“Yes?” The tone was cold and questioning.
“Dr. Highley, I’m Scott Myerson, the Valley County Prosecutor. We have a search warrant for these premises, and it is my duty to inform you that you have become a suspect in the wrongful deaths of Vangie Lewis, Edna Burns and Dr. Emmet Salem. You have the right to consult a lawyer. You can refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you.”
Suspect. They weren’t sure. They hadn’t found Katie. Every shred of evidence had to be circumstantial. He stepped aside, opening the door wider to allow them to enter. His voice was brittle with controlled fury as he said, “I cannot understand the reason for this intrusion, but come in, gentlemen. I will answer any questions you have; you are welcome to search my home. However, I must warn you, when I consult a lawyer it will be to bring suit against Valley County and against each one of you personally.”
When he’d left Christ Hospital in Devon, he’d threatened to sue if any word of the investigation was leaked. And for the most part it had been kept quiet. He’d managed to see his file in the Queen Mary Clinic in Liverpool and there was no reference to it.
Deliberately he led them into the library. He knew he made an imposing figure sitting behind the massive Jacobean desk. It was vital that he unnerve them, make them afraid to question too closely.
With a gesture that barely escaped being contemptuous, he waved them to the leather couch and chairs. The Prosecutor and Dr. Carroll sat down; the other two men did not. Scott handed him the printed Miranda warning. Scornfully he signed it.
“We’ll proceed with the search,” the older detective said politely. “Where do you keep your medical records, Dr. Highley?”
“At my office, of course,” he snapped. “However, please satisfy yourselves. I’m sure you will. There is a file drawer in this desk with personal papers.” He stood up, walked over to the bar and poured Chivas Regal into a crystal tumbler. Deliberately he added ice and a splash of water. He did not go through the ritual of offering a drink to the others. If they’d come even minutes sooner he would still have had Katie’s file in the desk drawer. They were trained investigators. They might notice the false bottom in that drawer. But they would never discover the safe—not unless they tore the house apart.
He sat down in the high-backed striped velvet chair near the fireplace, sipped the Scotch and eyed them coldly. When he’d come into the library he’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed the fire Hilda had laid for him. It was burning splendidly. Later he’d have the fondue and wine here.
The questions began. When had he last seen Vangie Lewis?
“As I told Mrs. DeMaio . . .”
“You are sure, Doctor, that Mrs. Lewis did not enter your office Monday night after leaving Dr. Fukhito?”
“As I told Mrs. DeMaio . . .” They had no proof. Absolutely no proof.
“Where were you Monday night, Doctor?”
“Home. Right where you see me now. I came home directly after my office hours.”
“Did you receive any phone calls?”
“None I recall.” The answering service had taken no message Monday night. He’d checked.
“Were you in Edna Burns’s apartment on Tuesday night?”
His smile, contemptuous. “Hardly.”
“We’ll want some hair samples from you.”
Hair samples. Had some been found on Edna or in that apartment? How about Vangie? But he’d been in Edna’s apartment with the police on Wednesday night. Vangie always wore that black coat to the office. Even if strands of his hair had been found near the dead women, they could be explained.
“Were you in the Essex House Hotel last night after five P. M.?”
“Absolutely not.”
“We have a witness who is prepared to swear that he saw you get off the elevator there at approximately five thirty.”
Who had seen him? He had glanced around the lobby as he got off the elevator. He was certain that no one he knew well was there. Maybe they were bluffing. Anyhow, eyewitness identification was notoriously unreliable.
“I was not in the Essex House last night. I was in New York at the Carlyle! I dine there frequently, in fact to my dismay my medical bag was stolen while I was dining there.”
He’d give gratuitous information; make it seem as though he were becoming cooperative. It had been a mistake to mention Katie DeMaio’s name. Would it be natural to tell these people that she was missing from the hospital? Obviously they didn’t know she was a patient there. The sister had not yet contacted them. No. Say nothing about it. Doctor-patient confidentiality. Later he’d explain, “I would have told you, but of course assumed that Mrs. DeMaio had fled the hospital in nervous anxiety. I thought she would be troubled to have that fact a matter of record on her job.”
