Richard took a chance. “I think you do, Mr. Reeves. This is, of course, totally confidential, but I can’t waste time being discreet. I believe that Dr. Highley may be experimenting with his pregnant patients, perhaps even with their lives. Is there any justification that you can offer to support that possibility?”
There was a long pause. The words that came next were slow and deliberately enunciated. “While he was with us, Dr. Highley was not only a practicing physician, but was deeply involved in prenatal research. He did quite brilliant experiments on embryos of frogs and mammals. Then a fellow doctor began to suspect that he was experimenting with aborted human fetuses—which is, of course, illegal.”
“What was done about it?”
“It was kept very quiet, of course, but he was being watched very carefully. Then a tragedy occurred. Dr. Highley’s wife died suddenly. There was no way we could prove anything, but the suspicion existed that he had implanted her with an aborted fetus. Dr. Highley was asked to resign. This is, of course, absolutely confidential. In no way is there a shred of proof, and I must expect that you treat this conversation as inviolable.”
Richard absorbed what he had heard. His hunch had been right. How many women had Highley killed experimenting on them? A question came into his mind—a wild, long-shot possibility.
“Mr. Reeves,” he asked, “do you by any chance know a Dr. Emmet Salem?”
The voice warmed immediately. “Of course I do. A good friend. Why, Dr. Salem was visiting staff here at the time of the Highley scandal.”
♦68♦
Silently Katie ran down the stairs to the main floor. Desperately she grasped the knob, tried to open the door. But it would not give. It was locked. Upstairs, the footsteps had paused. He was trying the second-floor knob, making sure that she had not escaped him. The footsteps started again. He was coming down. No one would hear her if she screamed. These heavy doors were fireproof. No hospital sounds could be heard here. On the other side of the door, there were people: visitors, patients, nurses. Less than six inches away. But they could not hear her.
He was coming. He would reach her, kill her. She felt heavy, dull pain in her pelvic area. She was flowing heavily. Whatever he had given her had started the hemorrhaging. She was dizzy. But she had to get away. He had made Vangie’s death look like suicide. He still might get away with that. Wildly she began rushing down the staircase. There was one more flight. It probably led to the basement of the hospital. He’d have to explain how and why she’d gotten there. The farther she got, the more questions would be asked. She stumbled on the last stair. Don’t fall. Don’t make it look like an accident. Edna had fallen. Or had she?
Had he killed Edna too?
But she’d be trapped here. Another door. This one would be locked too. Helplessly she turned the knob. He was on the mid landing. Dark as it was, she could see movement, a presence rushing down at her.
The door opened. The corridor was dimly lit. She was in the basement. She saw rooms ahead. Quiet. It was so quiet. The door snapped closed behind her. Could she hide somewhere? Help me. Help me. There was a switch on the wall. She pressed her hand on it. Her finger smeared it with blood. The corridor disappeared into blackness as a few feet behind her the door from the stairwell burst open.
♦69♦
Highley was suspected of causing his first wife’s death. Winifred Westlake’s cousin believed he had caused Winifred’s death. Highley was a brilliant researcher. Highley may have been experimenting on some of the women who were his patients. Highley may have injected Vangie Lewis with the semen of an Oriental male. But why? Did he hope to get away with it? Undoubtedly he knew Fukhito’s background. Would he try to accuse him? Why? Had it been an accident? Had he used the wrong semen? Or had Vangie been involved with Fukhito? Was Dr. Highley’s possible experimentation only incidental to Vangie’s pregnancy?
Richard could not find the answer. He sat at Katie’s desk twirling her Mark Cross pen. She always carried this. She must have rushed out of here this evening and forgotten to pick it up. But of course, she’d been upset. Losing that case must have rattled her badly. Katie would take that hard. Katie took a lot of things hard. He wished he knew where she was. He wanted to talk to her. The way her finger bled. He’d have to ask Molly if she knew whether or not Katie had a low platelet count. That could be a real problem.
A chill made Richard’s fingers stiffen. That could be a sign of leukemia. Oh, God. Monday, he’d drag Katie to a doctor if he had to tie her up to do it.
