “Official business.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’m letting everyone know that Mr. Quinn will not be present today. It is uncertain when he will return. If you have needs, you will want to address them to me.”

  His speech was so correct and formal that when he referred to my having “needs,” I had trouble keeping a straight face.

  I waited until I was sure I was in control before replying, “Thank you for letting me know.” After my conversation with Quinn the previous night, I wasn’t surprised to hear he was taking the day off. I wondered if Sanjay would explain, but he stood staring down at me as if I were some sort of puzzle he wanted to solve. “Was there something else?” I asked.

  “Not really. It’s just … I was told you may have relatives in India, but that’s too personal. I shouldn’t pry into your family background.”

  “I don’t mind, but I don’t know anyone in India. My mother came here from Calcutta as a child. There may be some distant cousins there, but she doesn’t have contact with anyone.”

  “I am from Kolkata, myself.”

  “Kolkata? Is that near Calcutta?”

  Sanjay smiled. “No, not near. Kolkata is Calcutta. That is, it used to be, but it has been Kolkata since 2001. And its state changed from West Bengal to Bangla as well. In recent years, many of India’s cities have undergone name changes. Bombay is Mumbai; Madras is Chennai.” He adjusted his glasses again then beamed at me with a flash of brilliant white teeth. “But I’m boring you. I must let you work. Remember to address me if you have needs.” With that, he turned on his heel and hurried toward the exit.

  Needs. I had lots of needs but none that Sanjay could help me with. Although he did stimulate my overactive curiosity gene with his lesson on place names in India. Why hadn’t I known that? Rather than let myself spend the day distracted by his geography lesson, I went online and discovered the reasoning behind many of the changes. Most were meant to eliminate place names associated with Portuguese or British colonies.

  With those questions answered, my attention shifted back to Lowe’s murder. How to prove that neither Jared Quinn nor I had shot Dr. Gavin Lowe in cold blood? And how should I react if Quinn was right about the police wanting to interview me? I could honestly say I knew nothing about the crime, but I would have to admit to being home alone the night it was committed.

  I had enough trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of Quinn as a murder suspect, but the idea that I could be suspected was a waking nightmare.

  I tend to murmur an apology every time I have to kill a fly or an ant. I can’t imagine taking a human life, unless it was done to save to myself or someone I love.

  Surely the police didn’t suspect that Quinn and I together had cooked up some kind of murder plot. Nevertheless, I’d breathe easier when the killer was caught.

  I walked over to the shelves that held the library’s forensic collection, reading the titles on the spines and hoping for inspiration. What evidence did the police have so far? A body and Quinn’s gun. Quinn said they were still analyzing the security footage. I wondered what information they were keeping to themselves.

  I thought about motive. Money, love, hate, revenge? The only two people I could think of who might want revenge were Natasha’s parents, Abel and Melissa Gailworth. Dr. Lowe had ordered the girl’s life-saving transfusion in spite of their objections. In the news reports on television, the husband had seemed most adamantly opposed to giving the girl blood. But even so, murdering the doctor who saved their child seemed like a dreadful overreaction. I went back to my desk to look up the online versions of those newscasts. Because of Natasha’s fame as a piano prodigy, her story was bound to remain newsworthy, even beyond the local media.

  Sources reported that Natasha’s mother, the former Melissa Korba, had been widowed five years earlier when her husband, Natasha’s father, died fighting in Afghanistan. Almost three years ago she had married a man named Abel Gailworth. He was described as a pastor, but no specific church affiliation was mentioned.

  My phone interrupted my research. The caller was Sanjay, saying a police investigator had just left his office after asking where to find me. My face grew hot and butterflies swarmed in my midsection while I scanned the library for patrons browsing in the stacks. No one. Good. If I was going to be accused of murder, I didn’t want an audience. I hurried to the restroom and blotted my burning cheeks with a cold, wet paper towel. I’d barely made it back to my desk before the officer came through the d
oor, holding a badge for me to see.

  “Aimee Machado?” He walked toward me with a slight limp, which I pretended not to notice. “Walter Kass, TPD.” He put the badge back in his pocket. “May I have a few minutes?”

  “Yes.” I motioned him toward the visitor’s chair next to my desk. “Let me put up my closed sign.”

