Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  “They've got him inside,” Paula said. “Questioning him.”

  “My poor Moshe.”

  “Those poor police officers” was my first thought. Fortunately, “I forgot to tell him not to talk,” is what I said.

  “I told him that before they took him inside, but...” Paula paused...and my mother finished: “but you know how well he listens to other people's advice. On his way inside he shouted ‘the truth will set me free’.” She smiled half-way. “It's like he thinks they're filming a movie.”

  As I mirrored my mother’s half-smile I banished thoughts of who might play my father in the movie. Maybe we were more alike than I’d suspected. “Does he have a lawyer?” I asked.

  My mother looked up. “No. But I spoke to Harry Clinton, back in Centreville. He promised to work on it and call us back.” I cocked my head. “On Paula's cell phone,” she added.

  I nodded. “Good idea. Harry's still the mayor, and a mayor's specialty is connections. Particularly legal ones.” Doctors, on the other hand--including me--would prefer to have most lawyers transported to another dimension.

  My mother shivered, and hugged herself.

  “Would you like me to take you home, Mom? I can come back and stay here as long as necessary.”

  “Same goes for me,” Paula said.

  “Thank you, children, but no. It's true that I'm tired, but I'm mostly feeling bad because I'm worried. If I went home I'd worry even more.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “Tea? Soup?”

  “Sounds good, but maybe later.”

  No one spoke. I looked at the police officer behind the counter. She kept her gaze aimed downward, onto the counter, and wrote intermittently. She was probably doing some classified project with life-and-death implications--or a crossword puzzle.

  “Don't do it,” Paula said.

  “Don't do what?”

  “You're not the only one who can read people, David. Don't bother the police officer yet. They made it clear to us that we should settle in. That this would take hours.”

  “OK.” Silence fell once again, until I broke it. “How would you feel about discussing the Jonathan Singer case? We didn't get to do it before. And it's the only constructive thing I can think of doing to help my father.”

  “Would you mind if we did that, Charlotte?” Paula asked.

  “No. Go right ahead. I wish I could help, but...”

  “No, Mom. You just rest. Would you like to lie down? Should I ask them for a blanket, or a pillow?”

  “No. I'll just sit here and listen to you. And watch that nice officer over there.”

  “Let's go through our list of suspects,” I said to Paula. “And their pros and cons. Please be honest. No one gets eliminated because we like them.”

  “Except us and your parents.”

  “Touché. And we can restrict the list to people who were on the boat.”

  “Plus the Green Panthers.”

  “But when they left, Singer hadn't yet been thrown off the boat.”

  “Did you actually see them leave?”

  “No. But Mom was with them. Mom, tell us what happened.”

  “We left Dr. Singer's boat when the Lieutenant told us to. But after that I don't know. I went to the lower level of Mr. Haydock's boat to lie down. Dad woke me up when we were ready to get off.”

  “So the Green Panthers stay on the list, right?” Paula asked. “We don't eliminate anyone because we like them.”

  “OK, OK. The good news is that our friend Thomas Haydock is a suspect.”

  “But not a good one. He could have thrown Singer off the boat, but how did he steal the Mestinon, much less put it back?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “You're absolutely right,” I told Paula. “And the same goes for the rest of the Green Panthers. Including my parents. We'll have to explain that to Hansen if he insists on holding my father.”

  “Although it's at least theoretically possible that someone could have sneaked on board without anyone noticing and taken the Mestinon. Then re-arrived with the rest of the Panthers. And then somehow replaced the Mestinon.”

  “Or there could have been an accomplice who took the Mestinon. But this is all very far-fetched. Let's restrict our suspect list to the ‘boat people’ for now, and put the Green Panther group on a secondary list. Agreed?”

  “For now,” Paula demurred.

  “Thanks. So let's go down the list. How about Mitchell Singer?” Paula didn't answer. “He has to be the prime suspect. He was the last to see his father on the deck.”

  “I disagree,” Paula said. “I think Stephanie's the one.”

  “What?” Had Paula bought into the Singer Institute staff's bias against Stephanie?

  “With regard to Mitchell,” Paula said. “Keep in mind that his father was alive when he returned to the main room.” I lifted the corner of my mouth. “I know, I know,” she continued. “We have only his word for it that he hadn't already thrown his father overboard.”

  “And Tracey finding his pipe on the deck confirms that he was there.”

  “Unless she planted it,” Paula replied.

  “Not that he denied being there. So he had means and opportunity. How about motive?”

  Paula sighed. “Everyone knows the Stephanie Carstens story,” she said. “About how she married Mitchell, then divorced him and married Jonathan. The two men must have hated each other as much as is humanly possible. Mitchell certainly did. But they reconciled-”

  “Supposedly.”

  “-and the timing is all wrong. Why would Mitchell wait until now, years later, to take his revenge?”

  “That is a good point, I admit,” I said. “But maybe there's a reason out there for us to discover. Maybe something to do with control of the Institute. Maybe he wanted Stephanie back.” Paula grimaced. “I know you don't think she's good enough for either of them. But the fact is that they both chose her.”

  “Men.”

