Final Mercy

by Frank J Edwards

  “You have the gift of understatement.”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “Listen, there were many things my father-in-law didn’t approve of, and I was at the top of the list. After he found out Colin and I had eloped, he hired a private detective. Fortunately, Colin was already well aware of the fact I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. That’s one of the things he liked.”

  “Your husband was a plastic surgeon?”

  “A very successful one.”

  “I understand he died of ALS?”

  Daphne slammed the glass down.

  “Dammit, what didn’t Sal tell you about me? It’s true, Colin died a wasting death that took about three years, and toward the end, when I was very vulnerable, his father believed the worst about me, and he made sure I got turned out. I was not even allowed at the bedside to hold my husband’s hand when he died.”

  For a moment, she felt as if she might cry, but the sensation quickly passed.

  Mitchell had paused and was adjusting his tie.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not asking for pity. It’s history.”

  “I didn’t come to offer you pity. But maybe I can help you balance the scales.”

  “Money can’t balance the scales, Mr. Mitchell.” She drank the remaining liquid in the glass. “But I see what you mean. I’m not stupid.”

  “Mrs. Gavin—Daphne—the hospital released a press statement just this morning acknowledging one of their interns made a serious mistake, which led directly to the damage in question. That means the hospital’s insurance carrier has already set aside money for a settlement if someone files a claim. A legitimate claimant simply needs to file suit. Essentially, all you’ll need to do is show up and hold out your hand, Mrs. Gavin. Daphne. It’s a slam dunk.”

  “Just how big of a dunk?”

  “Sal estimated somewhere between one and one-point-five million.”

  Daphne looked up at the sky, where a thunderhead was building over the mountains. She glanced at Mitchell. He had beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “I like money as much as anybody,” she said, “and I could certainly use some right now. But it’s not quite that simple. I’m on the threshold of something better, and I don’t want this to get in the way.”

  “You can always give it to charity, Daphne.”

  “You mean after I give you a thirty-three-percent contingency fee.”

  Mitchell shrugged.

  “That’s the standard arrangement.”

  Daphne Gavin looked back toward the mountains for a moment.

  “What would I have to do?” she said.

  “You and I will fly to New Canterbury and meet with their lawyers. The firm will handle all the arrangements—travel, lodging, meals.”

  “When would we go?”

  A Cheshire cat smile spread across his face.

  “There are two tickets waiting for us on a flight leaving in about three hours.”

  She sighed and stood.

  “Let me go inside and think. You want to wait out here, or inside?”

  “Here would be fine.”

  “Then at least take your jacket off. You’re soaking.”

  She slid open the door and entered the coolness of the apartment. Emelita was at the counter cutting up vegetables. She looked up and smiled.

  “Emelita, go out there and see if he wants anything else to drink. And don’t flirt. I saw the way you stared at him, you bad girl.”

  The girl nodded, blushing.

  In the bathroom, Daphne dropped the robe and got into the shower. What would be the harm of an unexpected visit to New Canterbury? Especially if it would dramatically ease the strain on her finances? How could it possibly compromise the new venture? What could be the harm?

  Nothing.

  She might even be there in time to see the old man buried.

  XXV

  In For A Penny

  The sudden ringing of the telephone sliced through Jack’s reverie. He’d been staring out the window into the predawn gray after a night of little sleep, the image of Atwood lying on the stretcher never far from his consciousness. Steeling himself against more bad news, he reached for the phone.

  It was Greta Carpenter.

  “I apologize for calling this early, Dr. Forester.”

  “Not a problem, Greta. What’s up?”

  “Did you get my message?”

  Arbus padded in, sat in front of him and stared.

  “Yes, right. You wanted to talk?”

  “I was concerned you might try to contact me at the hospital, and that’s why I called so early. I really don’t feel comfortable there anymore. I know that sounds crazy, but what isn’t these days?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Could we meet somewhere today?”

  “Certainly. Before I forget, the writer, Zellie Andersen, from Coast-to-Coast, wants to interview you. I believe you met her already?”

  “I did, yes. But that’s strange. Dr. Witner told me she wasn’t interested in talking with me.”

  “No, just the opposite.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You can give me her number when we meet.”

  They settled on lunch at a Chinese place a few blocks from the medical center called the Flying Duck. Jack said goodbye, then turned his attention to Arbus.

  “You, my friend, do not smell good. You’re getting a bath today. We’ve got company coming.”

