Alone (11 page)

“Not for a patient such as Nathan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nathan suffers from hypophosphatemia—low phosphate. Combined with the rickets, his bones are unusually brittle and prone to fracture. For the record, he also bruises quite easily.”

Bobby looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out if Nathan was being abused. To prove to yourself you killed the right man.” Dr. Rocco added quietly, “For the record, I think you aimed just fine.”

Bobby scowled. He hadn't expected this turn in the conversation, to be called head-on. He felt overexposed and it pissed him off.

“Do you think Nathan was being abused?” Bobby asked tightly.

“There are a lot of ways to harm a child,” Dr. Rocco replied.

“Did someone break Nathan's bones?”

“No. Rickets broke Nathan Gagnon's bones. I can tell from the X-rays.”

Bobby sat back. Dr. Rocco's assessment didn't please him. In fact, it left him more confused than ever. “So what's wrong with this kid? Why does he have all these problems?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't
know
?”

“That's essentially what a diagnosis of FTT tells you—we don't know. We can't pinpoint an exact cause, so the boy remains under the catchall umbrella of ‘failure to thrive.'”

“Well, Doc, you must have explored
some
options?”

“Sure. We conducted initial tests—complete blood count, lead levels, urinalysis, and a set of electrolyte values. We've tested him for diabetes, reflux, malabsorption, and cystic fibrosis. One of the best endocrinologists in the country has examined Nathan for thyroid diseases, metabolic disorders, and hormonal imbalances. Then a nephrologist studied Nathan's kidneys and did more tests related to electrolytes, diabetes, and anemia. I've tested Nathan, I've studied Nathan, and I've sent him to the best experts I know. And I still don't have a diagnosis for him. Medically speaking, there's nothing majorly wrong with Nathan Gagnon, except for the fact that he's very, very sick.”

Bobby was starting to hate this conversation. He twirled his pen between his fingers, then put it down and picked it up again. “You didn't like Jimmy Gagnon,” he said bluntly.

“Never met the man.”

“Never?”

“Never. Nathan's been in my office two or three times a month. For that matter, he's been rushed to the emergency room four times in the past six months. And not once have I ever met Jimmy Gagnon. That tells you something right there.”

Bobby regarded the doctor's country-club looks. “So when did you start sleeping with Catherine?”

The man didn't bother to appear shocked. “She deserved better than him,” he answered evenly.

“A neglected wife?”

“Worse.” The doctor leaned forward, his face growing intent. “You're not asking the right questions yet. Maybe Nathan had a medical reason to bruise easily, but Catherine didn't.”

“Jimmy beat her?”

“I saw the bruises myself.”

“Black eyes?”

“Give the guy some credit. He never hit her where just anyone could see. I used to go to school with guys like Jimmy. They figured if they beat their girlfriends in private, it gave them some class.”

“You could've reported it.”

“Really? So some cop could look at me the way you're looking at me right now? I didn't even need to be sleeping with her. As long as I simply
wanted
to be sleeping with her, none of you uniforms would've taken me seriously.”

“Ever consider dealing with Jimmy yourself?”

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

“I went to the house once. When I knew Catherine and Nathan were away. I knocked on the door, but no one was home.”

“And you never returned? Man's beating the woman you love, so you show up at an empty house and that's action enough?” Bobby's voice was cold.

“What would you have me do?” Dr. Rocco said tightly. “Threaten him with a gun?”

The barb was meant to hurt. Bobby merely shrugged and told the man honestly, “That's what I would've done.”

Dr. Rocco finally flushed. He leaned away from Bobby, crossing his arms in front of his chest and staring at a spot on his desk. “I told her to leave him,” he said at last.

“You'd take care of her?” Bobby glanced meaningfully at the doctor's left hand where he was wearing a gold band.

Again, the good doctor refused to be cowed. “I would've been honored.”

“But she didn't do it. She stayed.”

“She said I didn't know what I was saying. She said if she ever left Jimmy, he'd destroy her life and anyone else who tried to help her. She said my career would go down in flames.”

“Did you believe her?”

“No. Yes. I don't know. I'd never met Jimmy Gagnon, remember? I'd just heard the stories. But then, six months ago, Jimmy found out about our . . . relationship. I had written some letters. I guess Catherine hadn't the heart to destroy them. Things were rough for her. The notes, I wrote them to give her hope.”

