by D. J. Palmer
Zach had written:
The medical capacity of DCF is nil. The entire agency has one half-time pediatrician, one half-time psychiatrist, and a handful of nurses on staff. You’re making a very dangerous assumption based on scant medical evidence, and I fail to see why these drastic measures are even necessary. By bringing in all these subspecialists, you’ve clouded the situation with value judgments from egos that cannot accept the possibility they’ve made a terrible and potentially tragic mistake. I suggest we convene a meeting with the clinicians involved, try to reach a consensus on a plan, and work with the parents instead of treating them like criminals. Let DCF take the lead on coordinating the key players if that will satisfy them, but once all the views get aired, it would help immensely if you and the others holding Meghan hostage would take a damn humility pill.
In her reply, Mendoza did not seem to take offense. She thanked Zach for his suggestion and promised to explore the idea of a consensus meeting. She then went on to detail how Meghan had gotten violently ill during the mother’s visit, but her doctors could find no physical cause.
It sounded to Zach like Meghan had experienced some type of a somatoform disorder, in which her bodily symptoms present in a disproportionate level of distress, including pain, but the source cannot be traced to a physical cause. It was a telltale marker of Munchausen syndrome, and the fact that the mother was present during the episode lent credibility to the proxy accusation. Zach had no doubt Meghan had experienced real distress, real pain, but the incident served only to reinforce the notion that Becky Gerard might be so deeply enmeshed in her daughter’s mind, her psyche, that a single suggestion could be enough to trigger a profound somatic reaction.
Zach wondered if that frightening episode was at the heart of Dr. Levine’s surprise dinner invitation, but the mystery seemed destined to remain unsolved. Almost thirty minutes late now, Levine was still MIA.
Zach approached the hostess at the front of the restaurant. “Do you do deliveries?” he asked.
The curly-haired hostess said they did. He explained his dinner companion’s tardiness.
“I’m a fellow doctor at White Memorial,” Zach said, showing her his license with the MD stamped at the end of his name. “I’m a bit concerned. It’s not like Peter to be late.” Zach knew they could not call him on this embellishment. “If he’s ordered takeout from here before, perhaps you have his address on file. I’ll pop over and just make sure he’s all right. He’s not answering his phone or texts.”
There was some hesitation on the hostess’s part, a brief conversation between her and the manager, but eventually, the MD won their trust. Zach set off into a humid spring evening in search of the missing doctor.
* * *
ZACH USED the address the pizzeria had given him to locate Dr. Peter Levine’s home four blocks away. He lived on the first floor of a classic three-family dwelling in Roslindale, an established residential neighborhood of Boston. It was not the fanciest of places, but Levine was a newbie doc with plenty of medical school debt to pay down. There was no garage or driveway, but ample street parking made it so that Zach did not have to drive around searching for a place for his car. Zach did not know if Levine lived alone or if he was married, straight or gay, happy or sad—he knew nothing about the man other than that he was wrong about Meghan and very late for dinner.
All three floors had some lights on, but Levine’s home was lit up as though someone else were paying the electric bill. Zach strode up the front stairs. He rang the buzzer to Levine’s unit and waited. No answer. The houses here were nestled closely together. Zach could see into the window of the adjacent home. A family was sitting down to eat—mother, father, and two young children. There were smiles all around as the father scooped food from a baking dish onto waiting plates. Such a mundane, ordinary moment, one the family did not, could not fully appreciate. Meals like this one happened most every night for this family and others like them. But not for Zach, who felt a profound ache at seeing the ordinary in motion.
He could not recall the last good day he had had with his son. It had passed as uneventfully as every other day, but at some point, there was the drop-off, akin to going over a cliff, when the subtle changes he had failed to notice congealed into a more pronounced sickness from which Will would not return. The more vivid memories Zach retained were also the cruelest—the hospital bed, his boy’s moonlight pale skin, his tears and Zach’s mixing as they embraced, the arguments with Stacy, the longing for that one good day.