But it was foolish to have mentioned the theft.
“What was in your bag?” The Prosecutor’s interest seemed perfunctory.
“A basic emergency kit, a few drugs. Hardly worth the thief’s effort.” Should he mention that it contained files? No.
The Prosecutor was hardly listening. He beckoned to the younger investigator. “Get that package out of the car.”
What package? Edgar Highley’s fingers gripped the glass. Was this a trick?
They sat in silence, waiting. The detective returned and handed a small parcel fastened with a rubber band to Scott. Scott yanked the rubber band and pulled off the wrapping paper, revealing a battered shoe. “Do you recognize this moccasin, Doctor?”
He licked his lips. Careful. Careful. Which foot would it fit? Everything depended on that. He leaned over, examined it. The left shoe, the one that had been in Edna’s apartment. They had not found his bag.
“Certainly not. Should I recognize this shoe?”
“Vangie Lewis, your patient, wore it continually for several months. She saw you several times a week. And you didn’t ever notice?”
“Mrs. Lewis wore a pair of rather shabby shoes. I certainly do not address my attention to specifically recognizing one particular shoe when it’s placed before me.”
“Did you ever hear of a Dr. Emmet Salem?”
He pursed his lips. “Possibly. The name seems familiar. I’d have to go through my records.”
“Wasn’t he on staff with you at Christ Hospital in Devon?”
“Of course. Yes. He was visiting staff. Indeed, I do remember him.” How much did they know about Christ Hospital?
“Did you visit Dr. Salem last night at the Essex House?”
“I believe that question has already been answered.”
“Were you aware that Vangie Lewis was carrying an Oriental baby?”
So that was it. Smoothly he explained: “Mrs. Lewis was becoming terrified at the prospect of giving birth. That explains it, does it not? She knew that she could never make anyone believe her husband was the father.”
Now they were asking about Anna Horan and Maureen Crowley. They were coming close; too close; like dogs baying as they closed in on their quarry.
“Those two young women are typical of many who demand abortions and then blame the physician when they experience emotional reactions. It’s not uncommon, you know. Check with any of my colleagues.”
Richard listened as Scott persisted in his questioning. Scott was right, he thought bleakly. Together everything added up. Separately everything was refutable, explainable. Unless they could prove wrongful death in the maternity cases, it would be impossible to charge Edgar Highley with anything and make it stick.
Highley was so composed, so sure. Richard tried to think how his father, a neurologist, would react if he were questioned about the wrongful death of one of his patients. How would Bill Kennedy react? How would he, Richard, react both as a person and as a doctor? Not like this man—not with this sarcasm, this scorn.
It was an act. Richard was sure of it. Edgar Highley was acting. But how could they prove it? With sickening certainty he knew they’d never find anything incriminating in Highley’s records. He
was far too clever for that.
Scott was asking about the Berkeley baby. “Doctor, you are aware that Mrs. Elizabeth Berkeley gave birth to a baby who has green eyes. Isn’t that a medical impossibility when both parents and all four grandparents have brown eyes?”
“I would say so, but clearly Mr. Berkeley is not the father of that baby.”
Neither Scott nor Richard had expected the admission. “That doesn’t mean I know who the father is,” Edgar Highley said smoothly, “but I seriously doubt that it is the obstetrician’s business to delve into matters such as that. If my patient wishes to tell me that her husband is her baby’s father, then so be it.”
A shame, he thought. He would have to defer fame a little longer. He’d never be able to admit the success of the Berkeley baby now. But there would be others.
Scott looked at Richard, sighed and stood up. “Dr. Highley, when you go to your office tomorrow you will learn that we have seized all your hospital and office records. We are deeply concerned at the number of maternity deaths at Westlake Hospital, and that matter is under intensive investigation.”
