Medical Judgment

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  Finally, Larson put his notebook back in his pocket. “Tell you what.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow—or rather, today—is Saturday. Why don’t I give you a call about mid-morning, and you can give me your statement then? Meanwhile, let the chief and me get you settled in with a friend or neighbor so you can get a few hours of sleep.”

  The chief said, “Doctor, where would you—”

  She turned to face him, and her expression—the set of her jaw—stopped him in mid-sentence. “I’m perfectly fine to be alone,” Sarah Gordon said. “I’m planning to spend the night—at least, what’s left of it—right here. You’ve told me there’s no structural damage to the house. Well, I can stand the smell of a little smoke. I’ve lived through much worse.” She swiveled to look at her home through the windshield of the vehicle. “Nothing and no one will force me out of that house.”

  * * *

  Despite what she’d said about her willingness to be alone in her house, when the front door closed behind the fire chief and the detective, Sarah felt depression and loneliness descend on her. She dragged herself up the stairs, entered her bedroom, and—still wearing her robe and slippers—threw herself across the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She spent the next half hour sobbing into that pillow. She’d managed to hold it together in front of the fire chief and Detective Larson, but now she let it all out, not just the emotions caused by the fire, but her sorrow at the loss of her husband and daughter, the struggle she’d had since their deaths. She thought she’d be over it by now, that she’d have moved on. But that’s not what had happened.

  Come on, Sarah. You’re a grown woman. You’re a physician. Every day in the emergency room you make critical decisions. Why can’t you hold your personal life together?

  That question had occupied Sarah for the past eight months, and she was pretty certain she had the answer. Before Harry’s death, she’d gotten into the habit of shedding her professional persona at the door. At home she and Harry shared responsibility. They had been a team. If she didn’t have an answer, Harry did. If one of them was unable to do something, the other one would. They could talk about things, make decisions jointly, lean on each other. But that changed with his death. Now she was alone, in every respect.

  There was no more respite from responsibility when she came home from her work at the hospital. She simply moved into a different set of circumstances, another situation in which she had to make decisions. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it was all up to her. There were a few times when she thought she heard Harry’s voice whispering, “Go ahead, Sarah. You can do it. You’re strong.” But I don’t feel strong, especially when things keep coming at me.

  And in addition to the burden she felt, Sarah was still subject to episodes of grief, interspersed with anger—at God and (although she hated to admit it) at Harry for leaving her so alone.

  The hardest times, times that seemed to tear her apart, came in the middle of the night. That’s when she’d think she heard the sound of Jenny’s voice. Sarah would roll out of bed, still half-asleep, and head for the room where Jenny slept before realizing that room was empty—just like all the other rooms in the house. Sarah was no longer needed as a mother. Jenny was dead.

  Tonight the smell of smoke was pervasive throughout the house, but she could tolerate that. Her depression at the loss of her family nipped at the edges of her consciousness, but with an effort of will she put that aside to consider something of more immediate importance. What she couldn’t get past was her fear that whoever set the fire would return. Every noise she heard seemed to represent footsteps on the stairs or movement in the next room.

  Sarah wished she still had the pistol Harry kept in his bedside table. Right after they were married, she’d told him she felt uncomfortable with a gun in the house.

  “I’m a nut about firearm safety,” he’d said. “I want to have it to protect us, but I’m careful. Believe me.”

  After Jenny was born, Sarah renewed her objections. It wasn’t safe to have a pistol in the house where there was a child. She’d read about gun owners who shot a family member or were wounded or killed themselves. Finally, Harry had given in to her entreaties to get rid of the weapon. But now she wished she had it with her. More important, she wished she had Harry beside her.

  They’d worked together—she, an ER doctor, and he, a surgeon—to mesh their schedules so they’d have time with each other and with Jenny. Things were going well. They’d even talked about trying for a little brother or sister for their daughter. But one afternoon, as Harry drove home from the day-care center with Jenny in the car seat, another driver crashed into them and snuffed out both their lives, as well as her own. And, so far as Sarah was concerned, her life ended at that moment as well.

  Sarah told herself for the hundredth time there was no need to go over the past. Harry and Jenny were gone. She was still here, although she wasn’t sure just why, and she had to concentrate on moving ahead. That had been her priority since her loss: moving ahead, one day at a time, one step at a time, even if she had to force herself. This fire was simply another roadblock she had to get past. Harry, I’m trying. Really, I’m trying.

  The firemen had thrown the main electrical breaker to the house until they determined the location and severity of the fire. Now, although the electricity was back on, the clock at Sarah’s bedside continued to flash 1:13, the time when all this took place. She’d fallen into bed without resetting the clock, so that now when she opened her eyes and looked in that direction, she saw a constant reminder of what had happened tonight. She knew she should get up and reset the clock, but the effort was beyond her at this point.

  It seemed to Sarah she’d done nothing but toss and turn since dropping onto the bed in a state of exhaustion at almost four a.m. She untangled herself from the covers and punched the button to light up the dial of her watch. It was ten after five. Sleep wasn’t going to come.

