Manner of Death

by Stephen White

  "I would never leave a site that sloppy. No way. This was malicious."

  Lauren looked at me with tears in her eyes and said. "Oh mv God, alan. Oh mv God."

  Dresden's face turned ashen, he thought she was upset about him.

  Dresden offered to call the Boulder County sheriff to report the incident as vandalism, and he said he would wait for the deputy to arrive. I pulled Lauren off to the side, huddled with her for a moment, and then accepted Dresden's offer, we didn't tell him we didn't think he was dealing with a simple vandal.

  On the way back across town, I wondered what I could conclude. I couldn't be sure that he hadn't been planning to kill me under a collapsed roof, but also had to entertain the possibility that he merely wanted to warn us, maybe he wanted us to be looking over our shoulders, listening for the other shoe to drop. I didn't know why, though, because it didn't seem to make sense. His job— killing me— would certainly be easier if we weren't wary of his approach. I considered the possibility that he was just letting me know that he knew we were on to him, and that it didn't matter to him.

  He was smarter than we were, he was more clever, he was more resourceful.

  After she calmed enough to recover her usual astuteness of problem-solving. Lauren agreed with my conclusions about the incident, but she was intent that practicality, and not hypothesizing, rule the short term, she wanted to call her friend John at Alarms Incorporated and have him hang motion detectors inside the house to keep intruders out during the remainder of the construction.

  Although I felt this particular adversary would be amused by that particular impediment, I didn't say so. To me, such a deterrent was akin to using a kiddie gate to hold back an angry Doberman. But she said having the alarm in place would make her feel better, so I demurred, the calculator in my head clicked our change orders up to a new total, this one a few hundred dollars higher.

  I, too, had some concrete matters to attend to. Custer was in New Zealand. Which meant I had to phone Simes and tell her about the sabotage. I was aware that I would have preferred to report this news to Custer, not Simes. But before I talked to either of them, I wanted to consult with Sam Purdy and get his advice.

  Sam didn't respond to his beeper, so I tried him at home. His wife, sherry, answered.

  "Hi, sherry, it's Alan. Is Sam around?"

  "Alan, hi. No, he's, um, he's in the hospital." She started to cry.

  "God, sherry, what's wrong?"

  She swallowed away some sniffles before she continued. "He had some, uh, terrible pain in his back yesterday morning when he was out front playing roller hockey with Simon, and he, uh, well, I... I made him call the department doctor, the doctor didn't like what Sam was describing and made him come in for some tests, and they took him right to the emergency room and—"

  "Sherry, is it his heart?"

  "Well, they thought so at first, but they did a, a—

  what do you call it?— with the heart?"

  "An EKG?"

  "Yes, and that went okay: I think, but then he got a high fever and the pain got worse and they did another test, an IVPI think they called it, and now they say he has a kidney stone, and he's still there, at Community Hospital, getting antibiotics. I just came home to be with Simon for a while."

  My own heart was pounding at the news. "So he didn't have a heart attack?"

  "No, they said he didn't, the pain was from the stone."

  "Did he pass it? The stone?"

  "No, the doctor's going to go get it tomorrow or the next dav, after thev bring his fever down."

  "Do you know his doctor's name?"

  "I'm sorry; Alan. I'm so upset. I don't remember."

  "Is it a woman? A small woman?"

  "Yes,” she said hopefully.

  "Dr. arvin. Dr. adrienne Arvin."

  "Yes, that's her."

  "I know her, sherry, she's great. Sam's in good hands, and she knows him from some police work."

  "That's nice." I thought she sounded relieved.

  "How are you doing with all this, sherry?"

  She said. "I was so scared." and again she started to cry.

  SIXTEEN

  I didn't bother calling Sam first, he would have told me not to come.

  Lauren was ambivalent about visiting the hospital with me. Ultimately; she decided to remain at home with the alarm on, with Emily at her side and with her Glock close by. For the first time since I knew she owned it I liked the fact that she had a handgun.

  At the door to Sam's hospital room I didn't knock for the same reason I hadn't called, although the bed was situated so that he couldn't see the door. Sam apparently heard it squeal open as I entered his room, he said. "Jesus, you want more blood? Do you people drink it or something?"

  I felt great sympathy for his nurse, for his urologist, Adrienne, and for the laboratory technicians.

  I walked into his line of sight before I said, "No. I don't really want your blood, Sam. How you doing?"

  "Alan,” he said, looking away from me. "You talked to Sherry?" The unsaid part was "Damn it."

  He knew I'd talked to Sherry. I nodded. "This must have been pretty scary;" I said, taking in the IV and the

  tubing that disappeared below the sheets.

  "They won't let me do much. My back is killing me.

  What time is it?"

  "It's almost one."

  "No. What time is it exactly?"

  I looked at my watch. "Twelve fifty-one."

  He had been watching the television with the sound

  turned off.

  "So." I said. "Adrienne's your doctor?"

  He shrugged as though the question didn't interest

  him much. "She said she'll get it out of there, she talks

  about it like it's a cavity she has to drill away, you know?

  Suggested I not worry about it." "And?" "And what?"