Bobby waited.

“Next day, a private investigator was in my office, asking all sorts of questions about Nathan. He had a signed affidavit from Jimmy demanding release of his son's medical records. Within ten minutes, the investigator's strategy was clear. He wanted to know if Nathan's condition could be the result of prolonged starvation or some other form of parental abuse. Basically, he suggested that Nathan's illness had been caused by Catherine—that she was starving her son to death.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don't believe so.”

“You don't
believe
so?” Bobby arched both brows. “You just told me the kid has some kind of hard-to-diagnose disease. Now you're saying
she
could've done it?”

“Look, without having pinpointed a specific cause for Nathan's condition, medically speaking I can't rule anything out. Sure, one or more of his parents could be physically starving him. Or someone could be tampering with his food, or someone could be mentally manipulating him not to eat. As a doctor, I've followed up with Catherine, Nathan, and the various nannies about his eating habits. I've gotten answers assuring me that the boy is receiving plenty of food and plenty of the right kind of food. But at the end of the day, I'm still just the doctor. I go home to my family, and Nathan goes home to his.”

“So someone could be abusing him?”

“It's
possible
.” Dr. Rocco said it impatiently. “But I don't think it's
probable.
And that's what I told Jimmy's investigator. Anyway, it didn't matter. I stopped seeing Catherine, she made nice with Jimmy, and all the questions went away.
That's
what it was about. It was Jimmy making a point. If Catherine left him, she could kiss her son goodbye and say hello to the criminal justice system. Catherine's a smart woman. She did what she had to do. And for the record, I don't know what the hell else Jimmy did to her, but the day Catherine came to my office to end things, she could barely walk.
That's
the kind of man Jimmy Gagnon was. So I said it once, and I'll say it again. From where I sit, Officer Dodge, you aimed just fine.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “With Jimmy dead, do you think Nathan might magically start to get better?”

“I don't know. And frankly, it's no longer my responsibility. As of this morning, I formally ended my relationship as Nathan's doctor. I referred him to Dr. Iorfino, as I was instructed to do by Dr. Gerritsen, the head of Pediatrics.”

“You were fired as Nathan's doctor?” Bobby asked in surprise. “By your own boss?”

“You'd be amazed by the kind of power Judge Gagnon wields,” Dr. Rocco said quietly. Then he got an odd smile on his face. “But don't worry, Officer. I'm not quite as helpless as you think. Dr. Iorfino is a geneticist. Call it a hunch, but I think I'm going to have the last laugh yet.”

Chapter
10

B
OBBY WAS JUST
leaving the hospital when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. He picked up his pace, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, head down as if staring at the sidewalk, though in reality the angle gave him a peek at the traffic behind him. Dress shoes, high-gloss black, he determined. Pimp shoes, his father would call them.

He rounded a left-hand corner sharply and gained a better view of his tail when the man belatedly tacked out wide. Long trench coat, beige, nicely tailored. Black dress pants, perfect cuff. Lawyer, Bobby thought. Then suddenly . . .

He drew up short, ramming his back against a storefront and catching his follower off guard. The man, older, heavy-set, with a scrap of neatly combed silver-brown hair brushing the top of his ears, promptly stopped, threw up his hands, and offered a beaming smile.

“Ah, you caught me.”

“And now's the part when I throw you back.” Bobby took a menacing step forward, but the man merely smiled again.

“What are you gonna do, Officer Dodge? Assault me in the middle of a street filled with people? We both know you're not the type to go head-to-head. Now, give you a rifle, fifty yards' distance, and a darkened room, on the other hand . . .”

Bobby grabbed the lapels of the man's coat. Three pedestrians noticed the byplay; they promptly scattered. “Try me,” Bobby said.

“Now, Bobby—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A friend.”

“Well,
friend,
start talking, or in thirty seconds, I'm going to rip off your nuts.”

The man laughed nervously. He'd tried calling Bobby's bluff once. He didn't look so certain about trying it a second time. “Just want to talk,” the man said.

“Why?”

“Because I know things you should hear.”

“Lawyer?”

“Investigator.”

“For whom?”

“Come on, Bobby, you know for whom.”

Bobby thought about it, and then he did. “James Gagnon.”

“Technically, Maryanne Gagnon; the lawsuit's in her name. I'm Harris, by the way.” The man tried offering his hand. Bobby ignored it. “Harris Reed, with Reed and Wagner Investigations. Perhaps you've heard of us?”

