Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  “No, thanks,” I said with my most ingenuous smile. The waitress left without reciprocating--but at least she didn't kick us out.

  “I don't know Rafy well personally,” Tracey said. “But we've worked together on the study. And on its grant application.”

  “He seemed to take credit for the whole thing,” Paula said.

  “He did, didn't he? We have a difference of opinion there.”

  “Does that give him a motive to want Dr. Singer dead?” I asked. “Presuming, of course, that the two of them disagreed about who deserved credit for the study.”

  “It would make them enemies in a way. But murder?”

  “Who knows what motivation is strong enough to lead to murder?” I asked. “We're just exploring for now. What do you think of Stephanie Carstens?”

  “I have heard that Rafy has a temper,” Tracey said. “As far as Stephanie is concerned, other than the fact that she doesn't belong in our circle, I have nothing against her.”

  “Would she want her husband dead?”

  Tracey dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I've never been grilled like this,” she said. “So please bear with me.”

  I almost apologized--but resolve overcame tact.

  Tracy sighed. “I suppose that if Jonathan were planning to divorce Stephanie she'd be upset. But I believe she comes from money, so that shouldn't be a motive for her. Some people never have enough, though. And defensive, definitely.”

  From what I'd seen of the Singer Institute crowd Stephanie had a right to feel defensive. I wondered what Paula was thinking.

  “Although how defensive becomes a motive for murder,” Tracey said, “I have no idea.” She gave a mini-smile. “All this psychoanalysis isn't what we do at the Institute.”

  I saw Paula look at her watch, but I wasn't done. “Judith Klansky?”

  “Judith, Judith, Judith,” Tracey replied. “She's the strongest of us all. Jonathan lost his family in World War II, so she's known him longer than anyone else has. They met in her native England before the war. He went there to flee the Nazis.”

  Something to question Klansky about, I thought. If we got the chance.

  “He's closer to her than to any of his wives,” Tracey added. “Certainly treats her better.”

  If you call treating her like a servant better, I thought. “Why might she want to kill him?” I asked.

  “Only if he betrayed her in some major way. But I don't see that happening. Not at all.”

  Our waitress returned, bearing the check we hadn't requested. I picked it up.

  “Although everyone knows not to cross Judith,” Tracey said.

  Paula nodded, but then gave me a “cut it short” look. Just a little more, I thought. “Andrea Peterson,” I said.

  Paula stood up again. “This is all very interesting, David, but it could go on and on. We have too many other things to do. This time we really have to go.”

  “Wait,” Tracey said, one more time. “When will we touch base with each other again?”

  “Well,” Paula said. “We'll see each other every day at the conference. During off hours we have our cell phones.” She patted her pocketbook.

  “OK,” Tracey said.

  After paying at the front desk Paula and I made a quick exit--with the exception of my inevitable bathroom stop. The pot of tea had worked its usual magic.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When we were back on the road, out of Tracey's clutches, I asked Paula: “Investigate the Green Panthers? Where did that come from?”

  “It was the first thing that came to my mind. I had to say something to satisfy her.”

  “And speaking of that, why did you invite her onto our team? Isn't she a suspect?”

  “I know that, David. I didn't intend to do it. But when it happened I thought we could turn it to our advantage. We've already gotten useful information from her.”

  “We have to be careful,” I countered, “to stay on the receiving, not the giving end of the information.”

  “Obviously. But you know the old saying: ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?”

  “Yes. If she's an attempted murderer, though-”

  “Any murder investigation involves risk.”

  “I give up,” I said. And Paula smiled. “By the way, where are we going?” I asked.

  “I don't know. I thought we'd figure it out on the way.”

  This time I was the one to smile. Making decisions in our relationship is generally delegated to me--except when it isn’t. “Let's see,” I said. “How about going back to the hospital? Singer’s there, and likely others, too. We can visit him, question anyone who might be around, and make plans. Without our new friend Tracey ‘helping’ us.”