There was a soft knock on the door and Maureen looked in. Her eyes were emerald green, large and oval. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful kid.
“Dr. Carroll.”
“Maureen, I’m sorry I asked you to stay. I thought Mrs. Horan would be here long ago.”
“It’s all right. She did phone. She’s on her way. Something came up at work and they needed her. But there are two women here. They’re friends of the Miss Burns who died. They wanted to see Katie. I told them she was gone, and one of them mentioned your name. She met you the other night when you were at the Burns apartment; a Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
“Fitzgerald? . . . Sure. Mrs. Fitzgerald is a part-time receptionist at Westlake Hospital.” As Richard said “Westlake,” he stood up. “Tell them to come on in. Maybe you’d better call Scott.”
“Mr. Myerson is absolutely not to be disturbed. He and Charley and Phil are still questioning Captain Lewis.”
“All right. I’ll talk to them. Then if it’s anything much, we’ll make them wait.”
They came in together, Gana’s eyes snapping with excitement. She had regretfully decided not to wear Edna’s leopard coat. It just seemed too soon. But she had her story ready to tell.
Gertrude was carrying the moccasin in a paper bag. Her neat gray hair was every inch in place. Her scarf was knotted at her throat. The good dinner had faded into memory, and now more than anything she wanted to get home and to bed. But she was glad to talk to Dr. Carroll. She was going to tell him that the other night in poor Edna’s apartment, Dr. Highley had been pulling open the night-table drawer. There was nothing in that drawer except the shoe. Did Dr. Carroll think that Dr. Highley wanted to get that shoe for any reason?
Mrs. DeMaio had been so interested in that Prince Charming business. Dr. Carroll might want to know about that too. He could tell Mrs. DeMaio when she came in Monday. Dr. Carroll was looking at them expectantly.
Gertrude leaned forward, shook the bag, and the shabby moccasin fell onto Katie’s desk. Primly she began to explain, “That shoe is the reason we are here.”
♦70♦
She zigzagged down the corridor. Would he know where the light switch was? Would he dare to turn it on? Suppose there was someone down here? Should she try to scream?
He knew this hospital. Where would she go? There had been a door at the end of the hall. The farthest door. Maybe he’d try the others first. Maybe she could lock herself in somewhere. She might miss the doors on the side. But if she ran straight, she’d have to touch that far wall. The door was in the middle. Her finger was bleeding. She’d try to smear blood on the door. When the nurse made her rounds, they’d start to search for her. Maybe they’d notice the bloodstains.
He was standing still. He was listening for her. Would he see a shadow when the door opened? Her outstretched hand touched a cold wall. Oh, God, let me find the door. Her hand ran down the wall. She touched a door frame. Behind her she heard a faint squeaking sound. He had opened that first door. But now he wouldn’t bother to look in that room. He’d realize he hadn’t heard that squeak, that she hadn’t tried that door. Her hand found a knob. She turned it deliberately, grinding her cut finger against it. A heavy formaldehyde smell filled her nostrils. From behind her she heard rushing feet. Too late. Too late. She tried to push the door closed, but it was shoved open. She stumbled and fell. She was so dizzy, so dizzy. She reached out. Her hand touched a pants leg.
“It’s all over, Katie,” Dr. Highley said.
♦71♦
“Are you sure this is your wife’s shoe?” Scott demanded. Wearily Chris nodded. “I am absolutely certain. This is the one that was so loose on her . . . the left one.”
“When Edna Burns phoned you, did she tell you she had this shoe?”
“No. She said she had something to tell the police and that she wanted to talk to me.”
“Did you get an impression of blackmail . . . of threat?”
“No, drunken garrulousness. I knew she was from Westlake Hospital. I didn’t realize then that she was the receptionist Vangie used to talk about. She said Edna was always kidding her about her glass slippers.”
“All right. Your statement will be typed immediately. Read it carefully, sign it if you find it accurate and then you can go home. We’ll want to talk with you again tomorrow morning.”
For the first time Chris felt as though the Prosecutor had begun to believe him. He got up to go. “Where is Joan?”