  "Are you managing not to worry about it?" "You ever had one? A kidney stone? She told me—

  your friend Adrienne— that she has women patients who

  have had stones and who have gone through childbirth.

  They prefer childbirth. I can only tell you that when the

  damn thing starts moving around it feels like my worst

  fear of being shot. Man, does it hurt."

  "Where is it? Your kidney or your ureter?"

  "Tube. It's in the tube." He stared at me and licked at

  his lips, which looked parched, he said. "I'm forty-threa next week, alan. I’ve got a little kid. I can't have health problems. I just can't. I’ve got to get back to work. Yeah, I'll manage not to worry about it."

  "Apparently you do, though. Sam. Have health problems. Otherwise this is a pretty elaborate charade that Adrienne's pulling on you."

  I could see his mandibular muscles constrict into tight balls the size of walnuts. "Look behind me. What's my blood pressure?"

  I checked the monitor. "One-fifteen over seventy-eight."

  "Pulse?"

  "Eighty-three."

  "And I have those numbers even with you sitting here making me anxious. My cholesterol is one fifty-eight. Not two fifty-eight. One fifty-eight, maybe I'm a little overweight. I'll grant you that. I could lose ten pounds, twenty even, and, sure, the job is a little stressful sometimes. But how bad could this really be? I think it's a fluke, that's what I think."

  He wanted a co-conspirator, although I wanted to be comforting. I couldn't bring myself to help him affix this psychological Band-Aid.

  As casually as I could. I asked. "What's the prognosis?"

  "I think I'm fine." His words were clipped and dismissive. It was as though he were describing twisting his ankle and was maintaining some fragile confidence that he'd be able to walk it off.

  "When do you get out of here?"

  "My fever goes down, then she goes in and gets the stone. During that part I sleep, thank God, then I go home."

  "Goes in how?"

  He shivered. "Right through my dick."

  I de
cided that confronting Sam's denial was neither in his best interest nor mine. Instead of pressing him, I asked, "What about changes? What's Adrienne recommending?"

  "What changes?"

  "Lifestyle changes. Exercise. Diet. Stress." Sam's appetite was prodigious. His choice of foods had always been dictated by his belief that his low cholesterol was God's way of telling him he had a license to eat plenty of saturated fat. My guess was that Adrienne was going to caution him away from calcium and tell him to exercise, reduce his stress, and drink more water.

  I didn't think he exercised regularly, but when we'd bicycled together I'd always been amazed by his endurance.

  "The little doctor said we'd have a chat about those things before I leave the hospital, she also said she's going to be putting something up in there for a while, a

  stent. I think she called it, she said I couldn't run around

  chasing bad guys until she took it back out."

  "Adrienne actually said 'chasing bad guys'?" "Yep." He shook his head. "So I'm going to be on

  leave for a week, ten days. It's going to drive me nuts."

  "You know." I said. "I think I may have an idea to help

  you pass the time."

  After I left the hospital I stopped by my office and used the phone there to call Simes's beeper/voice-mail setup and to leave a message for Sawyer. I told each of them that I would be at my office number for thirty minutes and then I would be going home.

  Simes's call came first, five minutes later. "Dr. Gregory? Dr. Simes."

  "Please call me Alan."

  "Okay, alan. I assume this must be important."

  "It is." In as much detail as I could muster. I related the story of the construction sabotage.

  She was silent for a good ten seconds after I finished the tale, she asked. "What does your detective friend think?"

  I found the question interesting. It informed me that Simes respected Sam Purdy, that was good.

  "Lauren and I live in the county, not the city. So it's the sheriff, not the police. Sam doesn't know what happened, yet."

  "You're calling me before you call him? That's interesting."

  I didn't want to talk about Sam's health, although I wasn't sure why. "What do you think? Is this sabotage related to, you know?"

  "Is it sabotage?"

  "The contractor feels certain that it is. I have no reason to mistrust him."

  I could almost hear her shrug over the phone line. "There are some problems developing with our theory. You should know."

  "Such as?"

  "Your old supervisor? Dr. Masters? The local police finally tracked down the tanning bed repairman, the one who looked so dirty? Well, now he looks clean, he's been hopscotching around trying to hide from an ex-wife, heard she was getting close, asking around about him in town, so he split, as best we can tell he's never lived in Colorado."

  "Amy's death may have been an accident?"

  I felt the distant shrug again. "Possibly. Or it could mean that this offender we're pursuing is as smooth now as he was six years ago and that he killed her without raising any more suspicion than he did in any of the other murders. For now, let's just say it makes it more difficult for Milt and me to interest the various jurisdictions in collaborating on this investigation."

  "And your colleagues at Quantico? What do they think?"

  "This, unfortunately, fuels their skepticism, the repairman was our only solid lead."

  Simes's affect remained an enigma to me. I went fishing. "Are you questioning your assumptions about all these deaths?"

  "No."

  "It's not a possibility?"

  "You want to take this risk?"

  I didn't hear the slightest waver in her tone. Was it confidence or bravado? I didn't know. "Have you heard from Milt?"

  "Only that he's arrived safely in New Zealand. I expect some news later today. Milt loves E-mail almost as much as he loves golf and trains."