  He opened the side door and watched the dog bolt for the woods. He also noticed the entryway floor was crusted with layers of paw and shoe prints. Arbus wasn’t the only thing that needed cleaning.

  He strolled around, appalled at how far he’d let things go. Dog hair covered the carpets. Cobwebs festooned the open-ceiling beams. Everywhere he looked, the list grew—windows opaque with grime, furniture strewn with magazines and papers, dishes filling the sink and overflowing onto the counters, and when he ran a finger over the top of the refrigerator, it came away black and sticky.

  “An unsung mystery of the universe—how grease finds it way to the top of a refrigerator.”

  He jotted down the things he’d need to get at the store then pulled on a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt and took his jacket from the closet. On the way to the barn, he dialed the hospital number.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Dr. Forester,” said the nurse. “There’s been no change in Dr. Gavin’s condition.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “Dr. Atwood?“

  The nurse picked up on his hesitation.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “They discontinued the ventilator about half an hour ago and pronounced him dead.”

  Jack held the phone to his ear for a moment or two after the nurse hung up, feeling a mix of emotions—anger mixed with grief. Suicide was a stupid thing to do—stupid, horrible, destructive. He shook his head, put the phone back in his pocket and went in to check the barn. Tony wasn’t there. It was an open question whether he’d come in tonight to meet Zellie. Jack suspected he would.

  Arriving in town before the stores opened, he found an empty table in a little café near the butcher shop on River Street and ordered coffee. It was a shame he didn’t have Zellie’s book, but someone had left a copy of the morning paper on a nearby chair. As soon as he opened it, the headline story jumped out and grabbed him by the throat.

  Suicide Strikes Medical Center Again

  Death note blames former ER Director Jack Forester

  Pulse pounding in his temples, he read:

  New Canterbury — A second physician lies in critical condition at the medical center after a suicide attempt last night.

  Hospital officials announced at 11 p.m. that Dr. Humphrey Atwood, the assistant ER director, shot himself in his office at the hospital earlier and was rushed to the emergency room.

  According to hospital sources, Dr. Atwood had been increasingly depressed over his role in a medical error that occurred after the medical center’s former dean
, Dr. James Gavin allegedly jumped from the Beech Avenue footbridge several days ago.

  Gavin, a Nobel Laureate and well-known local physician, remains in a coma.

  Jack’s eyes flew down the text, his jaw muscles tight.

  A note found on Atwood’s desk expressed dismay and rage over the failure of ER director, Dr. Jack Forester, to institute measures that would have prevented the medical error. Forester has since been suspended.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hissed.

  He became aware of someone standing next to him.

  “Hello, Jack.” It was Armand Bedford, chief of the city police, a white coffee mug in his hand. “I was meaning to give you a call today, but I saw your car out front. It’s hard to miss.”

  Jack started to rise. Bedford had been a close friend of his father’s.

  “Don’t get up,” the chief said, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let me take a seat.” He eased his broad frame into the chair gingerly, like a man whose back was sore. “I know one thing.” He pointed to the article. “Somebody at the medical center has loose lips. There’s way more information there than the public needs to know right now.” He continued in a softer tone, “Are you okay?”

  Jack took a deep breath. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly.

  “Jack, I’ve always felt like an uncle toward you,” Bedford went on. “Do you want to talk?”

  “I guess there’s not much to say.”

  “How close were you with this guy Atwood?”

  “We worked together, but that was about it.”

  Bedford nodded, stirring sugar into his cup.

  “No love lost, then, I take it?” He set the spoon down and gave Jack a penetrating look.

  “No.”

  “I read his suicide note last night. Anybody who would hang that kind of weight on another person—enemy or not—is a sick bastard in my book. I’m sure there are two sides to the story. I have no sympathy for him, not to mention what he’s putting his family through. “

  Jack felt a lump growing in his throat as Bedford continued.

  “Listen, what Atwood did wasn’t your fault. He pulled the trigger. You have every right to feel pissed off about the note, but not guilty about the act that followed. Do you read me?”

  Jack’s attention was drawn to a woman passing by on the sidewalk. For a moment, he thought it was Zellie, and his senses sharpened, but the hair color was too dark.

  “I appreciate the kind words, Chief,” he said, turning back to face Bedford.

  “Jack, what’s this I hear about you leaving town?”

  He stared at the man with mingled surprise and irritation.

  “Everybody seems to know about me leaving but me. Where did you hear it?”