  I waited, but Paula didn’t second my suggestions. Probably too busy driving. Oh, one more thing. “Speaking of plans, I arranged to meet my family for dinner tonight. At Liam Maguire's. I hope that's OK with you.”

  “I love Irish music! And Guinness. Do you think someone will play the bodhrán?”

  “I remember guitar from the last time, but no drums.”

  #

  Pleasant memories of our previous trip to Liam Maguire's brightened the atmosphere for the remainder of our trip to the hospital. We found Stephanie Carstens alone in the ICU waiting room. She was sipping through a straw from a tall, plastic-covered paper cup.

  “Boy, these smoothies are good,” she said. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks, Ms. Carstens,” Paula replied as we sat down. I know how much she loves smoothies, but I also know how much she loves sharing a stranger's drink.

  “We just ate,” Paula said. “You seem to be in a better mood. Has Dr. Singer improved?”

  “No, unfortunately not. No change. I'm just plain Stephanie, by the way.” (Not the way I would have described her). “You two are starting to feel like family to me. I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” Paula said.

  “Definitely more supportive than my own family back in Philadelphia,” Stephanie added. “They never approved of my marrying Jonathan.” She shook her head. “The age thing.”

  Not to mention that Jonathan was the father of Mitchell...who was her ex-husband.

  Stephanie looked at me. “By the way, Doc-”

  “Call me David.”

  “And I'm Paula.”

  “Please don't go blabbing to anyone about my bulimia,” Stephanie said.

  “Definitely not,” I replied.

  “It's OK. It was in my past. But I'm done with all that.” I hoped so. Many bulimics hide their habits.

  “Things have been so bad lately,” Stephanie continued. “I didn't realize it, but you're right. I do feel a little better. And I know why.”

  She surprised me by smiling. “No, it's not because of the smoothie. Although it is good. It's because I'm alone here for once. Before you two arrived, of course. You know what I mean.” Her expression hardened. “They all hate me.”

  “Really?” I asked. Paula gave me a “what planet are you from” look, but my question had been intentional. Meant to draw Stephanie out.

  “Isn't it obvious? I'm not one of them. The psychology in-crowd. The keepers of the great Jonathan Singer's flame.”

  I imagined that Paula agreed with every word, but…I guess I agreed, too. Nevertheless, “none of that is your fault, is it?” I asked, trying to be supportive.

  “Right! Can't they see that? It's not like I'm taking their precious Jonathan from them. Well, maybe a little. But it's not my fault. It was Jonathan's doing. They blame me for his decision to marry me.”

  “Probably true,” Paula conceded.

  “So all this time sitting with Judith Klansky,” I said, “can't have been very pleasant.”

  “That's for sure. It's like she thinks that I don't care about her baby, that I'm even responsible in some way for his terrible accident.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Stephanie sniffled. Did she really think it was a
n accident? I reminded myself that my investigation had to share space with sympathy for a probably-soon-to-be-grieving-widow. “How about Mitchell Singer? He doesn't hate you, does he? After all, weren't you two...”

  “I guess you've never been in this situation,” Stephanie said.

  “No.” Was she kidding? How many people divorce their spouse, then marry the ex-spouse's parent?

  “Lucky for you,” she continued. “I think it's a love-hate thing for Mitchell now. We loved each other once and got married. But things just didn't work out. And I ended up with his father. But it's not like I planned it, like some big crazy scheme. Don't they know that love is blind?” She sighed. “I can see why Mitchell would hate me...”

  Her voice caught. Had I detected a note of guilt? As Paula and I sneaked a look at each other Stephanie continued.

  “...but time has passed. And I think we still love each other, underneath it all. The movies never tell you that you can love two people at once.” She sighed again. “He's here now, by the way. With Jonathan and Lieutenant Hansen. Judith went back to the hotel, thank goodness. To freshen up.”

  Or maybe she needed a breather from Stephanie. Stephanie finished her smoothie and walked to the garbage can to toss it out. A ten-gallon hat tucked under an arm, followed by Albert Hansen, appeared in the doorway. I stood up to greet him.

