The Inquisitor (25 page)

This time Earl remained silent, letting what she had said percolate.

"Why? You thinking somebody set Stewart up, avenging the way he sabotaged Jerome?" she asked after a few seconds.

"It crossed my mind."

"After all these years? I doubt it. Jerome could be an excessively self-obsessed, compulsive scientist, like so many of our breed. Heroes in the lab, losers in the real world, and especially lousy at marriage. However much Jerome's women missed him at the time, nobody I can think of would still care about him that much."

"That's harsh."

"You're probably more acquainted with the crossovers in the research game, the ones who treat people in addition to rats, like Stewart. They have a smattering of human graces. The purists, like Jerome, wilt in sunlight."

"The one who tried to hang herself- you wouldn't happen to remember her name?"

"Sorry."

He thanked her, gave her his numbers- including the private line at home for after hours, suggesting she call him if anything more about Stewart's past came to mind- and hung up.

The thought of someone close to Jerome Wilcher seeking revenge and setting up Stewart still resonated with him, mostly because he hoped it might be true. What a clean and simple way to get Stewart out from under his current trouble. As nasty as he might be, he remained an asset at St. Paul's, whatever had happened at NYCH fourteen years ago. And despite his impossible personality, Earl liked the guy, even wanted the best for him. Because over and above his being a clinical genius, the man still practiced medicine with the same fire in the belly that all doctors start out with but which few keep alive, even the brilliant ones. In that, Earl considered him a kindred spirit.

But as Cheryl Branagh had said, who would feel passionate enough to avenge Jerome Wilcher fourteen years after his death? The woman who'd tried to kill herself over him? No question her feelings were strong at the time, but for that emotion to have persisted until now would seem highly unlikely. One of the other several girlfriends? Even less of a chance. Once they found out about each other they would have been more apt to hate him, not seek revenge for his death. So who else? He'd no immediate family. But sometimes distant relatives could have strong feelings about blood connections.

On a whim he typed the name Wilcher into the staff registry.

Nothing.

What about patients with that name?

He clicked to the admissions page, but no Wilchers were in the hospital at the moment.

Perhaps previously?

According to the patient directory, there never had been.

He dug out the Buffalo phone book to find there weren't any listed in the whole city. A rare name, he thought.

Could there be an avenger with a different name? That he would never find. Oh, well, it had been wishful thinking anyway, and certainly not logical. He'd heard of revenge being a dish best served cold, but to wait fourteen years-

A tap on the door interrupted him.

"Dr. Garnet?" a woman's voice said.

"Yes?"

Even though she wore a mask he recognized her tanned, round face and the corners of eyes that crinkled like fine leather as she stepped into his office.

"Mrs. Baxter," he said without hesitation. Sometimes the person that death left behind stuck with him more than the one it took. Yet something had changed around her eyes. The swollen ripeness of fresh grief had withered into dark hollows, probably due to the aridity of being cried out and the loss of her husband having sunk in. "Come, sit down," he said, rising to his feet. "What can I do for you?"

She stepped over to the chair opposite him. When she settled in, it seemed far too big for her.

"How are you doing?"

Most people at this stage just said, "Fine," and rushed to tell him what they wanted, being in no state to let feelings interfere with the endless paperwork that went with death.

But she hesitated, and he knew he would get a truthful answer.

"It's hard," she said. "Really hard."

She looked down at her hands, and the silence created a divide between him and her.

"I have to say you were magnificent at your husband's side when he died," he said, attempting to close it. "The kind of strength and self-control it took to say good-bye the way you did is rare."

"I loved him." She spoke without looking up.

The silence settled in again.

"Do you have family here?"

"Oh, yes. My sister."

"Children?"

"No. We never…" Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. "In a way, it's a blessing. What could be harder than to tell a little boy or girl why Daddy's gone, right? Hell, I can barely take care of myself."