  She slid her feet into the scuffs that had fallen at the bedside. She shrugged out of her robe, then went to the closet and wrapped herself in Harry’s robe, one she’d kept because even after eight months she thought she could smell his after-shave lotion in it. Even now, it felt like she’d put on a suit of armor. It was a little like Harry was there with her. And she needed that.

  Sarah padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, she flipped on the coffee maker and waited, hoping the scent of the freshly brewed coffee would overcome some of the smell of smoke that seemed to follow her wherever she went in the house.

  She looked at her watch and wondered how long it would be before she could begin making phone calls. Sarah moved to one of the kitchen cabinets, opened a drawer, and withdrew a notepad and pencil. Then, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and began to make a list of the tasks that faced her.

  * * *

  The last emergency vehicle had gone. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and there were no streetlights nearby. He couldn’t have planned better circumstances for watching unobserved. With the car windows partially open to let in the night breeze, he was comfortable leaning back behind the steering wheel. Other than a couple of officers driving by earlier, apparently the police had decided that regular patrols in the area weren’t necessary for the rest of the night. That suited him just fine.

  The house had been dark since he drove up, but he knew that didn’t mean its occupant was sleeping. Sure enough, at that moment the light in an upstairs room came on. In a few minutes another window, this one downstairs, was lit, the illumination faint as though from a light in an adjoining room. He figured she’d been unable to sleep, had tossed and turned before eventually getting out of bed. Now she was probably sitting in the kitchen, perhaps drinking coffee or tea, wondering why this had happened.

  Well, that was the point of the whole exercise, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to kill her—not yet. First, she had to suffer—not necessarily physically—but she had to suffer. That’s what this was about—the waiting, the wondering,
the fear. The dying would come later.

  2

  Kyle Andrews sat hunched over his laptop computer at his kitchen table, his second cup of coffee at his elbow, skimming the news headlines. He looked up from the computer, took a sip of coffee, and wondered if it would be a good idea to call Sarah.

  He’d first met Harry and Sarah Gordon when he came to town to set up his law practice. He’d actually met them where a lot of people in Jameson met—at the First Community Church. It wasn’t long before he and Harry became good friends, and Sarah appeared to be happy about that. Soon thereafter, Kyle met someone else at church, someone who changed his life. It wasn’t too many months later that he was engaged to Nicole, and the two couples double-dated frequently after that.

  Nicole’s sudden death had left Kyle with a hole in his heart, but he’d tried not to show it. After all, that was what Christians did. But when Harry and Jenny were killed, Kyle figured he, more than most, had a sense of how the tragic death of a loved one might affect Sarah. And that was even more reason for him to offer support to her now.

  Harry had never said, “If something happens to me, take care of Sarah.” Kyle figured he didn’t have to. That sort of thing was understood between friends. In the eight months since Harry’s death, Kyle had worked hard not to press Sarah, while still making sure she knew he was there for her. He’d like to do more, but there never seemed to be the right opening. For now he’d best simply stay close and be available.

  Would this be a good time to call? He looked at his watch. Not quite eight. It was Saturday, and she might be sleeping in. On the one hand—

  The ring of his cell phone made him look up from his computer. When he saw the caller ID he realized his decision had been made for him. Sarah was calling.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I was about to call and see how you’re doing.”

  “That’s why I’m phoning. I . . . I need your help this morning.”

  “As a friend or as a lawyer?” Kyle reached for his coffee cup. “Did you get a speeding ticket yesterday, Sarah?” He smiled at the thought. Sarah was the epitome of the term, “straight arrow.”

  “I’m meeting with the police this morning, Kyle, and I’d like you to be there with me.”

  Kyle set the cup on the table without drinking. “Of course I’ll be there, but what’s going on? This sounds serious.”

  The silence that followed went on longer than Kyle would like. Finally, Sarah said, “Someone tried to set fire to my house last night. That is, someone started a fire in my garage. It didn’t do much damage except for the smoke, but the police called it arson and want to talk with me this morning. I’m sure they’re going to ask me who might want to do such a thing, but—”

  “But they have to consider whether a homeowner might do something like this to collect insurance,” Kyle said, finishing her thought. “Who are you meeting and what time?”

  “Bill Larson said he’d call and set it up.”

  Kyle’s mental file whirred and spit out data on Detective Larson. Late thirties, dark hair that always seemed to need a trim, not really handsome but possessor of just the type of rugged good looks some women liked. Larson had a reputation for persistence among the lawyers in town. When he was working a case, he was like a dog with a bone, never turning loose until he finished. That didn’t bother Kyle, but the presence of another man in Sarah’s life at this point was a bit disconcerting.

  Of course, there were also whispers circulating around the courthouse that Larson’s excessive drinking was the reason for his divorce. The man’s ex-wife and son had moved to Montana, while Larson was starting over here in Texas. Evidently the detective had it more or less together thus far in his new situation—at least, it seemed that way. But Kyle knew that with alcoholics the struggle was lifelong and never-ending. An alcoholic was never “recovered,” just “recovering.” Larson would bear watching—on several levels.

  “Did you see Larson after all this took place?” Kyle asked.

