ColdScheme (22 page)

“John Forsyth,” Brenda said, “one of Quigley’s doctors, is a
certified clinical psychiatrist, who went on to specialize for three years at
the Rhode Island Hospital of Neurosurgery. He’s one of the leading researchers
of brain tumors.”

“A lot of doctors have more than one specialty,” Joe
confirmed. “Have you started checking out Patterson?”

“He appears to be legit.” I didn’t want to involve more
people in this investigation, no matter how eager they would be to help. Joe
was a part of it, by virtue of his job and continued involvement but Brenda
didn’t need to be saddled with the extracurricular activity of spying on her
colleagues. It was enough that Joe had decided to mount a crusade on behalf of
the Hopkins’ patients, present and future. A possibility of another violent
spectacle like the one with Quigley that saw the explosive device publicized
like nothing else, worried me no end.

“I have a friend on staff in Mongrove—” Brenda started to
say. I hastily put my hand over hers.

“No.” I underscored my refusal with a commanding look. “Ken
and I appreciate your help. You’ve already done a lot but stay out of
Mongrove.”

“Maybe I should have taken a closer look, done an autopsy,”
Joe said.

“What do you mean?” I turned to him.

He waited until the waiter put down our salads and the
breadbasket before continuing, “The body they brought from Mongrove, female
patient, Vanier. I read the report. It agreed with what I found on the x-rays.
Severed spinal cord, death was instantaneous. No other external injuries,
bruises or lacerations—”

“No broken bones?” I interrupted. We saw the tape. Patricia
fell into an open manhole—feet first. The manhole was large but not the size
that would have allowed Patricia’s body to tumble or bounce off the walls as
she fell. No matter how deep that manhole, she would have landed on her feet
and broken at least her ankles, if not suffering other fractures. She could
have hit her head and died from such a blow, maybe even a broken neck but there
had to be other injuries consistent with what I saw on that tape in Patterson’s
office.

Joe gave me a pained look. “Could have been. I was busy. The
two guys from social services were breathing down my neck, wanted a signed
release so the funeral home could collect the body that afternoon. The x-rays
came with the body. That’s all I had time to check and confirm. The fatal neck
injury was consistent with what the report said.”

“Why were they in such a hurry?”

“Vacation, what do you think?” He scowled at me. “Or the
funeral home was having an early burial special,” he added wryly.

“She was cremated.”

“There you go. They do cremations twice a week at Salomar.
They must have wanted to fit her in quickly. Every day the body’s stored in the
morgue costs money, you know. I signed the release and sent her file to
Morris.”

“Paxton Morris? Why would you do that?” I didn’t expect to
come back to the Hopkins’ social maverick doctor since the last time Joe
mentioned him, he suspected him of being Dr. Martin. However, I assumed that
nothing had panned out along those lines or Joe would have already confronted
Morris, maybe even made a citizen’s arrest.

“I told you he’s on Quigley’s staff, one of his heart
surgeons,” Joe replied casually, getting ready to attack his salad.

“You thought he might be Dr. Martin,” I said carefully,
feeling I was sharing “work issues” with civilians.

“Well, he still might turn out to be your Dr. Martin. He
came to Hopkins just over three years ago. I don’t have details of his medical
background but I’m working on it,” he said.

I didn’t remember discussing details of our IMF visit with
Joe. Then again, he might have overheard us discussing it. “Joe,” I said, “it
might not be safe for you to continue your involvement in this case. If it is a
doctor and you feel strongly it is, well…when you can’t be safe among your
colleagues… I worry about you, that’s all,” I finished with a shrug because Joe
was glowering at me.

Even as I maintained eye contact, his scowl dissolved and he
ended up smiling. “Meg,” he winked at me, “I’m flattered that you worry on my
behalf but I’m of no interest to these people, whoever they are. I’m not an
economist, I’m not a waiter, I’m not a programmer or a tradesman. I’m a
pathologist. Who would want to exert control over me and more important, why
bother? Do you know that of all the medical professions pathologists enjoy the
longest life span?”

“Yes, Joe, you told me that’s why you chose to be the keeper
of the dead.”