He was on safe ground. “I invite the most minute scrutiny of all my patients’ records. I can assure you that the Westlake Maternity death ratio is remarkably low in consideration of the cases we handle.”
The smell of the fondue was filling the house. He wanted to eat it. He was so hungry. Unless it was stirred, it would surely burn. Just a few minutes more.
The phone rang. “I’ll let my service take it,” he said, then knew he could not. Undoubtedly it would be the hospital saying that Mrs. DeMaio had not yet returned home and her sister was frantic. It might be the perfect opportunity to let the Prosecutor and Dr. Carroll know about Katie’s disappearance. He picked up the phone. “Dr. Highley here.”
“Doctor, this is Lieutenant Weingarden of the Seventeenth Precinct in New York. We’ve just arrested a man who answers the description of the person who stole a bag from the trunk of your car last night.”
The bag.
“Has it been recovered?” Something in his voice was giving him away. The Prosecutor and Dr. Carroll were watching him curiously. The Prosecutor stalked over to the desk and openly reached for the other extension.
“Yes, we have recovered your bag, Doctor. That’s exactly the point. Several of the items in it may lead to far more serious charges than theft. Doctor, will you describe the contents of your bag?”
“Some medicine—a few basic drugs; an emergency kit.”
“What about a patient’s file from the office of a Dr. Emmet Salem, a bloodstained paperweight and an old shoe?”
He could feel the hard, suspicious stare of the Prosecutor. He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was remarkably controlled. “Are you joking?”
“I thought you’d say that, sir. We’re cooperating with the Valley County Prosecutor’s office concerning the suspicious death of Dr. Emmet Salem last night. I’ll call the Prosecutor now. It looks as though the suspect might have killed Dr. Salem in the process of a theft. Thank you, sir.”
He heard Scott Myerson’s order to the New York policeman. “Don’t hang up!”
Slowly he replaced the receiver he was holding on the cradle. It was all over. Now that they had the bag, it was all over. Whatever chance he had had of bluffing his way through the investigation was finished.
The paperweight sticky with Emmet Salem’s blood. The medical file on Vangie Lewis that contradicted the information in his office records. The shoe, that miserable filthy object.
If the shoe fits . . .
He stared down at his feet, objectively contemplating the patina of his handsome English cordovans.
They’d never stop searching now until they found the true files.
If the shoe fits wear it.
The moccasins had never fit Vangie Lewis. The supreme irony was that they fit him. As clearly as though he had walked in them, they tied him to the deaths of Vangie Lewis, Edna Burns, Emmet Salem.
Hysterical laughter rumbled inside him, shaking his stolid frame. The Prosecutor had completed the call. “Dr. Highley” Scott Myerson’s voice was formal, “you are under arrest for the murder of Dr. Emmet Salem.”
Edgar Highley watched as the detective sitting at the desk stood up quickly. He hadn’t realized the man had been taking notes. He watched as the detective pulled handcuffs from his pocket.
Handcuffs. Jail. A trial. Blobs of humanity passing judgment on him. He who had conquered the primary act of life, the birth process, a common prisoner.
He drew himself up. The indomitable strength was returning. He had performed an operation. Despite his brilliance the operation had failed. The patient was clinically dead. There was nothing left to do except turn off the life-sustaining apparatus.
Dr. Carroll was looking at him curiously. From the moment of their Wednesday night meeting, Carroll had been hostile. Somehow Edgar Highley was sure that Richard Carroll was the man who had become suspicious of him. But he had his revenge. Katie DeMaio’s death was his revenge on Richard Carroll.
The detective was approaching him. The handcuffs caught the glint of the fire.
He smiled politely at him. “I have just remembered that I do have some medical records that might interest you,” he said. He walked over to the wall, released the spring that held the panel in place. The panel slid back. Mechanically he opened the wall safe.
He could gather up the records, make a dash for the fireplace. The fire Hilda had laid was fairly brisk now. Before they could stop him, he could get rid of the most important files.
No. Let them know his genius. Let them mourn it.