  “Yes, we sat in the fire chief’s SUV and talked a bit. I didn’t really answer all his questions, but I think he could tell how upset I was. He suggested we meet today.” She cleared her throat. “Will you go with me?”

  “Sarah, just tell me where and when. I’ll be with you as a friend, not simply as a lawyer.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “But if I need a lawyer, I want you.”

  You’ve always had me, Sarah . . . >and not just as a lawyer.

  * * *

  Bill Larson heard her footsteps before he saw her. He got up from his desk in the otherwise deserted police squad room. “Sarah . . . ” he started to say. But he stopped the word before it left his mouth. Keep it professional. “Dr. Gordon, thank you for coming down here,” he said.

  She took the chair he indicated. “I . . . I didn’t think I had much choice.”

  “Last night you didn’t seem up to answering too many questions. Coming here this morning seemed more convenient for both of us,” Larson said. “It saved me some time and effort. That’s all.”

  “I hope I haven’t missed too much.” The words were accompanied by the sound of leather heels hitting the linoleum of the squad room in a rapid rat-tat-tat.

  Larson frowned when he saw attorney Kyle Andrews hurrying toward his desk. “Nothing of significance, counselor.” The detective stood and offered his hand, then said, “Pull up a chair from one of those other desks. I was just starting to interview the doctor.”

  Andrews reached down and hugged Sarah Gordon, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than mere friendship would dictate, something that didn’t escape Larson’s attention. Then the lawyer grabbed a chair from the next desk, pulled it over beside Dr. Gordon, and sat.

  “Well, I’m glad I made it in time,” the lawyer said. “I always advise my clients not to talk to the police without their attorney present.”

  Larson wasn’t certain why he didn’t trust Kyle Andrews. Perhaps it was just his nature as a policeman to look askance at people. His wife—that is, his ex-wife—had mentioned that tendency on more than one occasion. Today, Andrews was in full lawyer mode: gray glen plaid suit, red and gray tie, rust-colored hair carefully styled, rimless glasses giving him a serious look. Even his briefcase was perfect for the part, scuffed just enough to show it wasn’t just for show.

  The detective directed his attention to Sarah. “Dr. Gordon,” Larson said, “Let me make it clear that we don’t suspect you of anything. I don’t think you’ll need a lawyer.” He looked pointedly at Andrews for a moment before turning back to Dr. Gordon. “I’ll say up front that all I’m looking for from you is information.”

  “And I’ll say up front that I’m here to lend some support to a friend,” Andrews said with a half-smile.

  Larson nodded. He sensed that he and Kyle Andrews might not end up exchanging Christmas cards. On the other hand, it seemed they both had Sarah Gordon’s best interest in mind. He’d accept that for now. The detective pulled a note pad toward him. “Let’s start with the names of anyone who might be angry with you—not necessarily someone who’d want to kill you, but people who might carry a grudge, be unhappy with something you’ve done. Disappointed patients. Frustrated colleagues. People from your personal life who might wish to harm you. Anyone.”

  The doctor’s immediate response was, “I don’t know of anyone who fits that description.”

  “You may change your mind as you think about that,” Larson said. “Let’s consider patients. How about them?”

  “As an emergency room physician I treat dozens of people every day. Some of the cases are simple. Some are literally life-and-death situations. I exercise my medical judgment all the time, and if I make a mistake, the consequences could be minor or they could be catastrophic. Most of the time I don’t even remember the names of the patients I treat, much less which ones could be carrying a grudge.”

  “Okay, I may want to go through some ER records with you to get some names, but we’ll come back to that,” Larson said. �
�Anything from your personal life? I’m sorry that I have to ask, but any ex-boyfriends, former lovers, men you disappointed?”

  Before Sarah could open her mouth, Kyle Andrews said, “Are you implying—”

  “I’m not implying anything,” Larson said. “I have to ask these questions, and if you think about it, you’ll see that.” He looked at Dr. Gordon. “Anyone?”

  “No,” she said, and shook her head.

  “Did you hear or see anything last night before the fire started? Was there anything that suggested there might be someone in your house or garage?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. Larson knew from experience there was something there—if he could just keep quiet long enough.

  “I didn’t hear anything until I awoke to the smell of smoke. There might have been a noise downstairs at about that time—I wasn’t sure. Then, after I got out of the house, I thought I saw a shadow hurrying around the corner of the house.”

  “Which side?”

  “Where the garage is,” she said.

  “That would be the west side.” Larson made a note. “I know you didn’t mention this to me at the time, but did you tell the chief or any of the firefighters about it?”

  “No, I guess I was too rattled,” she said. “And, honestly, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it.”

  “Do you have any idea how an intruder got into the garage to set the fire?” Larson asked.

  “I’ve wondered about that,” Dr. Gordon said. “I have an electric garage door opener, and the remote is supposed to have what they call a rolling code so someone can’t just open the door with his or her own remote.”

  “There are at least a couple of ways, actually,” Larson replied. “First, I noticed your car was parked at the curb last night. Most people keep their garage door opener remote clipped to their auto’s sun visor. Is that what you do?”

  She nodded.