Earl nodded sympathetically, having heard the same rationale a thousand times from childless survivors. Inside he would invariably wince and once more thank the fates for the joy of having Brendan and his soon-to-arrive little brother as part of his life with Janet. He would endure any pain for having had that treasure.

"And of course there's no one who explains to me why my husband's gone," she added, her lids narrowing like gun slits. "I mean, there's a lot of assholes left walking around out there. Why'd it have to be him?"

Her glare dared him to try and give an answer.

He shook his head and, gesturing skyward with his palms, referred her question to the heavens.

She sighed as if to say, Spare me the fools. "I do appreciate what you did for Artie, and your kindness toward me," she added, as if that at least compensated in part for his current failing to tell her what she needed to know.

"I wish I could have helped him more."

She reached inside her handbag and pulled out a business envelope bearing the logo of a well-known insurance company. "I'm sorry to bother you with these. Dr. Popovitch filled out the initial forms, but he's not here, and they just require a confirmation of his initial report. Do you mind?"

He hated insurance papers. Most of the time the questions attempted to derail the claim and demanded irrelevant details that had more to do with filling in squares than providing an informed medical opinion as to the cause of death. And if the doctor who'd actually handled the case happened to be off duty when the family showed up with the documents, a frequent occurrence, Michael, bless his soul, had mostly taken over the mind-numbing chore. But occasionally one still got through to Earl. "Sure, I'd be glad to," he said, taking the papers out of her hand.

"Thanks. You don't know what a relief it is getting them out of the way. I thought there might be trouble, and Lord knows I need the money. But Dr. Popovitch assured me everything should go through fine. And thank God. It's a terrible thing to say, but that policy's the only good investment Artie made since the bubble popped."

He got the message. She expected him to be as helpful as Michael had been. He started to skim through what he'd written.

Five minutes later he wished he hadn't.

"Michael, we have to talk."

Earl had phoned him at home the instant Mrs. Baxter left his office.

"Jesus, Earl, can't it wait? You know I just got off a shift from hell."

"I just had an interesting conversation with Artie Baxter's widow about insurance papers."

Silence reigned supreme.

"Where?" Michael asked after a few seconds.

Earl thought of the nearest place outside the hospital to get a cup of coffee. "The Horseshoe Bar."

A copper haze from the morning rush hour lingered over Buffalo, staining the previously blue sky a color of rust. He made the ten-minute walk in five, despite the temperature having already climbed past the predicted high. Ducking inside a front door of smoked glass to the dark air-conditioned interior provided welcome relief. A former hangout for gangs and druggies, the place had mellowed into a respectable watering hole where many of the staff and medical residents gathered for a beer after work. The change had been helped along by a makeover with mirrors, plants, and several coats of dark green paint, but no amount of interior decorating could erase Earl's memory of the kids whom he'd pronounced dead after they'd OD'd here.

Over the last three months the management, in another adjustment to the times, had started to serve an early-bird breakfast, taking advantage of hospital staff determined to avoid the designated eating areas of a SARS environment. That crowd would be long gone to work, he'd figured.

His eyes adjusted to the dark. Sure enough, most of the tables and booths stood empty, and a long chrome-trimmed bar, gleaming under the neon glow of a large, red-script Budweiser sign, wouldn't open until the lunch rush arrived a few hours from now. But the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air.

He chose a corner table and had downed two cups by the time Michael slid into the seat opposite him.

"So what's the deal?" Earl said without ceremony.

"Artie Baxter died of a cardiac arrest. You were there. That's what it says on the form."

"You didn't mention the fact he came in unconscious from hypoglycemia."

"That's not the cause of death."

"It's the cause of the cause, Michael. Don't kid around with me."

He shrugged. "That could be one opinion."

"Well, here's another. That story of his, that he took his normal dose of insulin, then got too busy to eat, stank like three-day-old fish. I think he deliberately tried to check out, using insulin. As to why, I don't know for sure, but I bet you do. Mrs. Baxter is pretty forthright about Artie's lousy investment skills. So what happened? He became suicidal after getting in over his head with the stock market? And you hid that little fact so a pretty young widow could still collect his insurance?"