“She’s completed a statement. She can go with you. Oh, one thing: what impression do you have of Dr. Highley?”
“I never met him.”
“Did you read this article about him?” Scott held up Newsmaker magazine.
Chris looked at the article, at the picture of Dr. Highley. “I saw this yesterday on the plane into New York.”
Memory jogged.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s what I couldn’t place.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott asked.
“That was the man who came down in the elevator at the Essex House last night when I was trying to reach Dr. Salem.”
♦72♦
He switched on a light. Through the haze she could see his full-cheeked face, his eyes protruding as he stared down at her, his skin glistening with perspiration, his sandy hair falling untidily on his forehead.
She managed to stumble to her feet. She was in a small area like a waiting room. It was so cold. A thick steel door was behind her. She shrank back against the door.
“You’ve made it so easy for me, Mrs. DeMaio.” Now he was smiling at her. “Everyone close to you knows about your fear of hospitals. When Nurse Renge and I make rounds in a few minutes, we’ll assume you left the hospital. We’ll call your sister, but she won’t be home for several hours, will she? We won’t start looking for you in the hospital until much later. Certainly no one will dream of looking for you here.
“An old man died in the emergency room tonight. He’s in one of those vaults. Tomorrow morning when the undertaker comes for his body, you’ll be found. It will be obvious what happened to you. You were hemorrhaging; you became disoriented, almost comatose. Tragically, you wandered down here and bled to death.”
“No.” His face was blurring. She was so dizzy. She was swaying.
He reached past her and opened the steel door. He pushed her through it, held her as she slid down. She had fainted. Kneeling beside her, he injected the last shot of heparin. She probably wouldn’t recover consciousness again. Even if she did, she couldn’t get out. From this side the door was locked. He looked at her thoughtfully, then got to his feet and brushed the smudge of dust from his trousers. At last he was finished with Katie DeMaio.
He closed the steel door that separated the vaults from the receiving area of the morgue and turned out the light. Cautiously he opened the door into the corridor and hurried down it, letting himself out into the parking lot of the hospital by the same door through which he’d come in fifteen minutes before.
A few minutes later, he was drinking lukewarm cappuccino, waving away the offer of the waitress to bring him a hot cup. “My calls took a bit longer than I expected,” he explained. “And now I must hurry back to the hospital. There’s a patient there about whom I’m quite concerned.”
♦73♦
“Good night, Dr. Fukhito. I feel much better. Thank you.” The boyish face managed a smile.
“I’m glad. Sleep well tonight, Tom.” Jiro Fukhito got up slowly. This young man would make it. He’d been in deep depression for weeks, nearly suicidal. He’d been doing eighty miles an hour in a car that crashed. His younger brother was killed in the accident. Regret. Guilt. Overwhelming, more than the boy could handle.
Jiro Fukhito knew he had helped him through the worst of it. His work could be so satisfying, he reflected as he walked slowly down the corridor of Valley Pines Hospital. The work he did here, the volunteer work—this was where he wanted to practice.
Oh, he’d done enough for many of the patients at Westlake. But there were others he hadn’t helped, hadn’t been allowed to help.
“Good night, Doctor.” A number of the patients in the psychiatric ward greeted him as he walked toward the elevator. He’d been asked to come full time on staff here. He wanted to accept that offer.
Should he start the investigation that would inevitably destroy him?
Edgar Highley wouldn’t hesitate to reveal the Massachusetts case if he suspected that his associate had discussed his patient with the police.
But Mrs. DeMaio already suspected something. She’d recognized his nervousness when she questioned him the other day.
He got into his car, sat in it irresolutely. Vangie Lewis did not commit suicide. She absolutely did not commit suicide by drinking cyanide. She had gotten on the subject of the Jones cult during one of their sessions when she was talking about religion.
He could see her sitting in his office, her earnest, shallow explanation of her religious beliefs. “I’m not one for going to church, Doctor. I mean I believe in God. But in my own way. I think about God sometimes. That’s better than rushing off to a service you don’t pay attention to anyhow, don’t you think? And as for those cults. They’re all crazy. I don’t see how people get involved in them. Why, remember all those people who killed themselves because they were told to? Did you hear the tape of them screaming after they drank that stuff? I had nightmares about it. And they looked so ugly.”
