He stood up, and preceded the officer out of the room without speaking any further. I felt very guilty. I wanted, I had to do more for Mitchell and Jonathan Singer. I looked at Paula, put my arm around her shoulder, and hugged. She didn't wince.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
“We're going back to the hotel now, aren't we?” Paula asked me.
“Absolutely.” She was holding her side, in obvious pain from her broken rib. “You should take a painkiller,” I said. “You don't have to suffer like this.”
“Thanks, but no. I just need a little rest.”
I recognized her stubborn streak. She'd decided that she'd tough it out by not taking painkillers. If her pain level rose beyond what she'd expected, better to deal with the pain than change her decision. I've chided her in the past for her stubbornness--but secretly wished I had more of it myself.
“So I'll rest in my room and work on my talk,” Paula said as we were driving back to the hotel.
“If you don't want to take medication you can try applying an ice pack. For about 15 to 20 minutes at a time.” Another course of action I knew that neither Paula--nor any of my patients--would follow.
She didn't bother to respond, so I moved on. “And I'll meet up with Rachel, Griselda, and my parents.”
“Maybe I can see them tomorrow.”
“When should we get back together?” I asked.
“How about dinner? We have to keep working on the Singer case. And maybe, if we have the energy, we can visit him in the hospital.”
“Good idea about dinner. How about if we meet at 6 o'clock in the hotel lobby, and take it from there?” I restrained myself from quoting Paula's favorite uncle: “let's play it by ear.”
I treated Paula against her protests to a can of soda, and dropped her off at her room. Feeling suddenly hungry myself, I ran to the hotel restaurant. Eureka! One breakfast muffin remained, under glass, almost as forlorn as the last un-adopted pet in the cage. I ran back to my own hotel room, washed the muffin down with a glass of semi-cool tap water, and sat on my bed.
One hand reached into a pocket to retrieve the paper with my parents' phone number. The other hand picked up the receiver. “Hi, Griselda, it's David. May I speak to one of my parents?”
“They not here.”
“No? Where are they? Maybe I can catch up with them.”
“They at the hospital.” My grip tightened on the receiver. “Your mother is sick, in her estomago.”
“Is she all right?”
“I don't know. Maybe they call later.”
“Why didn't they call me?”
“I tell them to speak for you, but you know them.”
I certainly did. Worry gave way to frustration, followed by anger. Anger that they were playing one of their stupid guilt games. By some arbitrary scale I must not have called often enough to check on my mother's well-being. So now they'd repaid me by pretending that since I hadn't cared enough to call, I wouldn't mind finding out in delayed fashion about a true emergency. Well, I wouldn't let their passive-aggressive behavior get to me. Yes I would.
“When did they go to the hospital?” I asked.
“This morning. Early.”
“OK. I'll go there now. Are you all right? Is Rachel all right? Do you want me to get something for you?”
“No, no. Thank you, David. You're a good boy. Tell your parents I take care of Rachel. Don't worry.”
“I'll talk to you later.”
I was fortunate that Paula's car was at my disposal. Should I call her before going to the hospital? No. She was a patient, too, and she needed rest. Was I also playing a childish game by not informing her? No. Or at least I hoped not. I'd see her soon enough, and fill her in when I had some real information.
#
The young woman who greeted me at the desk in the hospital lobby was helpful and friendly. So friendly that it irked me. How could she smile when there were sick and dying people in her hospital?
But I should have known better, of course. Nothing the poor woman could have said would have satisfied me while I was so distraught about my mother. So I took a breath, did my best to smile back, and thanked her for giving me directions and a visitor’s pass.
My mother was in the window bed of a two-patient room, propped up on pillows, basking in sunshine. My father was seated in a reclining chair at her side, eyes closed. After nodding and grunting at the elderly woman in the first bed, and at her family, I proceeded to the foot of my mother's bed.
“Hi, Mom.” My father opened his eyes and looked at me. “Hi, Dad.”
I half-expected him to greet me with annoyance or anger. But all I saw in his expression was concern. “I'm glad you're here,” he said.
My mother turned to face me, as well. “It's so good to see you, David. Don't look so worried. I'm fine.”
I looked at my father. He shook his head. Back to my mother, who appeared comfortable but gaunt. Images of other hospital patients I'd known intruded. Dreadfully weak, shockingly lightweight. My stomach twisted as I forced a smile.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“I kept telling her to see a doctor,” my father muttered.
“Stop it, Moshe,” my mother said. “These things happen to everyone. I understand and accept it.”
“Now you stop talking like that,” my father answered. I agreed with him. Some Europeans I've met, including my mother, have a knack for transforming a mature, realistic look at a hard truth into unrepentant, unsupportive nihilism. And it doesn't feel any better when they apply their philosophy to themselves.
“Please tell me what happened, Mom.”
She placed her hand on her abdomen. “My pain got worse during the night-”
“Which she didn't tell me about until the morning,” my father grumbled.
“No sense in waking you up. You need your sleep, too.”
My father threw his hands in the air, but didn't speak. Couples can become such tag team acts.
“Where was I, cheri? Oh, yes. So we got up at 7, and got to the ER by 8. I felt better as soon as they gave me some IV fluids.”
