A Caduceus is for Killing (3 page)

    His foot caught on a pile of medical journals and he scanned the room. The cluttered desk seemed alive with swirling papers in the vacuum his movements disturbed. "What a mess!"
    Instinctively, he stooped to pick up the debris before entering the bathroom. The victim, bare-skinned and facing the door, was curled in what resembled a fetal position. On closer inspection, Krastowitcz noticed the wrists. They were bound in back by what looked like fine wire lightly embedded in the flesh. Sight-less eyes stared at him in glazed horror. Krastowitcz made a mental note to check the wire. From the amount of smeared blood on the floor, either the victim was alive after his wrists were bound, or the entire Dorlynd staff had strolled through it. His money was on the former theory, although, why would the victim let someone bind his hands without resisting? Even if a gun was used, from the looks of this mess, he should've fought back. Yet, there was no physical sign of a struggle.
    Krastowitcz carefully lifted the blood-stained lab coat on the toilet seat.
    "Thrown over the deceased's body," Trenton said.
    "How do you know?"
    "The witness told me."
    "Witness?" Krastowitcz noticed the protrusion from the corpse's mouth. An instinctual pain shuddered through him. Sexual revenge?
    "What do you think, Gary? Revenge of the killer faggots?"
    Krastowitcz smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "Can't readily determine the cause of death without the coroner. This guy must've bled out. But why?"
    On closer examination, it looked like a metal object protruded from the rectal area. Bile slid up his throat and he swallowed hard.
    "Whew! The guy had to have been alive when that thing was rammed in, or else he wouldn't have bled so much. What do you think, Trent?"
    "Whatever you say, boss, this one's your call. You guys are the almighty homicide dicks."
    "Yeah, and you're just a dick. So? Got any recommendations for us poor dumb investigators?"
    Trenton smiled at his friend and headed toward the door. "Oh, no. You ain't baitin' me with that one. I'm just a lowly field investigator, remember? First officer and all that crap. I'm no fancy Regional. This collar'll belong to you."
    "More like a noose, than a collar," Krastowitcz muttered. "Jeez, Sarge. I'm mighty lucky you gave it to me. Thanks!" Krastowitcz called to the other officers, "Why isn't the medical examiner here? Where the hell's the Crime Lab? From the smell of things, I need to get this body to the morgue, so we can have an autopsy!"
    "You asking me?" Trenton answered back. "You know I always handle this stuff before you Super Cops get here."
    "Okay, okay, let's not get testy, Sergeant." Krastowitcz waved him off. "This is a big one and there can't be any mistakes. The Captain's on my butt as it is. Where's the witness?"
    "In one of the outer offices. Boy, she's a mess. I didn't want her to clean up until you got here, so you could see her, and she's havin' a fit. Smells like that shit in there," he said, pointing toward the bathroom. "It wouldn't hurt to talk to her right away so she can go home."
    "Since when do you care about witnesses?"
    "Since I saw the body, you big dope."
    Slowly Krastowitcz turned to the other officer. That's all he needed, another typically hysterical female. Damn! Nothing about this job ever got easier. He pulled in a deep breath and turned the door knob.
    He couldn't wait to talk to this one.
Chapter II
    
. . . TO RECKON HIM WHO TAUGHT ME THIS ART. . .
         Andrea tried to hold herself together physically and emotionally. Milton Grafton was dead. But why? Who would want to kill him?
    She stared blankly at the police milling around, murmuring, pointing, reassuring. . . Had it only been six hours since her nightmare?
    So much blood. . . Death surrounded her, invading her dreams, her head, her life--
    "Doctor Pearson? Doctor Andrea Pearson?"
    She shook herself into the present. Everything looked as if it were underwater: shimmering, unclear, surrealistic. She blinked the room into view. A lone tear slid down her cheek. "No! This isn't right. I tried--I tried--"
    "Doctor Pearson?"
    "I--I, yes?" Andrea wiped the corner of her eye with her fingers.
    "I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz and," the tall man pointed to the door, "that's Sergeant Trenton. This shouldn't take too long. We'll get you on your way as soon as possible. We want to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can handle that for us?" He leaned down. "Hey! You okay?"
    "Got to clean up." She rubbed her hands over her skirt.
    "I understand." He walked toward her. "Please. We really need you to talk to us. Do you think you can?" She looked into his cold, dark eyes. He didn't care, not really. She could tell.
