Medical Judgment

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  “How?”

  “She could think of a number of patients that might have grudges against the doctor significant enough to carry forward to his family. In all but one of the cases, the actual patient was dead, so she decided the privacy regulations didn’t apply anymore. I finally coaxed six names out of her, and if we hit a wall there, I might be able to go back with a subpoena and get the seventh one. But if you’d like to start working these . . . ”

  Larson finished his iced tea, crumpled his napkin, tossed it onto the remains of his sandwich, and stood up. “Give me those names and addresses, and I’ll get started.”

  While Cal dug into his inside jacket pocket to pull out his notebook, Larson wondered if this might be the break that was needed to bring this case to closure. His second thought, following hard on the heels of the first, was to wonder why it mattered so much to him that he be the one to solve it.

  * * *

  Kyle Andrews was standing before the shelf of law books that almost covered one wall of his office when the phone on his desk rang. He’d asked his secretary to hold his calls except in cases of emergency, so this one must be important. Of course, to Tandra an emergency might be finding that she put on the wrong shade of lipstick this morning. He stayed standing as he answered. Kyle wanted to finish looking for the citation he needed before the arguments he’d fashioned in his mind fled from him.

  “Kyle Andrews,” he said, perhaps a bit more brusquely than normal.

  “Kyle, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Steve Farber. I . . . I think I need your professional assistance.”

  Kyle slowly lowered himself into his desk chair, thoughts of the missing citation displaced by this call from his pastor. “How can I help you?”

  “Do you remember when we talked Wednesday night, I mentioned that a doctor failed to diagnose Mary’s breast cancer until it was too late? It came up because we were talking about being angry with God.”

  “I remember,” Kyle said. He wondered where this was going, and how it would involve him professionally. But he figured Steve wouldn’t call without a good reason.

  “Well, when Mary died I wasn’t angry just with God. I was angry with her doctors, including her surgeon. He tried to assure me that by the time she saw him and he did the tests, surgical intervention wasn’t going to help. She underwent radiation and chemotherapy, but she died anyway . . . slowly and painfully.”

  Kyle held his breath, waiting for Farber to say what he feared was coming next.

  “I’m afraid I displayed my frustration with that doctor in a number of ways, including a letter in which I said I wished he could watch one of his loved ones die this way.” There was a catch in Farber’s voice as he continued. “I eventually got over my hurt and frustration, and I apologized to that surgeon. You can probably guess that it was Harry Gordon. And when he was killed, I conducted his funeral. But now the police are looking for someone—”

  “Someone who might be doing things to make his widow suffer,” Kyle said. “And you’re on their list. Right?”

  “Another member of our congregation, Bill Larson . . . Detective Bill Larson called and wants to talk with me. And I wonder if you’d be present during the interview.”

  Kyle had seen pictures and videos of the machines that were the predecessors of modern computers. The image that came to him now was of cards sorted at lightning speed, eventually producing an answer. His mind went through a similar process, but he had only a couple of cards to scan before making his decision. He was bound, by honor if not by a professional obligation, to represent Sarah’s interests. If Steve Farber were the stalker responsible for Sarah’s problems, Kyle would face a massive conflict of interest if he represented him. On the other hand, he really couldn’t believe the pastor was the man behind the attacks on Sarah.

  “I have a potential conflict here,” Kyle said. “What I can do is be there to advise you during the questioning. If it becomes apparent that your interests and those of my client diverge, I’ll step aside and let you formally engage counsel.”

  “I presume you’re representing Sarah, which makes sense. Please don’t let me put you in a difficult position.”

  “No, what I’ve described should be okay.”

  When the phone conversation ended, Kyle took his suit coat from the hanger on the back of his office door, told Tandra he’d be gone for about an hour, and headed out the door. On the way to his car, he thought about the situation. He’d just implied to Steve Farber that he represented Sarah, but did he really?

  Actually, Sarah has never engaged me to represent her. And although she accepted his help and support after the fire at her house, their last time together it seemed she was pushing him away. So am I her lawyer. . . or her friend. . . or both. . . or neither?

  * * *

  Detective Bill Larson decided to start at the top of the list Cal gave him. He was startled to see his pastor’s name there. Cal’s note under Farber’s name read, “Threatening letter to Dr. after death of man’s wife.” Wow, this one was going to be awkward. Well, might as well get started.

  The pastor seemed to understand when Larson called him. He was apparently unsurprised that the detective wanted to interview him. It was almost as though he were expecting the call. “Certainly,” Farber said. “Come on by. I’ll be happy to talk with you.”

  After he rang the doorbell of Steve Farber’s home, Larson heard soft footsteps approaching. He was prepared for a housekeeper to open the door. Instead, Farber himself, wearing an open-necked dress shirt and navy slacks, opened it wide and said, “Bill, come in.”

  Larson stepped inside and the pastor closed the door. “Should I call you Detective, since this is an official visit?”

  “No, you know me as Bill, so let’s just keep it that way.”