  I had expected the stereotypical detective type—middle-aged in a rumpled suit—but this guy was in his early forties, with a body that indicated time in a gym. Rather than a uniform, he wore khakis and a plaid shirt, and his buzz-cut left the color of his hair hard to determine.

  I offered him coffee, which he declined. He looked around the room, satisfied we were alone. I sat and leaned back slightly in my chair, hoping to appear relaxed and willing to help. He took a small notebook from his pocket, opened it and tapped a page with his pen. I felt my mouth go dry.

  “Ms. Machado, I’m interviewing a number of people here at the hospital regarding the circumstances surrounding the death of Dr. Gavin Lowe. Please don’t infer that you’re being singled out for any particular reason.”

  “I won’t. I’ll be happy to answer any questions.”

  “Good enough. When did you first hear of Lowe’s death?”

  “It was only minutes after I arrived at work yesterday morning, around seven thirty. I checked my email and saw a message from a coworker, Cleo Cominoli, telling me to call her. When I did, she told me what had happened.”

  “And what did she tell you?” His pen was poised.

  “That Dr. Lowe had been found dead in Mr. Quinn’s office, apparently the victim of a gunshot.” I waited, figuring it was best to answer only what was asked and not to elaborate.

  “What was your reaction?” He still hadn’t used his pen.

  “Disbelief, of course. Then I was confused about how it could have happened.”

  “What part confused you?” This time he did jot down something.

  “It didn’t make sense that Dr. Lowe would have been in Mr. Quinn’s office after hours.”

  “And why do you assume he was there after hours?”

  “Well, if he was shot in Mr. Quinn’s office during working hours, surely someone would have noticed.”

  He wrote again, then looked up and studied my face for what seemed like much too long before posing his next question.

  “I understand you were involved in a physical altercation with Dr. Lowe the day before he died. Would you describe that for me? Include as much detail as you can remember.”

  And there it was. The question hung in the air between us.

  Chapter 5

  “It wasn’t an altercation. I simply used a wrist hold to restrain Dr. Lowe.”

  Kass looked up from his notepad and maintained eye contact with me. A trickle of sweat slid down my spine.

  “Why did you believe he needed to be restrained?”

  “He became agitated, and I was concerned for the safety of others in the room.”

  “What caused him to become agitated?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t answer that without violating the confidentiality of medical staff peer review.”

  Kass frowned. I hoped he’d been briefed on that legal roadblock. “Yes, your Mr. D’Costa explained that to me.” He frowned at his notepad. “The Peer Review Protection Act. Is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Then explain why the security guards were willing to talk.”

  “Because they only witnessed what happened after the committee meeting was adjourned. You’re asking me to divulge something that happened during the meeting’s peer review process.”

  My response resulted in Kass taking a moment to clear his throat, but then he went on with his questioning.

  “The guards observed Dr. Lowe on the floor with you restraining him, and Mr. Quinn standing nearby with blood on his face. They assumed you broke up a physical altercation between Quinn and Lowe. Is that correct?”

  “Again, I can’t divulge anything that happened in that room except what happened after the meeting was adjourned. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions based on what the guards observed.”

  “My conclusion is that you intervened to break up a fight between your boss and the deceased doctor. Humor me. If that scenario is indeed correct, why would you take it upon yourself to step in?”

  “I’m not confirming that your scenario is correct. All I can say is that I’m trained in jujitsu. If a situation calls for intervention, my reaction is pretty much instinctive. I do what needs to be done.”

  “And you can verify your martial arts training?”

  “Of course. I have an ID card from the dojo where I’m a member. It’s in my purse. Would you like to see it?”

  “I’d better have a look.” I gave him points for maintaining an objective demeanor. I removed my purse from my desk drawer slowly, hoping he wouldn’t think I was going for a weapon. He examined the card I handed him.

  “Third degree black belt.” He gave me an appraising glance. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about my name. Most of the TPD officers know my brother, Harry Machado. He teaches at the dojo on weekends.”

  “I transferred up from Fresno a month ago. I haven’t been to the Timbergate dojo since I got here.” Kass handed the card back to me. “When I was assigned to this case, I did a search of the TPD database. Your name came up four different times. Always as a victim. That’s a little unusual, especially for a librarian. Any theories about why trouble seems to follow you?”