“And pain medication, too, I hope?”
“I insisted on it,” my father said. I almost smiled, picturing the scene which might have ensued had the doctors rejected his “suggestion.” My mother's hair was stringy, sections sticking out, with a dried-up-after-sweating look. She must have noticed where I was looking, because she finger-combed her hair.
“What did they find?” I asked. I had to ask, although I dreaded the answer.
“They examined me, and felt something in my pelvis.”
No. This wasn't happening. My throat constricted. My voice cracked. “What did the CT scan show?”
“They talked about doing a CT scan,” my father said. “But then they told us that their machine is down.”
“I knew it! We've got to get you out of this rinky-dink place.”
“Calm down, David,” my mother said. “I'm sure the same thing happens even in big-city hospitals.”
“True, but they have more than one machine.” I was in no mood to concede anything. I suppose that I wanted to be angry. Anger was preferable to grief. But I managed to calm down. “Maybe we can find a private place nearby to do a CT scan.” If she was stable enough to be moved.
“They said that it wasn't an emergency,” she replied. “And that the CT should be up and running by tomorrow. Anyway, they did a sonogram.”
My throat constricted again. I'd forgotten about sonography, whose images aren't quite so accurate as those of computed tomography, but which can be done without pain, radiation, or dye. Once again, I didn't want to ask. “What did the sonogram show?”
“How exactly did they explain it, Moshe?”
“They said there was a shadow, but that the test was inconclusive.”
It sounded very bad to me. As a doctor, I've heard and spoken such doublespeak many times. How else to combine truth with uncertainty? The constriction was spreading to my chest. I had to do someth
ing constructive, at least get some air to breathe. “Do you mind if I check your chart, Mom?”
My mother assented and my father seemed grateful. We probably all hoped that my perusal of my mother's chart would yield a miraculous salvation, in the form of a benign explanation for her symptoms. Although my mother seemed more resigned than hopeful. I regretted that I hadn't brought Paula with me.
I left the room and proceeded to the nurses' station, where I played the doctor card and requested to see my mother's chart. The nurse looked askance at my civilian clothes and young look, but eventually brought me the chart. I flipped through the pages while standing at the counter. The medical-ese swam before my eyes. I wished it was written in doublespeak this time, but it wasn't. There were no certainties, but words like “pelvic mass,” “tumor,” and “rule out cancer” appeared frequently.
I must have stared at one of the pages for an inordinately long time. The nurse returned to me and asked in a low voice: “are you all right, Doctor?”
I was sweating and feeling faint, but nodded and slapped the chart shut. “I'm fine, Nurse. No problem. Thank you for the chart. I'm finished with it now.” I walked away, certain that I hadn't fooled her, but not interested in discussing it.
I returned to my parents and told them the truth. I hadn't discovered anything new. We spent the next hour mostly in silence, my mother forcing smiles, me forcing small talk, my father looking back and forth between the two of us. We were grateful for the diversions provided by an aide arriving to take my mother's vital signs--pulse, respirations, blood pressure, and temperature--and by a nurse arriving to administer medications. My mother didn't want her television turned on, and she rejected my offer to bring her books, magazines, or outside food or drink. I hoped that she'd be out of the hospital before she had time to change her mind.
I kissed my mother good-bye at 5:30 PM and promised to come back. I hugged my father and left. The helpless feeling that families and friends suffer when their loved ones are ill is magnified for doctors. What's the use of all our training and knowledge if we can't use it when it matters most?
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
During the drive back to the hotel I remembered Jonathan Singer. I could have visited him while I'd been at the hospital, but my mother's predicament had driven all other concerns out of my mind. No time for that now. I'd have to see him later.
I arrived back at the hotel at 5:45 PM. Next on the agenda was dinner with Paula. How would I tell her about my mother? How would she react? With all the stress she was already under...more pain was unavoidable. I took a deep breath to combat the constriction in my chest; and shook my head, as if that action could shrug away my fears.
Although I wasn't hungry Paula and I “had to” eat. But where? I was also in no mood to appreciate ambiance. A billboard advertising the hotel's restaurant, hanging on the lobby wall, caught my attention. It was at least a convenient solution.
The right-hand corridor out of the lobby led to the pool and conference rooms. I took the left-hand corridor and walked about 100 feet, to the restaurant entrance. A menu was cleverly posted on a stand a dozen feet inside, forcing the interested passerby to step inside. Getting a potential customer to cross the threshold increases the likelihood of closing the sale, I guessed.
I walked up to the menu and found a typical continental line-up, with typical moderate-plus prices. The variety of choices fed my bias that if menu selections are too varied, quality must have been compromised to achieve quantity. A least common denominator kind of thing. Nevertheless, for practical reasons, I decided to recommend it to Paula for dinner tonight.
When I looked up I noticed a bar to my left. A woman in a charcoal-gray suit, three-quarter-angled away from me, finished her Screwdriver and set it on the counter away from her. She then folded her arms on the counter, bent forward, and rested her head on her arms.
Oh, no. It was Andrea Peterson. I had to escape, not take the chance of another social disaster. But what about my detective role? I couldn't avoid suspects just because they were unpleasant.