  “Exactly. Except for me, of course. So Mitchell's high on our list. But do we have any really tangible evidence against him?”

  “No,” Paula said.

  I sneaked a look at my mother. Her eyes were closed. Not the worst thing if she fell asleep. “That answer was too quick,” I said. “But I don't have anything tangible, either. OK. Now tell me what you have against Stephanie...as a murder suspect, that is.”

  “Don't get me wrong. I started to feel sympathy for her during our last conversation. But I also noticed something else. And I think you did, too.”

  “She looked guilty about what she'd done to Mitchell,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Paula repeated, then sat forward. “A crazy, or maybe not so crazy, scenario has occurred to me. What if Jonathan Singer picked Tracey as his successor?”

  “And Mitchell lied? We considered that. Tracey, at least, thought that Mitchell was telling the truth.”

  “No. I mean let's look at it from Stephanie's point of view. She has no reason to care about Tracey, but Mitchell's a different story. What if she felt guilty about Mitchell, then found out that Jonathan was planning to disinherit Mitchell? Isn't that a motive for her to kill Jonathan? And she'd have to act quickly, before Jonathan could announce Tracey's selection.” Paula sat back.

  “It's far-fetched, but I admit that it is possible. You'd have to start by saying that she doesn't love Jonathan anymore.”

  “Or that she loves both, but figures that Jonathan's life is almost over, anyway.”

  “OK. Let's think about her as a suspect. She had means and opportunity because she was there. But it would be very odd for her to make all the fuss about the Mestinon if she were the one who absconded with it.”

  “Absconded? That's my David. Maybe she did that precisely to throw suspicion off herself.”

  “That reasoning's too subtle for Stephanie, I think. If she wanted Jonathan to be without his Mestinon she could have just ‘forgotten,’ or delayed, giving it to him.”

  “Unless Jona
than spoke up about the missing Mestinon to someone else. That would have implicated her.”

  “It still seems too subtle for Stephanie,” I said.

  “She has other possible motives, too.” I raised my eyebrows. “What if Jonathan were going to divorce her?” Paula asked.

  “Didn't Tracey say that she comes from money?”

  “Yes, but you never know. Maybe the money's gone. Maybe the money's all tied up and she wants it now.”

  Now I thought of something. “Here's another possible motive. What if Jonathan were planning to retire? It's one thing to be the wife of the world-famous head of the Singer Institute. Kind of like a rock star. It's another thing to be married to a crotchety, old, has-been.”

  “Good thought. Better for her in that case if he were dead.”

  “Although divorce would seem to be a simpler solution.” Paula and I were clicking. I hoped that she was appreciating it as much as I was.

  “All of this is speculation, of course,” I said. “But that's the purpose of this discussion. It will give us points to pin down when we talk to people.”

  My mother opened her eyes. She arose inch by inch from her seat, attracting our attention. I stood as well, planning to support her.

  “No, David,” she said. “It’s better if I do this myself.”

  I looked at Paula, who nodded. We watched as my mother walked to the counter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After exchanging a few words with the officer at the desk my mother returned. “No news about Dad yet. But I got her to promise to give him a snack.”

  She seemed energized by her mini-quest for my father, until she sank back in her seat. What could I do? I bought a can of Sprite for her and a can of Coke for Paula from the machine in the corner.

  “Thanks,” they both said. I was gratified to see my mother take a sip.

  “Go back to what you were doing, children,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” Paula asked.

  My mother flashed a weak smile, then resumed watching the officer behind the counter. Paula and I looked at each other, wishing we could do more for her.

  Paula forced a smile, as well. “Who’s the next suspect?” she asked.

  “Let’s see,” I said. “How about Tracey?”

  “Fine. She had the usual means and opportunity, I suppose.”

  “Maybe more than most. Hasn't she been everywhere we look?”

  “Hard to say,” Paula said. “Now for motive. I don't know for sure about any romantic stuff. But whenever any woman of any age is anywhere near Jonathan Singer there are rumors.”

  “Interesting that you didn't tell me this before the conference.”

  “Very funny,” Paula said. “There is also politics going on. I'm no insider, but I think that everyone assumed that she was Jonathan Singer's heir apparent at the Institute. So it might make her very angry if Mitchell were anointed.”

  “Do you think Mitchell was lying?”

  “No. I don't.”

  “I don't either,” I said. “But it's at least a possibility. And if he is lying, there are a lot of ripple implications. Can we confirm his story?”

  “Judith Klansky. If anyone knows, she's it.”

  “Good, Paula. Remind me to ask her. Although can we trust her answer, either?” I shook my head. “These questions can get circular-”

  “We'll worry about all that later.”

  “You're right,” I said. “Where was I?”

  “Tracey.”

  “Right. The point is that if Jonathan chose Mitchell over her as his successor, revenge would be a motive for her. But if that's what happened, it certainly hasn't gotten her closer to running the Institute.”

  “Yet,” Paula said.

  I raised my eyebrows. My mother's eyelids flickered. “I'm very tired, Paula,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  “I'm the one who started this, and I would like to finish it. But let's stick to major characters only.”

  “So who's left?”

  “Rafael Rincon, Andrea Peterson...”