  “I’m afraid not.” I tried to bring the interview to a close. “Is there anything else? If not, I really should open the library. The health care providers at TMC depend on our services.” A shameless exaggeration, but it worked.

  “That’s all for now, but we may need to talk again.” If he’d gotten wind of Lowe’s threats to have Quinn and me fired, he was keeping it to himself. I couldn’t prove I hadn’t known about the threats until after Lowe was killed, so I wasn’t about to bring the matter up myself.

  I went to the exit door with him and watched as he walked toward the main tower. Which other employees would he be questioning? I hoped no one who was present during the Ethics Committee meeting had broken the confidentiality protection.

  But there were other possibilities. Which security guards had been on duty at the time Lowe was killed? Had they been interviewed? Had one of them let someone into Quinn’s office after hours? Quinn had already told me that both Security and Housekeeping personnel denied unlocking the doors to the administrative suite and to Quinn’s office. Maybe someone had lied.

  I might get some answers from Sanjay, if the police were keeping him informed. I was impressed that he had warned Kass about peer review protection. Maybe our fledgling assistant administrator was more on the ball than I’d given him credit for.

  Though I managed to keep my mind on my job for the rest of the morning, my focus was disrupted when Cleo called to tell me she’d been interviewed by Kass. I told her he had questioned me, too. We agreed to meet for lunch and compare notes at Margie’s Bean Pot, a small restaurant a block from the hospital.

  I closed the library at noon and walked the short distance through a chilly drizzle that did nothing to improve my mood.

  “Aimee, wait up.” I turned to see Jared Quinn hurrying toward me. Now what? Cleo was probably waiting for me at Margie’s, and my boss, the murder suspect, was hailing me on the sidewalk.

  “Quinn? What are you doing here?” Fatigue had etched lines around his eyes, and his cheeks were unshaven and dark.

  “I’m going nuts sitting around my house.” He opened an umbrella and held it over the two of us. “Are you headed to Margie’s?”

  “Yes, I’m meeting Cleo.”

  “Good, I’ll come along.”

  “It’s okay with me, if Cleo doesn’t mind.” We were only a few steps from Margie’s door.

  “Trust me. She won’t.” Quinn closed the umbrella and opened the door
for me. My stomach rumbled when I breathed in the tantalizing aromas filling the room.

  Cleo spotted us from her table against the back wall. When she waved us over, it was clear that she’d been expecting both Quinn and me. We made our way through the buffet line where I chose the special, a delicious combination of fava beans and artichoke hearts. Quinn opted for chickpea soup.

  Cleo had already finished most of her bowl of minestrone when we reached the table. She put her spoon aside. “There are no TMC employees in here right now. Let’s talk while we have a chance.”

  “Want to bring me up to speed?” I said. “Looks like you and Quinn are a few steps ahead of me.”

  “I thought the three of us should compare notes, since we’ve all been interviewed by the police.” Cleo cast Quinn a sympathetic glance. “I asked Jared to meet us here.”

  Quinn spoke, his voice soft. “Aimee, if you’re uncomfortable helping us try to sort this out, you don’t have to get involved.”

  “I’m already involved. You were right that I might be a person of interest. Detective Kass has already told me we may need to talk again.”

  “He was one of the two who interviewed me,” said Quinn, scraping a hand across his stubble. I saw a trace of bruising and realized that was why he hadn’t shaved. “How did it go?”

  “I’m not sure," I said. "Kass stressed the fact that I was seen restraining Lowe in the conference room that morning. I didn’t disclose anything that happened during the meeting, but he assumed you and Lowe got physical and that I had stepped in. Intervened, was how he put it.”

  “Anything else?” Cleo asked. “Did he ask if you knew of anyone who might want Lowe dead? That was one of the questions he asked me.”

  “No, but he did ask me about my previous troubles involving the law. He seemed to imply that I somehow bring violence upon myself.” Remembering his tone brought a shiver.

  Quinn looked at Cleo. “So it was Kass who interviewed you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And he’s too big for his britches, if you ask me. I told him I wasn’t at the meeting and even if I had been, I couldn’t repeat anything I’d seen or heard.”