  “And you can call me Steve, unless it feels awkward.” He led the way down a short hall into a room where a desk was almost covered with books, copies of what looked like sermons, and sheets of paper with scribbled notes. In the center of the desk was an open laptop computer.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Larson said as he took the chair toward which Farber pointed.

  “Just putting together Sunday’s sermon.” The doorbell rang and Farber turned toward it. “Just a second. I’ve asked Kyle Andrews to sit in on this.”

  In a moment, the pastor returned, accompanied by Kyle, who shook hands with Larson, then sat down. “Hope this isn’t awkward, but Dr. Farber wanted me to be here.”

  Larson turned to Farber, who had taken a seat behind his desk. “This is a field interview—nothing more. I’m not going to record it. I didn’t bring another detective as a witness. And I’m not going to give you a Miranda warning. All that may come later, but for now I’m just looking for information.”

  “Fair enough,” Farber said. “Please ask your questions.”

  “You know about the problems Dr. Sarah Gordon has had.”

  “I knew about some of them. Kyle told me about others,” the pastor said. “And you said on the phone that now you’re interviewing people who might have some kind of a grudge against Sarah’s late husband.” He grimaced. “And that includes me because of the letter I wrote.”

  “I recognize why you might have been frustrated at the time,” Larson said. “And who knows but what I might have felt the same way in those circumstances. But we’re looking for someone whose anger hasn’t cooled down.” He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a single page of typing. “This is a photocopy of a letter you wrote to Harry Gordon. And, frankly, the writer of this letter is the type of person who’d carry a grudge a long time. I guess my question for you is, ‘Are you still holding such a grudge?’ ”

  He passed the letter to Farber, who did no more than glance at it before he rose, walked over to where Kyle sat, and handed him the letter. “I remember this. And to this day I regret writing it.”

  “And I’m glad you do,” Larson said. “But it puts you on the list of suspects. So let’s talk about w
here you were on some of these dates.”

  Larson consulted his notebook, read off the dates, and watched as Farber consulted the appropriate pages of an appointment book. After a few minutes, it was clear that, since most of the episodes in question had taken place late at night and the pastor lived alone, he had no one to provide an alibi for the times in question.

  Kyle decided it was time to speak up. “Detective,” he said, “You know as well as I do that many people, when asked about their whereabouts, don’t have an alibi. This proves nothing. I hope you don’t plan to pursue an investigation that includes your own pastor as a suspect.”

  Larson shook his head. “Counselor, I’ve just asked some preliminary questions. There are a lot more to follow. If you asked me right now whether I suspect Steve Farber of these acts, I’d say no. But I have to include him in the list of suspects until we clear this completely.”

  “Well, I would hope you have more solid leads than this,” Andrews said.

  The interview went on for another fifteen minutes, but yielded no new information.

  As he left Farber’s house, Larson had two thoughts. He had a gut feeling that the pastor was unlikely to be the one perpetrating the various acts against Sarah Gordon. But he also wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t look more closely at Kyle Andrews’s movements during the times in question. He couldn’t get past the animosity he felt toward the lawyer.

  * * *

  When the interview was over, Kyle remained seated after Larson left. Farber ushered the detective out, then came back and settled into his desk chair. The pastor looked at Kyle with a neutral expression but said nothing.

  Kyle took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to talk with you before Larson got here.”

  Farber waved it away. “No problem. And as it turned out, he didn’t really grill me—just asked a bunch of questions that I answered as truthfully as I could.” He reached into his center desk drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “I appreciate you being here, though. Let me pay you for your time.”

  “No, let’s just chalk this up as repayment for our evening together a couple of days ago. And although I doubt Larson will be back with more questions, if it seems this is getting serious, let me see if I can help you find someone to represent you.”

  “Not you?”

  “As I told you earlier, I have a potential conflict of interest, and it’s probably best if I don’t represent you. I hope you’ll understand.” That letter showed me a different kind of person than the one I’ve gotten used to seeing in the pulpit on Sunday morning. I know you said you’d changed, but until I’m certain you’re not the person doing this to Sarah, I don’t think I want to represent you.

  * * *

  Sarah stood at the range in her kitchen, stirring a pot of the soup she was cooking for her supper and thinking. She wondered for probably the tenth time if her new plan was foolish or wise. Stop second-guessing yourself, Sarah. You’ve been making life-or-death decisions for years now. You just have to get back in the habit of making them outside the emergency room.

  She’d wondered about whether to set the security system when she returned from visiting her father-in-law. On the one hand . . . No, enough of that. It was there, so she might as well use it.

  And what about her pistol? She—or rather Kyle—had set things in motion for a concealed-carry permit. She was awaiting the routine background check and completion of a mandatory training class for things to become official. Until that time, she shouldn’t have the pistol on her person outside her home. But she couldn’t very well leave the house without it when someone was out to harm her.

  Meanwhile, she would definitely have the gun with her at home. One problem, of course, was keeping it nearby. It would be embarrassing to need it in the living room while the revolver was in a drawer in her bedroom. So, with an empty chamber under the hammer, she had stuffed the pistol in the right front pocket of her jeans, where the unaccustomed weight reminded her almost constantly of the changes some unknown person had forced her to make in her lifestyle.