  “And Judith Klansky.”

  “Right,” I said. “Let's start with her. She was on the boat, too. Does she have a motive?”

  “She's supposedly closer to Jonathan than anyone. But I haven't heard any romantic rumors.”

  “Another thing to check out. She's still an attractive woman. It doesn't seem as if she benefits in any way from his death...does it?”

  “Not that I know of,” Paula said. “But maybe he left her money in his will. Maybe she's hard up for it, or decided she wanted it now.”

  “As I always say, whenever you want to explain someone's actions, think about the money.”

  Paula finished her soda and set the empty can down on the floor. I hadn't seen my mother drink hers after her initial sip.

  “Klansky's another one who's everywhere at once,” I said. “But she seems weak on motive so far. And too weak to throw Singer overboard.”

  “I don't know about that. When she stands at Jonathan's side she looks as formidable as any bodyguard.”

  “True. I certainly wouldn’t want to get in her way. How about Rafael Rincon?”

  “He clearly has the ego to take matters into his own hands.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said, happy to hear her criticize him.

  “And there seems to be a lot of money involved in this study he was doing with Singer. Not to mention publications and prestige. I got the impression that he was taking most of the credit, with Singer not around to contradict him.”

  “I got the same impression. So he has a powerful motive. Which would be even stronger if we find out that he has financial or career problems.”

  “And who doesn't?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Except for us, of course.” Silence. “Paula?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “Neither of us would ever have financial or career problems.”

  “OK,” I said. “On that cheery note, let's return to Rincon. Besides his good motives, he had opportunity, too. He was in all the right places on the boat. So we'll move him to the top of the suspect list, along with Stephanie and Mitchell Singer.”

  “Maybe above.”

  “Please remember that if he makes a play for you. Don't put yourself in any danger. In fact, let's make sure to talk to him together.” Whoops. My jealousy was showing.

  “Thanks, but I can take care of myself. And he's sure to talk less guardedly to me alone.”

  Curses, foiled again. “And last, Andrea Peterson.”

  “I don't like her at all.” Was Paula being jealous now?

  “That's fine,” I said. “But what's her motive?”

  “All kinds of things. Jonathan could have slept with her, then dumped her. Or she did a lousy job with the conference, and Jonathan said he'd report it to her bosses.”

  “All possible. But still kind of weak in my opinion.” Paula's eyebrows rose, but settled back. “Also,” I continued, “although she's probably smarter than Stephanie, I don't see her trying to murder Singer by stealing his Mestinon first, either.”

  Paula half-nodded, half shook her head. “Probably not.” She looked away. “David-“

  “You’re right,” I said. “Time to stop.”

  “Thanks,” she said, turning back to me.

  “Let's summarize. We can't eliminate people yet, but we can prioritize. For now, Rincon, Stephanie, and Mitchell Singer are our prime suspects. Judith, Andrea, Tracey--all the other women--are still possibles. And I'm keeping Haydock on the list until proven otherwise. How does that sound?”

  “Fine, David. I'm too tired to disagree.” She sat upright. “I just realized something. We've just put Stephanie on our list of prime suspects. And she's the one sitting by Jonathan Singer's side at the hospital.”

  “You're right. Good thing Judith Klansky's always there, too.”

  “Or Mitchell.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Safety in numbers--of suspects, that is. I'd ask Lieutenant Han
sen to help-”

  “But he'd just say that the probable guilty party, your father, is already in custody. So Jonathan Singer wouldn’t be in further danger.”

  “That's true. Also, keep in mind that Singer's in the ICU. There's always a nurse around-”

  “So it would be hard for anyone to pull something unobserved.”

  “I think so. I hope so. Next time we're there I'll alert the nursing staff. I can just imagine their faces.” As I shook my head I saw that my mother's eyes were closed. “Anyway,” I said. “My father is our top priority.”

  Paula sank back. I wanted to cheer her--and myself--up. “So I think we've accomplished a lot. Tomorrow we can further explore motives. Or maybe the Mestinon trail will be the key.”

  As Paula’s eyelids drooped the police officer behind the counter approached us. She addressed my mother, who somehow knew to open her eyes at that moment.

  “We haven’t completed questioning your husband, but it’s getting late. So we're going to hold him overnight.” My mother seemed more pale and shrunken than ever. “Would you like to see him before you go?”

  “Yes,” Paula answered, awake again. “We'd all like to see him. This is his son, and I'm as close as family.”

  “Is that OK with you?” she asked my mother, who nodded in reply. We followed the officer inside, trailing her like a chain gang.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jail had wrought no discernible changes on my father. When we walked into the stark room, whose only furniture was a table and four chairs, he was reclining, arms splayed. His chair teetered but held, as though he’d practiced the pose. Having apparently achieved his desired effect, he stood up and waved us toward our seats.

  “Please join me. Sit down.” Now he was acting the host. He had a closer look at my mother, and took her hands. “You don't look well, Charlotte. Let me help you sit.”

  Which she did, and the rest of us followed. My mother used the same excuse. “I'm just tired.”

  “Please don't worry about me. I didn't do anything, so I'll be out of here soon. Tomorrow, I guess.”