“Actually, I chose to be the doctor to the dead because they
don’t complain. I’m sure you noticed, my bedside manner is not the greatest,”
he said, laughing.

I laughed too even though there was nothing to feel merry
about. “So, what do we know about this Dr. Paxton Morris?” I asked.

“He’s the one who usually does all the uninsured cases and
those who have to be taken from emergency straight into O.R., heart attacks and
serious problems,” Brenda said helpfully.

“Yes, Joe’s already told me he’s a social maverick, the type
of doctor I like,” I said.

“He’s what you might call a…” Brenda’s eyes settled on the
wine carafe the waiter had just put in the middle of the table, arranging the
glasses around it. “House wine.” She found the analogy.

“A specialist but way down in the medical hierarchy,” I
said, still wondering why Joe had given out Patricia’s medical file to Morris.

Brenda’s mouth twitched uncomfortably. I saw this was the
part she didn’t like about her work environment, the fierce stratification and
corresponding pecking order of the doctors, which, of course, translated into
glory—and money. Ability alone was not enough for a doctor to earn a higher
position up the ladder. He had to have connections and publications that made
his name resonate in all the right circles.

“He’s not really a maverick, Meg, just a bit of a social
advocate,” she said, sounding defensive.

“Insists on equal treatment for all?”

“When you attend too many homeless cases and ignore too many
directives that mandate insurance information be collected before you proceed
with more expensive procedures, it’s going to get noticed.” She sighed and I
felt she knew more than she was willing to tell me.

“Morris has done that?”

“Routinely,” she smiled crookedly. “He’s a good surgeon.
He’s done a quite a few open-heart surgeries and implants on people who would
otherwise not have been able to afford them. The hospital’s Board of Directors
noticed and issued him a reprimand. He ignored it. Then they issued a warning.
He’s now on this third notice. One more and his employment and hospital
privileges will be suspended. He has a way of controlling, making everyone
respond to his orders in a way that there’s no time to get sidetracked by
protocol—insurance, liability, who’s going to pay—things like that. And once
you have your patient in the O.R. with an open chest, well…” Brenda trailed
off.

Morris continued to sound like someone I would not have
minded meeting—to shake his hand. He also didn’t fit my stereotype of Dr.
Martin.

“All right, Joe, why would you give Patricia’s medical file
to Dr. Morris?” I interrupted his energetic hand motions between the glass, the
breadbasket and the salad.

“She was his patient.” He paused long enough from chewing to
spit that out.

I leaned back, hardly breathing. Perhaps I needed to
overhaul my thinking approach to stereotypes and everything else. If Morris was
Patricia’s doctor he could well have been Dr. Martin who attended her fiancé,
Brick. Indeed, it would have been logical for Dr. Martin to continue exerting
his “control” over Brick through Patricia, held prisoner in a state psychiatric
facility.

“Did Morris attend Patricia in Mongrove routinely, or was it
just a one-time specialist’s intervention?” I asked.

“She came into his care about two years ago. Can’t remember
the details. Didn’t memorize her file, you know. Just glanced through it. I was
busy. Two cases of suspected industrial poisoning,” Joe spoke in fragments
between bites.

“What did he treat her for and where?”

“Suspected heart problems, murmur or palpitations, can’t be
sure which. He ended up operating on her hiatal hernia. Flap wasn’t closing,
acid shooting up into the esophagus. I confirmed the scar from that surgery. It
was neatly done, no doubt about that.”

“So Patricia’s surgery was done at Hopkins?”

Joe shrugged and shook his head. “Of course. Didn’t I just
say that?”

“Her x-rays were only of the neck injury?”

“Meg, she died of a broken neck.” Joe pointed his fork at
me, as if it was a dart and I was a target. “Doctors don’t normally go berserk,
taking x-rays of every single square inch of a dead body when they know what’s
the cause of death. Besides, she was a social services case. X-rays cost money.
Yeah.” He slashed the air furiously with his fork. “I know what you’re
thinking. I ought to have done an autopsy. It’s too late now. The body’s been
cremated. If she did have an implant—or a pacemaker—we’ll never know. Besides,
I don’t think she had that kind of shit in her chest.”