    "What time did you discover the body?"
    "This morning, a--after eight, I--I think . . ." She breathed like a jogger finishing the last mile in a marathon. "Please. I--I'm an asthmatic. I'm having trouble. My albuteral inhaler. . . It's in my office."
    "Sure." Krastowitcz motioned toward the other officer. "Trent, get the lady's inhaler, will you?"
    "In the top drawer of my desk. I'll show you."
    "No. I'll find it." Trenton strode toward her office.
    She and the hulking interrogator waited in silence for his return. High-pitched wheezing from Andrea's lungs rattled through the stale air. Krastowitcz didn't blink, didn't take his eyes off her for a second. He made her want to reach up and slap him.
    "Here's your inhaler." Trenton hurried into the room and handed her the small container. She nodded and sucked two quick puffs deeply into her lungs, then held her breath.
    "Thanks, buddy." Krastowitcz turned his cold eyes toward Andrea. "You say you found Grafton around eight this morning?"
    "Yes," she gasped between puffs of Albuterol. "I think. I had junior orientation this morning." Andrea remembered the morning, the dream, and the asthma attack. "The day just didn't seem right."
    "And you came here, first?"
    She nodded.
    "Why?"
    "It's my office. I'm the Chief Medical Resident for Internal Medicine here at Dorlynd. I also am--
was
--one of Dr. Grafton's research fellows. We shared the office. I'm responsible for the medical care of his patients. The ones with communicable diseases like AIDS. . . " She drifted off, staring at the inhaler in her hands.
    "What's junior orientation?"
    "Getting the new third year medical students accustomed to their surroundings here at Dorlynd. This morning, there were thirty-five starting their medicine rotation." She stopped abruptly. "My God, the juniors--what happened to them?"
    "I don't know," Krastowitcz replied. "No one said anything about students around. Did they Trent?" Krastowitcz looked at the other officer who shrugged his shoulders.
    "Someone's got to take care of them." Andrea rose from her chair.
     Krastowitcz placed his hand on her shoulder and applied gentle pressure. "Just a few more questions, Dr. Pearson. Please, sit. I'll have Sergeant Trenton find out what happened to them." He motioned for Trent who nodded and left the room. "How long have you been at DMC?"
    "Eight years. Four of medical school, three of residency, and this last year, I've been Chief Resident." She glanced up at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"
    "Look, I've got to get as much information as I can, okay? Please, just answer the questions. Did you notice anything unusual when you arrived?"
    "N--No. I don't think so. Only. . . his bathroom door was shut." Andrea shuddered. "I--I--when I opened it, he was there, over the. . . I slipped." She trembled openly. Tears pooled in her eyes, and softly trickled out.
    "What was so important about the bathroom door?"
    "It was closed. He never shut it--I don't know what I'll do." Andrea covered her face with her hands.
    Krastowitcz waited a few minutes and began again. "Was the body in the same position as it is now?"
    Trenton's entrance interrupted Andrea's shuddering. "The students have been taken care of," he said.
    "How?" Andrea asked.
    "A Dr. Stuetter was talking to them about their duties. He told me to tell you everything was fine."
    "Fine, indeed."
    "The body?" Krastowitcz began again. "Was it in the same position?"
    A helpless, sinking sensation filled Andrea. Didn't he have any compassion? "No--over the toilet--I fell--pulled him on top of me. I looked him right in the eyes." Andrea covered her face again. "Please, can I go now? This whole thing is. . . I'm feeling a little sick." The bigger hulk looked like a seasoned police officer. He'd probably investigated everything from suicides to hatchet murders during his career. He was probably thinking what a big baby she was, especially for a physician. But doctors were human, too, dammit. They were entitled to moments of weakness, of helplessness. Did cops ever cry? Hell, he probably didn't. The thought angered her. She straightened her shoulders and glared up at him.
    "A few more questions, then an officer will take you down-town for a formal statement. You'll be home soon. Do you know any reason why Grafton would be here on a Saturday, or Sun-day?"
    "Sergeant, he was a physician. We work every day. He probably made rounds, supervised residents, or did paperwork. I don't know why, exactly, but he always came in for an hour or two every weekend. His being here was nothing unusual. Normally, I'm here on Saturdays and although this was my weekend off, I was on call last night."
    "Did you come over here?"
    "No. I was too busy. I lost three patients."