Zach rang the bell again, waited for a response, but none came. Moving to the other side of the porch, Zach leaned his body over the railing to get a good look in the first-floor window. Through the gauzy curtains, he saw the outline of a man seated on a sofa, but could not tell if it was Levine.
Perhaps the door buzzer was broken, Zach thought. Perhaps Levine had his phone powered off and he’d forgotten all about their dinner. Zach leaned his body out a bit farther and rapped on the window to get the occupant’s attention. There was no movement, so Zach knocked a bit harder. Still nothing. Sirens approaching from the direction of Main Street worried Zach. Someone may have called the police, thinking he was a burglar. Zach resumed knocking, louder this time. How can he not hear?
Concern pinged at Zach—something was not right. He returned to the buzzers, but this time went for the floor above, where there were plenty of lights on as well. There was no intercom system, but soon enough Zach heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Moments later, a large man in dungarees and a work shirt appeared in the foyer, looking quite perturbed. Perhaps he thought this stranger on his front porch was from Greenpeace or Jehovah’s Witnesses, come to disrupt his evening ritual. He opened the door partway, stuck his face in the crack, and growled, “No solicitors.”
“I’m a doctor,” Zach explained, and introduced himself. “I’m trying to reach Peter Levine, your downstairs neighbor. I think he’s in the living room, but he’s not answering his phone and won’t respond even when I knock on the window.”
The door opened fully, and the large man stepped onto the porch. He was the size of an NFL nose tackle. The porch floorboards creaked slightly under his weight. “Show me,” he said.
Zach leaned over the railing, knocked on the window, and made sure the big man could see that the figure seated inside did not budge.
“What’s your name?” Zach asked.
“Doug Griffin,” said the man.
“Doug, do you have a key to the unit?” Zach asked.
“No,” he said. “The landlord does. I can call him.”
Zach thought it over while a fresh stab of concern hit him. Something was terribly wrong. “How far away is the landlord?”
Doug ruminated on it. “I don’t know. Usually takes twenty minutes to get here when the damn sink starts backing up. I’d fix it myself, but it’s a matter of principle.”
Zach did the math in his head. Twenty minutes for the landlord to show with a key, ten for the police to let him in. If there was a medical emergency, it could be too late. Zach thought of another way. He descended the stairs and searched around until he found a good-size rock from the garden.
“Do you have a stepladder?” Zach asked.
“Yeah, there’s one in the shed.”
“Get it!”
Doug went to the shed while Zach launched his rock through the window adjacent to the one where the still figure sat. Glass splintered noisily, violently. Shards fell like plinking raindrops. The person inside did not move. Doug returned with the ladder and positioned it underneath the broken window.
Zach went up quickly. Using his elbow, he broke away more glass until he could get his hand inside to undo the latch. The window opened easily and Zach slipped inside, careful to avoid the broken glass littering the hardwood floor. He popped to his feet, heart hammering, gripped with nervous anticipation. He went to the sofa. There, with his back straight, eyes open and blank and hands resting on his lap, sat Peter Levine. There were no visibl
e wounds on his face, neck, or hands.
“Peter!” Zach yelled, giving gentle slaps to try to rouse him. Levine’s skin felt cool to the touch. “Peter!” Zach shouted again.
From outside, Zach heard Doug cry out, “Is everything all right?”
“Call 911,” Zach said, sitting on the sofa next to Peter. There was an empty teacup on the coffee table before him. His body seemed perfectly intact. No blood. Levine was like a wax figure.
One look at Peter Levine’s pale skin, and Zach knew there’d be no radial pulse in either arm when he checked. He did not have a blood pressure cuff on him, but soon enough, the EMTs would show up. They’d try to get a read but would come up short.
Zach stared into Peter Levine’s murky eyes, seeing infinity there. He put his ear to Dr. Peter Levine’s chest, positive of what he’d hear. Nothing. The sound of silence.