  “Howdy, folks,” he said as he approached us. He shook my hand, and nodded at Paula.

  “What's the latest with Dr. Singer?” I asked. Hansen narrowed his eyes. “His medical condition, I mean.”

  “Oh, no change,” Hansen said. “Not good.”

  Stephanie rejoined us. “Time for me to go back in. Thanks for the company.”

  “Just one more question,” I told her. “Who knows that Dr. Singer suffers from Myasthenia gravis?”

  “Everybody, I think.”

  “Can we get you something from the hotel?” Paula asked Stephanie.

  “Uh, no. No thanks. But thanks for asking.”

  When Stephanie left Paula addressed me. “Everyone knows he has Myasthenia gravis. He's Jonathan Singer. World famous, like Aristotle Onassis. You know, Jackie Kennedy’s post-JFK billionaire husband, who had the same disease.”

  “Sorry,” I said, then turned to Hansen. “Do you mind sitting with us for a few minutes?”

  “I suppose.” So we did.

  “As I recall,” I said, “you've been trying to reconstruct people's movements on the boat. To establish a timeline of who was on the deck with Dr. Singer. And when.”

  “Right; I told you back at the hotel,” Hansen replied. “First, let me say that I spoke to your Detective Paulsen. He vouched for you big time. You're a chess master, he said. I'm impressed.” His bland expression, however, indicated a possible preference for checkers. “He says hello, by the way.”

  I nodded, as if acknowledging and returning Paulsen's greeting through Hansen. No reason to give him a lecture about the glories of chess. Maybe later.

  “So I'll talk to you,” Hansen continued. “But don’t go thinking you’re a police officer. I'll decide what to tell you and when, while you tell me everything. The two of you may be able to help me because you're insiders. But don't go putting yourselves in danger. Any hint of trouble, call.” He looked at each of us. We both nodded.

  “Good,” he continued. “Now to answer your question: yes. I've been reconstructing people's movements. But, as usual, it never helps the first go-round. Unless the two of you can help. Where were you before and during Singer's disappearance?”

  Paula and I looked at each other. I felt a twinge of guilt, for no reason other than that an officer of the law was questioning me.

  “We were on the deck early on,” Paula said, looking directly at Hansen. My qualms had apparently not infected her. “And we spent the rest of the time in the main party room.”

  “What time did you leave the deck?”

  “Come on,” Paula said. “No one watches the clock at a party. At least not at a good one.” “Good one” wasn't quite how I would have described it.

  “Once you were in the party room you didn't leave it?” Hansen asked. Why was he looking at me now?

  “No,” Paula said.

  “Can anyone vouch for you?” Hansen persisted, shifting back to Paula. “Besides each other?”

  This was going too far. Do something, Paula--and she did. She smiled. And so did Hansen.

  “Seriously, Lieutenant,” Paula said. “I can tell you who we spoke to. But in the middle of a party no one can prove that they didn't slip out for a few minutes.”

  Hansen shook his head. “Exactly my problem.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Enough of this, I thought. Time to return to the real investigation. I opened my mouth to speak, but Hansen raised his hand for a moment.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I've gathered a lot of useless information.” (Supposed to fire his imagination?--as the Rolling Stones might have said). “What I've learned is what everyone already knows. Mitchell Singer was the last one to see Jonathan Singer on the deck alive...if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you still think it's just an accident?” Paula asked.

  “Well-”

  “Have you heard about the missing Mestinon pills?” she continued.

  “Yes, ma'am. I did hear about that.”

  “Quite a coincidence, isn't it?”

  “Life is full of coincidences when you dig into things. Doesn't mean that the events are related.”

  “That's one way of looking at it. But it's certainly worth investigating.”

  “We'll investigate everything. You never know what will turn out to be important.”