  She tasted the soup, added some salt and pepper, covered the pot, and looked at her watch. Kyle would be home from the office by now. Part of her wanted to call him, invite him over to share her evening meal. She regretted being a bit short with him last night. Sarah had decided that it was foolish to suspect Kyle of being behind the attacks on her. Maybe inviting him to supper would be a peace gesture of sorts. But would that just send the wrong signal about their relationship?

  The lid covering the soup jiggled, so she turned down the flame under the pot. Then she turned to her new companion, who to this point had sat silently nearby. “What do you think? Shall I call Kyle, or are we better off keeping news about you to ourselves for now?”

  14

  Some nights were better than others for Sarah.

  Some nights, like the one two days ago, following her discovery of the pillow dummy in her bed, she didn’t even try to sleep because she knew it was a lost cause.

  Last night was one of the good ones—the first in quite a while. She made sure the doors and windows were locked and the alarm set. She honored her newfound resolution to stay in touch with God by praying, or at least making an effort to do so. Finally, she looked at her new companion and said, “You listen for any sounds of someone trying to get into the house. If you hear them, warn me. I’ll take it from there.” With that, she made certain her pistol was in easy reach on the nightstand, the barrel pointed away from her for safety. Sarah was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  The next morning, she was at the kitchen table eating the last of a bagel spread with cream cheese when her cell phone rang. Sarah took a swallow of the morning’s second cup of coffee before answering the call.

  “Doctor, this is Bill Larson. Did I call too early?”

  “Not at all. I’m just finishing breakfast, then I have to do some things around the house before I leave for work. Do you have something new?”

  “We’re expanding our search for suspects. Detective Johnson and I spent yesterday afternoon and evening checking out some people who might have a lasting grudge against your husband.”

  Sarah thought she knew where this was going, but decided to let Larson proceed at his own pace.

  “I wanted to go over those names with you to see if any of them strikes a chord. Rather than you making the trip to police headquarters, I’d be happy to come by your house. Would that be all right with you?” he asked.

  “Sure. Give me about half an hour to finish getting dressed.”

  After she ended the call, she turned to her guardian. “Well, you get to meet the detective who’s trying to protect me. I wonder what he’ll say about you.”

  * * *

  Larson started to reach for Sarah’s doorbell when a sound from inside the house made him stop and listen. The sound wasn’t repeated. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was a TV program. He pushed the button but didn’t hear chimes sound inside the house. Then he remembered—her doorbell was broken. Larson knocked, and this time the same sound he’d heard initially reached his ears once more. Had she . . . She hadn’t mentioned . . .

  The door opened. Sarah Gordon stood in front of him, and from behind her came the unmistakable sound of a dog barking. “I guess I should have warned you about Prince,” she said. “Come in.” She took a step back from the doorway.

  Larson looked beyond Gordon to where a large black and tan German shepherd stood, eyeing him with obvious suspicion. The dog was quiet now, but there was little doubt in Larson’s mind that he could spring into action, both vocal and physical, with very little provocation.

  “Where did you get him?”

  “My father-in-law. Harry’s dad lives on a farm about ten miles from here. At any given time, he probably has half a dozen dogs around. He rescued Prince from an animal shelter when he was just a pup and trained him to be a guard dog.”

  “Is it safe to come in?”

  “Sure.
You’re fine so long as you don’t do anything threatening.” She led him into the living room, with the dog following her and Larson bringing up the rear. When they were seated, she told Larson, “Put your hand down, fist closed, and let him sniff. After he sees that I’m friendly toward you, he shouldn’t give you any trouble, unless I tell him to.”

  Larson complied. “Is he . . . ? I mean, can he . . . ? That is, I would think that if you were going to get a dog you’d want a dog that could protect you.”

  “Oh, he is. There’s a word I can use that will cause him to attack. And, believe me, you don’t want to be on the other end of that if it happens.”

  “Should you be saying a-t-t-a—”

  The doctor smiled. “No, attack isn’t the word that sets him in motion. Obviously, I won’t say it out loud to you. Actually, it’s in German, so there’s no question of it slipping out in conversation. But be assured that Prince can protect me quite well.”

  By this time, the dog appeared to have decided Larson was a friend. He gave one final sniff before padding off to lie at Sarah’s feet, where he watched with what seemed like canine interest.

  “Let’s go over that list of your husband’s patients,” the detective said. He reached for his notebook, but was careful to make the movement slow and non-threatening.

  * * *

  Sarah shook her head. “Sorry I can’t be of more help. Harry didn’t talk much about his cases,” she said. “When he came home, we talked about a lot of things, but he always said we should leave our practices outside the door. So I really don’t know anything about any of the people or situations you’ve mentioned.”

  Larson stowed his notebook. “That’s okay. I’ll keep looking. We’ve been able to clear some people because they were with spouses or other people at the time the various attacks on you took place, even if it was late at night. The ones I just went over with you have no alibi.”

  “I was surprised to see Dr. Farber on that list. Surely you don’t suspect our pastor?”