CHAPTER 30
BECKY
“You have to do it,” Veronica said. As usual, she sounded quite sure of herself.
Becky, who had bought a new computer specifically to have this FaceTime chat, did not share her conviction. “I’m worried what it will do to Meghan … to our case,” Becky said. “I’m on shaky enough ground as it is with that judge.”
“Don’t fret, chica. Call in the cavalry,” Veronica insisted. “Fight fire with fire. The press has to know about Meghan. They’ll be all over this story. Trust me, I know.”
One look at Veronica’s LinkedIn profile would be proof enough. She was a PR professional with years of experience working for one of the world’s largest public relations firms. She had helped Fortune 500 clients navigate bad press, led crisis response campaigns, and generated enormous attention for her efforts. She was the Olivia Pope of PR, a dam with floodgates that could be opened or closed at her whim, and she wanted those gates open to draw media attention to Meghan’s plight.
“If they took Ashley like that, you best believe I’d have the media on my side,” Veronica said. “And then I’d have the hounds barking at the gates of White until I got her back.”
Becky felt a sharp pang of guilt that she was not doing enough to help Meghan. She also understood her daughter’s sudden sickness might not have helped her cause, as she had hoped it would. Veronica was right: She should rise up and meet the challenge head-on. Thump her chest, beat her drum, bang on those doors until she got back what they took from her. Becky’s shame burned like a flame against her skin. For Meghan’s sake, she would be better. She had to be better.
“Help me do it,” Becky said.
Veronica smiled, her ruby lips parting to reveal a bright white smile that had convinced more clients to trust her than Meghan had doctors. “That’s my girl,” Veronica said. “I’ll take it from here. Any news on your mom?”
“She’s still alive, miracle of miracles,” Becky said with no evident emotion. “But I’m not going to see her. Not until Meghan’s home safe.”
“Does your sister have anything to say about that?”
“Sabrina has something to say about everything, but I don’t care. I don’t care what anybody thinks. I just want my daughter back.”
“The story writes itself,” Veronica said. “‘Big, faceless hospital rips sick girl from mother’s arms.’ Seriously, Beck, you’re going to need to supply refreshments for all the poor reporters who will be camped out on your front lawn.”
“Do I want that?”
“Of course you want that!” snapped Veronica. “You need it if you’re going to get Meghan back.”
“But the judge—”
“I have bad news for you, sweetie. The judge is not going to be on your side. Nobody is. Except, of course, for the public at large.”
“What about Carl?”
“What about him?”
“Shouldn’t we at least consult him before … you know, we release those hounds?”
“He’s your husband. I can only tell you what I would do.”
Becky knew exactly what Veronica would do. She thought it over, anticipating Carl’s outrage, then decided to let Veronica operate from the shadows. Just because the media had learned of the story did not mean Carl had to know she was the source of the leak. A little jolt of excitement tingled in Becky. Veronica was right. It felt good to take charge.
Damn good.
Carl was around the house somewhere—his office, perhaps—but what did it matter? They’d barely spoken since coming home from the hospital yesterday. He was still stewing in his anger, marinating in dark thoughts, facing an impossible choice: Whom to believe? The doctors or his wife?
But Becky felt no sympathy for him. None whatsoever. He could think what he wanted. It made no difference to her either way. There was no question in her mind that Carl wanted Meghan back home. She could see the ache in every new worry line carved in his beleaguered face. But would he be willing to go to the same lengths as she would to make that happen?
She’d find out soon enough.
* * *
THE DOORBELL rang at exactly three o’clock that same afternoon. Becky opened the front door, hoping that the attractive dark-haired woman standing on her front step was simply lost and in need of directions. She seemed far too young to be Becky’s best chance at getting her daughter back. But no, she was, in fact, Kelly London, the court investigator appointed to make an influential report to Judge Trainer.