Pain. Ugliness. Vangie Lewis? Never!
Jiro Fukhito sighed. He knew what he had to do. Once again his professional life would pay for the terrible mistake of ten years ago.
But he had to tell the police what he knew. Vangie had run out of his office into the parking lot. But when he left, fifteen minutes later, her Lincoln Continental was still in the lot.
There was no longer any doubt in Jiro Fukhito’s mind that Vangie had gone into Edgar Highley’s office.
He drove out of the hospital parking lot and turned in the direction of the Valley County Prosecutor’s office.
♦74♦
Scott held the moccasin. Richard, Charley and Phil sat around his desk.
“Let’s try to put this together,” Scott said. “Vangie Lewis did not die at home. She was taken there sometime between midnight and eleven A. M. The last known place she visited was Dr. Fukhito’s office at the hospital. Vangie was wearing the moccasins Monday night. Somewhere in the hospital she lost one of them, and Edna Burns found it. Whoever brought her home put other shoes on her to try to cover up for the missing ones. Edna Burns found the shoe and was talking about it. And Edna Burns died.
“Emmet Salem wanted to reach you, Richard. He wanted to talk to you about Vangie’s death. He came to New York and fell or was pushed to his death a few minutes later, and the file he was carrying on Vangie Lewis disappeared.”
“And Chris Lewis swears that he saw Edgar Highley in the Essex House,” Richard interjected.
“Which may or may not be true,” Scott reminded him.
“But Dr. Salem knew about the scandal in Christ Hospital,” Richard said. “Highley wouldn’t want that to come out just when he’s getting national publicity.”
“That’s no motive to kill,” Scott said.
“How about Highley trying to get that shoe out of Edna’s drawer?” Charley asked.
“We don’t know that. That woman from the hospital claimed he was opening the drawer. He didn’t touch anything.” Scott frowned. “Nothing hangs together. We’re dealing with a prominent doctor. We can�
�t go off half-cocked because he was involved ten years ago in a hushed-up scandal. The big problem is motive. Highley had no motive to kill Vangie Lewis.”
The intercom buzzed. Scott switched it on. “Mrs. Horan is here,” Maureen said.
“All right, bring her in, and I want you to take down her statement,” Scott directed.
Richard leaned forward. This was the woman who had filed the malpractice suit against Edgar Highley.
The door opened and a young woman preceded Maureen into the room. She was a Japanese girl in her early twenties. Her hair fell loosely on her shoulders. Bright red lipstick was an incongruous note against her tawny skin. Her delicate, graceful carriage gave a floating effect even to the inexpensive pantsuit she was wearing.
Scott stood up. “Mrs. Horan, we appreciate your coming. We’ll try not to keep you too long. Won’t you sit down?”
She nodded. Clearly nervous, she wet her lips and deliberately folded her hands in her lap. Maureen unobtrusively sat behind her and opened her steno book.
“Will you state your name and address?” Scott asked.
“I am Anna Horan. I live at 415 Walnut Street in Ridgefield Park.”
“You are or were Dr. Edgar Highley’s patient?”
Richard turned quickly as he heard Maureen gasp. But the girl quickly recovered herself and, bending her head, resumed taking notes.
Anna Horan’s face hardened. “Yes, I was that murderer’s patient.”
“That murderer?” Scott said.
Now her words came in a torrent. “I went to him five months ago. I was pregnant. My husband is a second-year law student. We live on my salary. I decided I had to have an abortion. I didn’t want to, but I thought I had to.”
Scott sighed. “And Dr. Highley performed the procedure at your request and now you’re blaming him?”
“No. That’s not true. He told me to come back the next day. And I did. He took me to an operating room in the hospital. He left me, and I knew—I knew—that no matter how we managed, I wanted my baby. Dr. Highley came back; I was sitting up. I told him I’d changed my mind.”
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