She raised her head and covered her face with her hands. She was crying. I leaned in her direction, my first instinct to comfort her. She stopped crying, picked up her empty glass, looked around for the bartender--and saw me.
She waved her glass at me. “Dr. David. What a nice surprise.” A few drops sprayed as she waved. She looked down at her suit, brushed it with her free hand--as if that would help--and replaced her glass on the counter.
I had to at least greet her, so I approached. “Hi, Andrea.”
“Are you afraid of me? Grrr. I'm a man-eater.” I tensed, my apprehension growing--and apparently showing. “Come on,” she said. “I'm just kidding.” Her expression changed, to more sober. “Please sit down. A woman likes to have company at her funeral.”
I sat on a barstool next to her. Wary, but sympathetic to her pain. “Of course,” I said.
“Unless I turn out to be the murderer.” She shook her head and gave a quiet snort. “Which is crazy. Although I do understand your position. But please try to understand mine. My world, or at least my career, is crashing down.”
The bartender returned. Andrea ordered a refill. “Let me get a drink for you, too,” she said to me.
“No, thanks. I'll wait for Paula. We’re meeting for dinner.”
“Oh. OK. You know what? Let's talk about you. How's your career going?”
She must be desperate for any conversation, any company. “OK, fine.” It wasn't related, but my mother's condition leaped to my mind. I had no desire, however, to confide in Andrea.
“You're an Internist,” she said. “And you chair your group's Quality Assurance Committee.”
“Yes. But how did you know that? Have you been looking into my background?”
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Her next drink arrived, and she took a sip. “Relax. I just re-read your conference registration information.”
I laughed. “Just like Sherlock Holmes. He said that his deductions appeared too simple when they were explained.” I saw an opening to change the topic from myself. “You've read the conference registration information?”
“Yes, of course. I facilitated the conference.”
“Does that include making the conference schedule?”
“Yes. Well, no. I did all the leg-work, but Tracey, Shanley, did the planning and deciding. She's an amazingly organized person. Why do you ask?”
“Why did you say this was your funeral?”
“Hah. I know the company I work for. It'll be my fault that everything's falling apart.” She drank again. The restaurant was beginning to fill up, so we had to raise our voices.
“I think that you've done an admirable job holding the conference together.”
She raised her glass. “I'll drink to that.” Which she did. “Can I ask you for a job recommendation?” I didn't respond, but she didn't seem to notice. “Any job openings at your place?” I was actually beginning to feel sorry for her. She then surprised me: “How's your investigation going?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
How should I answer that one? I looked at my watch. It was time to meet Paula. But maybe Andrea knew something. “We've been trying to pin down Dr. Jonathan Singer's timeline on Sunday. We're particularly interested in the schedule he planned, or someone planned for him, on that day.”
Andrea put her drink down, and turned in her seat to face me. “Can I help?”
“Do you know anything about Dr. Singer's personal schedule?”
“Not really. But I assume that Judith Klansky handles all of that.”
Sounded logical to me. “Do you know if there's any written record of his schedule?”
She hesitated. “No. But there must be one. Have you looked?”
“It may have been in his diary. But some pages were missing.” That was public knowledge. In an attempt to extract new information I decided to take a leap and divulge something, obvious as it might be. “We, rather the police, have also be
en looking through his e-mails.”
“Which, since you're still looking, means that you didn't find anything.”
“No.” A period of silence reminded me that I wanted to go to Paula. I stood up.
“Wait.” She put a hand on my arm. I flinched. She withdrew her hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean anything. I just wanted to tell you something before you left. One of the little toys I plied Jonathan with was a dicta-pen.” I froze. “Do you know what that is?” she asked.
“Yes I do. It's a pen-shaped recording device with just a few minutes' capacity, usually used as a memory-jogger.”
“Right. You speak into it, it records, and you can play it back later.”
I sat down again. “Do you think it's possible-”
“That Jonathan dictated his schedule into it? Unfortunately, I don't know for sure. All I know is that he tried it out right away. ‘One small step for Jonathan Singer, one giant leap for my memory,’ he said.”
I stood up again, this time because I was eager to take action. This could be the break we needed. Maybe Singer dictated his schedule into the pen, including whom he was supposed to meet after Mitchell Singer. In other words, his appointment with his murderer.
My mind raced. What to do next? Search for it, of course. Where? At his house. The police had already searched his house. But they might have missed it, especially if they didn't know what to look for.
I had to find Stephanie, and get her permission and her house keys. She seemed to be at Jonathan's bedside around the clock, so the hospital should be my next stop.
I looked around. I had to ditch Andrea and find Paula. Paula could decide for herself whether to join my search. Call Lieutenant Hansen? Not yet. It was probably childish, even stupid, but this was my discovery. I wanted to find the dicta-pen, and be the first to listen to it. “Andrea-”
“I know, I know. It's Paula time. Thanks for the company.”
“And thank you-” I stopped when I saw Paula enter the restaurant, flanked by Tracey Shanley and Rafael Rincon. I turned back to Andrea. “Please don't tell anyone else about the dicta-pen.” She nodded.
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