Carl emerged from somewhere. If he had any decency or tact, he would have made his head-to-toe scan of the young Ms. London a bit less apparent. But it was hard not to look at Kelly. She had a youthful beauty, and a body that appeared to have endured every workout ever devised. She wore a tight-fitting sweater, hip-hugging gray slacks, and pumps that gave her a few inches of extra height. The day was warm, so no need for a coat, which gave Carl even more to ogle. Becky held her tongue.
She always held her tongue.
“Thank you for making time to see me,” Kelly said, her voice melodious as a songbird’s.
A pit opened in Becky’s stomach. If Kelly London was over twenty-eight, then Becky was related to Mary, Queen of Scots. How could the courts have assigned such an inexperienced person to head up this investigation? Becky wanted a do-over. She wanted to call Judge Trainer, tell her a mistake had been made, that they’d sent a law school student instead of a seasoned court investigator to her house. Rather than make that call, Becky invited Kelly inside. She offered her something to drink or eat, but Kelly and her hyper-thin physique declined.
They set up shop at the dining room table, where Kelly had plenty of room to spread out the file folders and notes she carried in her leather bag. Carl and Becky each gave consent to let Kelly record the conversation. Carl was especially accommodating, nodding obsequiously, seemingly smitten with her.
Becky was used to women checking Carl out, but she’d seen the opposite before, too, and had even talked with him about it on occasion. She noticed how he looked Kelly in the eyes longer than was strictly appropriate; saw how his posture straightened, how his arms stayed in a state of perpetual flex. Carl often complained about getting older, so perhaps it was Kelly’s youth that he found attractive. Maybe she reminded him of a time when life was far simpler.
“Let’s start by getting an update on Meghan. What have you heard?”
Carl did most of the talking. He recounted for Kelly’s benefit how the doctors had essentially dragged their deathly ill daughter away from them. He sounded aggrieved, but his anger was directed at White, not Becky. It had been the reverse on the car ride home. Carl was convinced Becky had said or done something to Meghan to make her sick. When Dr. Nash called with news that Meghan’s test results had come back normal—that there was no physical cause for her profound and rapid-onset illness, that the blood work was perfectly fine—Carl’s doubts had found new, stronger footing. There was a fight—another damn fight.
“And we still don’t know what made her so sick?” Kelly asked in a honey-dipped voice. There was no edge to this woman, because the years had yet to hone one. She did
not, could not, appreciate Becky’s struggles—she was probably still cruising the bars with her girlfriends.
“There’s been no official diagnosis,” Becky said before Carl could interject his point of view. “But I’m not sure they tested her properly. I haven’t seen any of the labs. Nobody has sent me any reports.”
“Well, that’s because Jill Mendoza would need a court order to release them,” Kelly explained. “That would be her decision to make.” Kelly tossed this out rather thoughtlessly, as if Becky were not fully aware of the guardian ad litem’s power.
“I know it doesn’t look good that we were together when she got sick,” Becky said. “But I’m not intentionally making her sick, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The look Kelly returned made it clear she’d need more than an impassioned plea in order to get Meghan back. “I guess that’s what we’re here to figure out,” said Kelly. “The question is how to prove it.”
“That’s simple,” Becky said emphatically. “She needs to have a muscle biopsy done, and maybe an EMG test—that’s electromyography. It measures the energy in her muscles and nerve cells, or something like that. Dr. Fisher can explain it all better than I can.”
“Dr. Fisher, yes,” Kelly said, glancing at her notes. “I have an appointment to speak with him later today.”
In the cracks of time when her mind drifted away from Meghan, Becky sometimes thought of Zach. She imagined he had been an amazing father, kind and attentive. It made her wonder what sort of husband he’d been to his ex-wife, Stacy was her name, wasn’t it. Most likely he had been kind to her as well, with a big heart, always peppering her with sweet little surprises. It had disappointed Becky how unreceptive Zach was to her coquettish behavior, but she had to try. Bonding over their dead children would dredge up too much pain for them both.