  I put my hand on Paula's arm, her muscle tension confirming my suspicion that Hansen was annoying her. “Sorry to interrupt, Paula, but the Lieutenant never finished answering your question. Do you still think it's an accident?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Have you learned anything new?”

  “I've heard that the Green Panthers came back. After I sent them away.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. Now Paula put her hand on my arm. But a thought occurred to me. “Oh, you suspect that threatening-looking guy.”

  Hansen smiled. “Tom Haydock? Yeah, I suppose he does look threatening.”

  “You know him? Oh, right. You seemed to recognize him on the boat.”

  “Can you tell us about him?” Paula asked.

  “Tom owns a charter-boat. Ornery, but he's never done anything illegal. Or at least he's never been caught at it.”

  I turned to Paula. “We should check him out.” Then back to Hansen. “Can you tell us where to find him?”

  “Sure. He'll be either out on the water or relaxing on his boat. Which he docks at the Cove. Just don't bother him if he's had a few.” He chuckled, then slapped his palms on his thighs. “Now I gotta go.” He gave us directions to the Cove, scooped up his hat, and left.

  We saw Mitchell Singer bump into Hansen at the elevator. Singer waved to us, but left, too.

  #

  “Let's visit Jonathan Singer,” I said.

  “Good idea. I just wish we could do something to help him.”

  ICUs in the late 1990s are all different, but all the same. Four beds or twelve. Rooms separate or partitioned, windowed or walled in. But all feature critically ill patients, tubes going into and out of those patients, and the rhythmic whooshing of respirators.

  Most people think that the “intensive” in “intensive care” refers to intensive technology or intensive doctoring. But even though the technology is mind-boggling and the doctoring has evolved into its own medical specialty, “intensive” really refers to the degree of nursing care. The Cape hospital's ICU had two nurses for the four patients, enough to actually take care of each patient's needs promptly.

  We identified ourselves to the closest nurse and proceeded to Jonathan Singer's bed. Stephanie was sitting by his side, staring at him. She acknowledged us by raising her head.

&n
bsp; Paula and I stood over a dwindled version of Jonathan Singer. Cheeks sunken, stringy hair suddenly sparse. When people as sick as Singer recover, the way they appear while ill is just a bad memory. But ICU patients often don't recover. And these horrible images, so unlike the preceding 99% of that person's life, are powerfully imprinted on their loved ones' memories by virtue of being the last ones.

  I silently wished Singer a speedy recovery. “Ready?” I asked Paula. She nodded, her grim expression reminding me of her graveside look. Her hand found mine.

  As I turned to say goodbye to Stephanie I thought of something. “Stephanie, do you have Dr. Singer's pill-box, the one that was missing yesterday?”

  “Yes. I think so. This is the same pocketbook.” She rummaged through it.

  “Stop!” I said, but too late. She was holding the pill-box aloft. “It's OK, but it would have been better if you hadn't touched it. Please put it back in your pocketbook, and give it to Lieutenant Hansen as soon as possible. Maybe he can find fingerprints, or other clues.”

  “David,” Paula said. “Didn't Stephanie, ah, didn't the pill-box end up on the ER waiting room floor last night?”

  Whoops. I'd forgotten that Stephanie had thrown the pill-box at Judith. “You're right,” I said. “Still, it's best to be thorough. You never know.”

  Stephanie half-smiled, then nodded. She replaced the pill-box in her pocketbook. “I'll give it to Lieutenant Hansen as soon as I see him.”

  On the way out of the hospital Paula kissed me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “So what's our next move?” Paula asked me.

  I looked at my watch. “It's 3 o'clock. How about tackling the boat captain, Tom Haydock? If he's dangerous, it would be safest to question him in the daytime.”

  Paula drove and I navigated, based on the directions Hansen had given us. “Can we talk about us?” I asked.

  “Oh, David. The sun is out and we're making progress on the investigation. Let's be happy with that.”

  I preferred indecision to rejection. Still, it wasn't good for either of us for indecision to be the lifelong theme of our relationship.