Michael's expression hardened. "Her being pretty had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, yeah? Then where were you Monday night? Not ER, where Donna said you'd be." On the fly, he decided to take a big leap, in the hope of provoking an outburst of truth. "What's going on, Michael? You into consoling widows?"

Michael's face reddened until it resembled a beet with a beard. "If you weren't my friend…" He clenched his fist. "Just stay out of this, Earl. It's not what you think."

"Then change my thinking."

Michael exhaled, the way he'd done in his smoking days, as if intent on expelling the last traces of air in his lungs. His fingers uncoiled. "She needed the money. It's not her fault her husband tried to check out. And he did have chest pain that he ignored, like a lot of men we see who don't make it, and they still get the insurance. So Where's the harm?"

"It's fraud. If that company asks to see the original chart-"

"They'll see my note that describes exactly what happened in ER. An insulin-dependent diabetic male arrives comatose, receives glucose, wakes up, arrests, and dies. Wife says he'd been complaining for days of chest pain that he blamed on indigestion- amen. And not a fraudulent statement anywhere."

"What if they ask you why you didn't mention the coma on the insurance claim? And if they also read the nurses' notes, they'll see that cockamamie story of his about the insulin. Just because you didn't spell it out doesn't mean they won't put it together, just like we did."

"Bullshit. Once they get a doctor's signature, they never ask for nursing notes unless they suspect something's not kosher."

"What do you mean never? You've done this before?"

"Of course not."

But he'd taken a second too long in answering.

"Have you ever had an insurance company challenge your ruling on a cause of death, let alone go so far as to demand nurses' notes for corroboration?" he asked, barely skipping a beat.

No, he hadn't. But Earl couldn't shake the feeling of being fed a lie.

"And don't tell me you never fudged a form," Michael continued. "Left out a detail that might have torpedoed a claim, stood over a corpse that had tobacco-stained fingers and ticked the 'don't know' box in answer to the question 'Has patient smoked in the last year?'"

Again Earl couldn't disagree. Every doctor knew the drill: don't outright lie, but don't hand the adjusters an outright gift either. What made this case dirty was the blatancy of the omission and if the doctor got any favors in return.

Michael stood up to leave. "So we're square?" he said, as if the matter were closed. "Now I'm going home to sleep."

Earl decided to try a more delicate approach. "You look as if you haven't had a good rest in months, Michael. Something's been eating you up- has been for a while now- and don't tell me again that it's just that you're tired or worried about SARS. Even when we get together for dinner or take the kids out somewhere, there are moments when you get a look in your eyes that's a million miles away. Hell, I've even seen Terry looking at you funny, wondering what's wrong. And you wouldn't have come all the way down here if this thing with Artie Baxter's insurance form was as innocent as you claim. So let's cut the bullshit. I want to know what's going on."

His friend leaned on the back of the chair he'd just vacated and towered over Earl. "You know, I liked you better when you were just chief of ER and mad at everyone else who ran the place."

"This place? The Horseshoe?"

Michael laughed. The smile looked good on him, and for a few seconds the craggy landscape of his face softened. Then he leaned closer, grinned wider, and his expression hardened. "Since they made you VP, medical, you've been getting in more trouble than ever. Oh, excuse me, make that suspended VP, medical."

"This isn't about me, Michael."

His grin vanished. "It sure is. Because I'm betting my good friend Earl won't go around making accusations about me and widows that would upset the hell out of my wife. And for my good friend's information, SARS is why I'm losing sleep. It's wrecking the shit out of my marriage. Donna's so scared I'll bring it home to Terry, she's thinking of moving to her mother's with him. So I'm also counting on my good friend to give his long-trusted pal Michael the benefit of the doubt and not pry into matters that are best left alone. Now I'm going back home to bed." He started toward the door.

"Michael, damn it, you can't do this to me." Earl threw a few dollars on the table and ran after him. "Tell me what the hell you've gotten into-"