“How would you know? You didn’t do the…” Social conscience
or not, Paxton Morris now fit my refurbished image of Dr. Martin very well. I
wasn’t crossing James Patterson off my meager list of suspects but Morris was a
stronger contender for spot number one. He was a heart surgeon who probably
routinely installed pacemakers—and he had an accomplice, at Mongrove.

“Because she was a female,” Joe said almost threateningly.
“So far, your three cases were male.”

“Are you suggesting that this mad genius who’s planting
bombs in people’s chests hasn’t figured out how to do such a dastardly deed to
a female anatomy?” I snickered.

“It’s different, Meg, that’s for sure.” His frown broke up
and he ended up smiling—at Brenda. I wasn’t worthy of such adoration.

I didn’t think it was that different. There was more
cushioning tissue on the female chest but that should have made it easier to
conceal the implant. Then again, these days, women checked their breast tissue
a lot more regularly than they used to and might notice a lump, no matter how
small. Men didn’t have to perform such rituals. Perhaps that was the underlying
reason why only male subjects had been targeted. Field’s list of the Tavistock
team members in Baltimore had contained one female name but she was gone now.
She was one of the two who surrendered their story to the tabloids and retired
to a warmer climate.

Joe was probably right. Patricia didn’t have an implant. She
was held in Mongrove, just like Kane had said, a hostage more than a patient.
Morris and Patterson were her overseers—and Brick’s.

Brick knew she was there. Part of his cooperation could have
even been because of that. She had loved him enough to make a fool of herself
four times, when she reported him missing. He in turn, loved her enough to
spend four years in slavery. A hard knot formed in my throat. It took two
glasses of water to get rid of it.

I spent the rest of the lunch cautioning Joe not to
precipitate another confrontation with a colleague in Hopkins and steer clear
of Paxton Morris. I didn’t mention Patterson again. We parted after lunch.

“Tell Ken to give me a call after five. I might have to work
an extra shift,” Brenda said, touching my arm, smiling.

“We’ll be working too, at my house,” I told her. I watched
them walk down the wide aisle that looked like any other offshoot in a busy
mall, though in reality it was still a hospital corridor. Joe’s shoulders were
in a perfect “T,” with his head slightly bowed as he listened to Brenda. I
didn’t know why I kept watching them but when Joe’s hand sneaked around and
settled on Brenda’s waist, I knew what it was that made me linger. I just didn’t
know when the other shoe was going to drop.

I called home. Mrs. Tavalho was busy preparing dinner—for a
team—as she tactfully put it.

“Do you think you might be needing me tonight?” she asked.

Strangely enough, I understood. “I hope we’re not going to
have another one of those long nights.” I sighed. “But if we do, I’ll just ask
Mrs. Devon to look in on Jazz.”

“I know how hard your work is on you these days,” she said.
“But we’ve been planning this outing for a while and I’m in charge, so I
wouldn’t want to disappoint the other church members.”

I assured her that she was free to enjoy her night out with
her church group, acknowledging that she deserved it.

“I told the driver to pick me up last, to give you as much
time as I can. He’ll be here just after seven o’clock. Is that all right with
you?”

I smiled widely to show her it was. “Where are you going?” I
asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

She laughed, a little self-consciously, I thought. “A
charity casino in Udelman. Fifteen of us are going, like I said, the church
group.”

I wished her tons of luck.

I called Ken. He was at Marco’s,
getting a haircut. My eyes tightened with discomfort as I gave him Brenda’s
message. “I’ll see you at my house,” I told him when the silence grew sticky.
He said okay and hung up, then I called Field.

“This should be in Patricia’s file, so we must have missed
it and will have to go over the material in detail but she was admitted to
Hopkins two years go. The surgeon who operated on her hiatal hernia is Dr.
Paxton Morris. He’s a social maverick and a thorn in the Directors’ ass but
capable and solid.” I gave him my report as crisply as a military review. I
didn’t give him my feelings and suspicions about Dr. Morris because it wasn’t
the sort of thing to discuss over the phone.

“How are you?” He decided to be a maverick too.

“Fine. Anything on the Washington armored cars?”

“I’ll see you in a while, at home.”