He lifted the files out of the safe, stacked them on the desk. They were all staring at him now. Carroll walked over to the desk. The Prosecutor still had his hand on the phone. One detective was waiting with the handcuffs. The other detective had just come back into the room. Probably he’d been going through the house snooping into his possessions. Dogs hounding their quarry.
“Oh, there is another case you’ll want to have.”
He walked over to the table by the fireplace chair and reached for his Scotch. Carrying it to the safe, he sipped it casually. The vial was there, right in the back of the safe. He’d put it away Monday night for possible future use. The future was now. He’d never expected it to end this way. But he was still in control of life and death. The supreme decision was his alone to make. A burning smell was permeating the room. Regretfully he realized it was the fondue.
At the safe he moved quickly. He slipped the vial open and dumped the crystals of cyanide into his glass. As understanding swept over Richard’s face, he held up the glass in a mocking toast.
“Don’t!” Richard shouted, throwing himself across the room as Edgar Highley raised the glass to his lips and gulped down the contents. Richard knocked the glass away as Highley fell, but knew it was too late. The four men watched futilely, helplessly, as Highley’s screams and groans died into writhing silence.
“Oh, God!” the younger detective said. He bolted from the room, his face green.
“Why’d he do it?” the other detective asked. “What a lousy way to die.”
Richard bent over the body. Edgar Highley’s face was convulsed; foaming bubbles were blistering his lips. The protruding gray eyes were open and staring. He could have done so much good, Richard thought. Instead, he was an egocentric genius who used his God-given skill to experiment with lives.
“Once I got on the line with the New York police, he knew he couldn’t lie or murder his way out anymore,” Scott said. “You were right about him, Richard.”
Straightening up, Richard went over to the desk and scanned the names on the files. BERKELEY, LEWIS. “These are the records we’re looking for.” He opened the Berkeley file. The first page began:
Elizabeth Berkeley, age 39, became my patient today. She will never conceive her own child. I have decided that she will be the next extraordinary patient.
“There’s medical histor
y here,” he said quietly.
Scott was standing over the body. “And when you think that this nut was Katie’s doctor,” he muttered.
Richard looked up from reading Liz Berkeley’s file. “What did you say?” he demanded. “Are you suggesting that Highley was treating Katie?”
“She had an appointment with him Wednesday,” Scott replied.
“She had a what?”
“She happened to mention it when—” The phone interrupted him. Scott picked it up. “Yes,” then said, “I’m sorry, this is not Dr. Highley. Who is calling, please?” His expression changed. Molly Kennedy. “Molly.”
Richard stared. Apprehension strangled his neck muscles. “No,” Scott said. “I can’t put Dr. Highley on. What’s the matter?”
He listened, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, “Highley admitted Katie to Westlake tonight and she’s missing.”
Richard yanked the phone from him. “Molly, what’s happened? Why was Katie there? What do you mean she’s missing”
He listened. “Come on, Molly. Katie would never walk out of a hospital. You should know that. Wait.”
Dropping the phone, he frantically scattered the files on the desk. Near the bottom of the pile he found the one he dreaded to see. DEMAIO, KATHLEEN. Opening it, he raced through it, his face paling as he read. He came to the last paragraph.
With the calm of desperation, he picked up the phone. “Molly, put Bill on,” he ordered. As Scott and the detectives listened, he said, “Bill, Katie is hemorrhaging somewhere in Westlake Hospital. Call the lab at Westlake. We’ll need to hang a bottle of O negative the minute we find her. Have them ready to take a blood sample and analyze for hemoglobin, hematocrit and type and cross-match for four units of whole blood. Tell them to have an operating room ready. I’ll meet you there.” He broke the connection.
Incredible, he thought. You can still function knowing that already it may be too late. He turned to the detective at the desk. “Call the hospital. Pull the search team from Highley’s office and have them start looking for Katie. Tell them to look everywhere—every room, every closet. Get all the hospital personnel to help. Every second counts.”
The Cradle Will Fall Page 27