  "Will you keep me informed, please?"

  "As warranted. Have you seen Dr. Faire?"

  The question came out of nowhere and caught me upside the head. I couldn't muster a lie. I said. "Yes." but wished I had just a smidgen more sociopathic blood running through my veins.

  "And?"

  "She and I are in agreement that we don't have any right to help compile a patient list for you, we spent some time puzzling together about some old patients who might be harboring a grudge."

  "A grudge?" She laughed. "Are you kidding? This guy has a grudge like Arizona has a canyon, and who did you come up with?"

  I didn't respond. It seemed less confrontational than saying I wasn't going to tell her.

  "Don't make this more tedious than it needs to be, alan. In case vouVe taken your eve off the ball. Milt and I are trying to save your lives."

  "You know I can't tell you the identities of the patients who were on the unit back then."

  "Then don't, although I would love some names from one of you. I'm more interested right now in profile, not identity. You can give me details about potential suspects that I can compare with my working profile."

  I sighed. "I'm not sure ... I don't know."

  "You're not sure what? That you trust me?"

  "Actually; I'm pretty sure that I don't trust you. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry. I'm hoping it's a character trait of yours. Let's say your suspicions are confirmed about the sabotage on your remodeling project. What would that tell you about this man we're seeking?"

  Her tone reminded me of a professor's questions during a graduate seminar. Reflexively., I tried to be appropriately thoughtful. "It raises the question of whether he's done this before. Been provocative before he actually kills someone. Do you have any evidence of that?"

  "Later. It's a good question, though. Stay on that road. Let's say he hasn't, that this is new behavior, something we haven't discovered about the prior murders. What does it tell you?"

  "Well, I’ve been puzzled by the acceleration in the time frame that it takes him to accomplish each murder, amy Masters, arnie Dresser, and now Lorna Pope close together. Things are speeding up, he's using less time to plan each attack, that's a significant change, maybe this sabotage is evidence of yet another change, maybe if this was just taunting it's indicative of a new phase."

  "Maybe. Go on."

  "Well, okay; say it's true. Perhaps it's a sign he's getting more and more reckless, maybe—"

  "Why? Why would he suddenly get more reckless?"

  "Maybe his need to isolate his affect is becoming more determined— is. I don't know, requiring more frequency. Or...?"

  "Or what?"

  "Maybe his underlying mental disorder is fluctuating, maybe getting worse. Or maybe getting better. Sawyer raised the possibility that he has a slowly cycling mood disorder, maybe there's been a change in the cycling, maybe he's bipolar and the manic phases are more frequent."

  "Don't stop."

  "Or maybe it's not too complicated psychologically at all, maybe he's running out of time."

  Over the phone line. I heard a dog bark, a little yap dog, an appetizer dog. Simes said. "Perhaps you've been wasting your skill in a small-town practice. Dr. Gregory. You may have a calling here."

  "Boulder isn't a small town."

  "Not my point."

  "I'm not at my best right now. What is your point?"

  "The rules are changing. Our killer is evolving, as consecutive killers always do, he's feeling pressures we haven't yet identified, the result of those pressures is that he's changing his pattern, that may make him easier for us to catch, then again, it may make it more difficult."

  "Why more difficult?"

  "Predictability works in our favor."

  "So does recklessness, though, right?"

  "Yes and no. Think about it."

  "Don't we have to assume that the faster he kills the more mistakes he's likely to make? His obsessiveness is his salvation. His patience and planning have provided him great cover so far."

>   "An interesting assumption, and probably an accurate one. However, if your argument turns out to be true in the current circumstances, it only benefits the one of you who is killed second."

  "I don't understand. What do you mean?" "If he gets sloppy or careless while killing you, for example, we may well be able to use his mistakes to identify him before he kills Sawyer. Or vice versa. But one of you will die to protect the other, although it's usually the case that subsequent murders provide new pieces to the puzzle, it's not a price I'm terribly eager to pay to flesh out my profiles."

  • • •

  Lauren met me at the door with a catbird-seat grin on her face. "Sawyer called. You just missed her."

  Oops. "Did you get a number? I phoned her from my office to fill her in about the sabotage in Spanish Hills."

  "She knows. I told her all about it." Lauren pirouetted away from me as she said those words. I couldn't see the expression on her face. I followed her back toward the kitchen.

  "You told her?"

  "Want some tea? I'm going to make some, she doesn't like what happened any more than we do. How's Sam?"

  I wanted to hear about Sawyer but didn't want to appear insensitive to Sam's plight, so I related my impressions about him while she fixed the tea.

  She handed me a mug and we moved into the little living room.

  "That's too bad. I'm glad Adrienne's taking care of him, though." She ran her fingers through her short hair and said. "Sawyer seemed nice."

  Nice? "You talked for a while?"

  She nodded. "She was curious about me. I think, and I was curious about her. But I liked her."

  "I'm glad. I guess."

  She found that amusing.

  "I spoke with Simes. Told her about the house."

  "Is she worried about what happened?"

  "It's not her house."

  Lauren laughed.

  "But there's some problems with the working hypothesis about Amy Masters's death. You know, the tanning bed?" I filled her in.