    "Sorry," he said, but his eyes showed no remorse. Andrea disliked him more and more. "Wouldn't someone else have been in the building--seen something?"
    "No," she said. "It's an outpatient building. We don't have office hours on the weekend. This building is virtually deserted. No one except the physician on call ever comes here."
    "And you were on call--"
    "During call, I only come over if I need to use the depart-mental library."
    "Hmmm." Krastowitcz ran his fingers through his mat of coarse curls and scratched his head. "Okay, Dr. Pearson. That'll do for now. Trent? Take Dr. Pearson downtown, get her statement, and see that she gets home, will you? When you're finished, contact me by radio, buddy."
    "At your service, Sergeant. My pleasure."
    She caught the look that passed between them. Her stomach knotted.
Smug, know-it-all cops. What jerks.
    Krastowitcz turned back to Andrea. "Just a few more minutes, Miss, er, doctor. I might have more questions later."
    "My car?"
    "What about your car?"
    "I'll need it."
    "Don't worry. We'll have someone bring it home for you."
    "All right, Sergeant Krasto. . . ." She fumbled, embarrassed. "How do you pronounce your name?"
    "That's Kras-toe-wits, just like it's spelled, but you can call me Gary. That'll eliminate any problems. Okay?"
    The coldness in his eyes belied the friendliness of his words. Was he as kind and understanding as he seemed? Or was he simply patronizing her? She glanced at the other officer who stood by the door smiling. Trent, Krastowitcz had called him. That one liked the ladies. She could tell by his smirk. Cops. The usual variety. She shook her head. She wasn't in the mood for typical cops. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter III
    
. . . EQUALLY DEAR TO ME AS MY PARENTS . . .
         Dr. Pearson hurried off while Trent and Krastowitcz wondered about her. A possible suspect? She seemed so shaken. Could be an act. Gary disliked macho women. He also disliked sniveling crybabies. Jeez, maybe he just disliked women?
    He didn't blame Pearson. How many hours had she sat around waiting? Five? Six? Damned investigations took ages. Even though he was used to it, it was still tedious.
    She must be somewhere in her thirties. Even covered with gore, she was a looker. Her fingers had caught in her hair, trying to remove the matted, dried blood. She carried about twenty extra pounds--waist and hips--not breasts. He noticed two thick, whitened scars on each wrist. He wondered about those scars. Horizontal cuts went the wrong way to have done any real damage. A knife couldn't reach the brachial artery that way. That was something most amateurs did, not physicians. They knew how to do it right. Suicide? Why would a physician slash her wrists the wrong way? If it was an attempt, there'd be a report somewhere.
    "Hey, Gary." Another officer poked his head into the office. "The boys are here."
    "What took you guys so long?" Krastowitcz said, entering the chairman's office.
    George Iverson, the county coroner and medical examiner emerged from the bathroom, his voice booming through the room. "This isn't the only case in town. We had samples to run on that hit and run case you've been harassing me about. Boy, that one's messy. Had to use a shovel to get his head off the high-way."
    Krastowitcz entered the small bathroom behind Iverson. Their figures seemed to fill the claustrophobic space. This time, the smell bothered him. He could almost taste last night's dinner at the back of his throat.
    "What
have
we got here?" Iverson inquired. "Smells like--"
    "Ruptured intestines?"
    "Astute, Krastowitcz. Maybe
you
ought to be the coroner, and I'll investigate?"
    "No, George, you do such good work with your hands. I've got to retrieve the murder weapon."
    "Come closer and check out the anus. I think you might find something interesting." George beckoned his friend toward the body.
    "Already seen it, George. There's something there. Looks like some heavy manure." How long would this investigation take? How far behind in paperwork would this put him? "God, George. I'm up to my holster in this shit. I don't need another difficult case, I need a vacation."
    "Wrong, Gary. It's not shit. There's something metallic protruding there. A knife? Won't know for sure until we get him on the table."
    "If the crime lab's taken their pictures, we can get a closer look."
    "They're just about finished," George said. "Hey, get a bag over his head
too
, boys, might just be something there. Looks like there wasn't much of a struggle." The technician placed a paper bag over the victim's head. "Look at the wire around his wrists. It's only cut in slightly. For the force needed to impale him and cut off his penis, he should have struggled and caused the wire to cut deeply into his wrists, possibly to the brachial artery. That might explain all the blood."