“Not a word.”

“Touché. Would you mind letting go of my coat for a moment? Perhaps we could take a short walk. You look like a man who appreciates exercise. Then again, I imagine your meeting with Catherine Gagnon has already left you short of breath.”

Bobby slowly released the man's collar. “You've been following me.”

“More like taking an intense interest in your activities. Shall we?”

Harris gestured down the sidewalk. Bobby thinned his lips, but after a moment, grudgingly resumed walking. He was curious and they both knew it.

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” the investigator observed.

Bobby didn't reply.

“Would it be easier if she were ugly?” Harris asked. “I imagine it has to be disconcerting to meet the wife of the man you killed and already be fantasizing about fucking her.”

“Get to the point.”

“You've been asking questions, Officer Dodge. As long as you're asking questions, I thought you should hear all of the answers. May I?”

Bobby didn't protest; the investigator launched into his spiel.

“She was working at the perfume counter in Filene's,” Harris began. “Did she tell you that? Yes, the fine, beautiful Mrs. Gagnon was a perfume spritzer for a living. She'd not only flunked out of college, but she had no marketable skills to her name. She peddled perfumes and lived in a rat-infested apartment in East Boston, wearing the same dress every other day. Until she met Jimmy, of course.”

“Was Jimmy eighteen?”

“Actually, he was twenty-seven at the time.”

“Then he was a big boy. He knew what he was doing.”

“You would think so,” Harris agreed mildly. “But with a woman like Catherine, looks can be deceiving.”

“She's the devil in angel's clothing, yada, yada, yada. Get on with it.”

“Jimmy Gagnon was a bit of a playboy. I'm sure you've heard stories. He was a good-looking man, fun-loving, free-spirited, and of course, extremely generous. Lots of women had come and gone in Jimmy's life. His parents, I confess, were actually starting to worry a little, wonder if he'd ever settle down. Then he met Catherine. He grinned, she spritzed, and the rest, as they say, was history.

“My employers, James and Maryanne, were delighted at first. Catherine seemed lovely, quiet, perhaps even a little shy. Then, of course, Jimmy told them all about her tragic life.”

“Some sadness,” Bobby muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“You should look up Catherine's name sometime. See 1980, any listings under Thanksgiving Miracle. That's what they called Catherine back then. After she'd been kidnapped by a pedophile and held as his personal sex slave for twenty-eight days in some pit he'd dug in the ground. Hunters found her by accident. Otherwise, God knows what would've happened to her.

“Jimmy found this story riveting. You had to see Catherine six years ago, when they first met. A little too thin, hollow-eyed, in a threadbare dress. She was not only beautiful, she was
tragic,
a regular damsel in distress. She told Jimmy he was the only chance at happiness she'd ever had, and Jimmy ate it up, hook, line and sinker. In a matter of months they were engaged, then married. Catherine Gagnon came, she saw, and she conquered.”

They'd already covered one city block and were rapidly eating up the second.

“So Jimmy gained a beautiful wife and Catherine gained a bank account.” Bobby shrugged. “Sounds like half the marriages of the rich and famous. What's the problem?”

“Their son. Catherine and Jimmy had Nathan just a year later, and Catherine literally had a nervous breakdown. Frankly, she just couldn't cut it as a mother. And for the first time, James and Maryanne grew afraid. Not just of what Catherine was doing to Jimmy, but of what she might do to Nathan.”

Harris abruptly switched gears. “Catherine was only twelve years old when Richard Umbrio snatched her off the street. I used to be a cop, you know, worked homicide in Baltimore. No matter how many cases you've seen, child kidnappings are the worst. Here's this poor girl, just walking home from school. Next thing she knows, she's being yanked into a car, probably screaming at the top of her lungs, but nobody hearing a thing. And Richard wasn't a small guy, not one of those sissy-looking child molesters you often see, the type who have to victimize children because they obviously couldn't handle anyone their own size. No—at the tender age of twenty, Richard Umbrio was six foot four, weighed two hundred twenty pounds. His neighbors were already in the habit of crossing to the other side of the street just so they didn't have to make eye contact with him. Catherine, on the other hand, probably weighed eighty pounds. What was a little girl like her gonna do against a guy like him? Let me be the first to say, there isn't a hell big enough for some of the assholes we have walking here on earth.