  “Someone at the hospital. I know this has got to be a tough time for you—not just with this business, but with Jim Gavin, too. But I hope you aren’t thinking about it seriously.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Jack, let me tell you something. I still think of your folks every day. They were fine people, and I’m sure they’d want you to tough this out.” After a moment of silence, the chief said, “Not to change the subject, but I wanted to ask you something about Jim Gavin. Before the accident, he called me, but I was out of town.”

  “He did?”

  “I was at a damn budget conference in Albany,” Bedford went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Every time I leave town something bad happens—a tree falls down in my yard or my wife’s cat goes missing. It never fails. This time, an old friend throws himself off a bridge.”

  “I still can’t believe he tried to commit suicide, Chief.”

  “I don’t want to believe it myself, Jack. But Witner and Debussy claim he was acting depressed. People do these things, even great men like Jim Gavin. You’re a doctor, I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “So, you weren’t able to talk to him?”

  “No, and it’s been a real weight on my soul. I wish Arlene had given him my cell number. In any case, she set him up to see me on Saturday morning, but by then, it was too late. Who knows—I might have been able to help him. But he left an odd message. I don’t know. Maybe it fits with him being depressed.”

  “What was that?”

  “He told Arlene he wanted to talk about the deaths of Robert McCarthy and Lester Zyman.”

  “That’s what he told her?”

  “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk with him at all?”

  “Well, I did run into him just before a meeting the day he got back.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “He was upset but not depressed. He was angry over the way things had been drifting at the medical center since he’d left.”

  “What, exactly, did he tell you?”

  “That he wasn’t pleased with Dr. Witner’s leadership. He listened to me complain about how Witner had been making my job difficult and seemed to be sympathetic.”

  Bedford hesitated, his expression puzzled.

  “I’m very surprised to hear that, Jack.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve talked with Bryson Witner a couple of times over the past few days, and you came up more than once. I mentioned our connection, and Dr. Witner had nothing but good things to say about you.”

  Jack’s jaw fell open.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I first met Bryson at a reception last spring, and he’s a very impressive guy. Old Abe Delancy thinks he’s the top monkey, the way he’s been whipping things into shape over there.”

  “That depends on your point of view.”

  “You’re saying Jim Gavin didn’t like him?”

  “He said he was going to make sure things got better, and I took it to mean he was going to work against Witner becoming the permanent dean.”

  “Interesting. I’m very surprised. What else did he say? Did he mention McCarthy or Zyman?”

  “Not McCarthy, but he said he’d gotten a letter from Dr. Zyman that Zyman wrote the day before he died.”

  Bedford cocked an eyebrow.

  “Really? What did he say about it?”

  “He wouldn’t go into it. He said he had to do some research first.”

  Bedford rubbed his chin.

  “A letter from Zyman,” he repeated thoughtfully.

  “Chief, I’ve tried to find that letter. He had it with him the day I saw him.”

  “No luck?”

  “I checked his clothes at the hospital, and I even searched the accident site, and asked security to check his belongings. Nothing so far.”

  “Jack, I wish you’d given me a call.”

  Jack focused on his coffee, blushing.

  “Sorry. I guess I should have.”

  “Yes, you should have, but don’t worry about it. I think it’s unlikely the letter would shed any new light on this mess. Actually, it fits with what we know—that Jim was depressed over the deaths of Zyman and McCarthy.”

  “I still don’t buy he tried to kill himself. I think he was mugged.”

  Bedford sipped his coffee and gazed out the window.

  “A mugging with no missing valuables. I don’t know. It’s funny, but suicides in a community often come in threes, and Atwood, I hope, puts an end to it.”

  A chill went down Jack’s spine.

  “Gavin and Atwood are two. Who’s the third?”

  “Well, I was thinking of the way Dr. McCarthy died in the lake last summer. Here’s this very smart man who goes off into a cave without telling his diving partner. That’s suicidal, if you ask me. He was diving with Fred Hinkle, the only guy in Peterskill County who knows much about those caves, but he goes off on his own like a five-year-old with a death wish. I’d just as soon dynamite those damn things shut.”

  Jack straightened.

  “Who did you say his diving partner was?”

  “Hinkle, the guy that runs the marina at the south end of the lake—Fred Hinkle. He’s an ex-Navy SEAL, probably the safest diving partner a m
an could have. You’re looking at me strangely, Jack. Do you know him?”

  The background noise of the café grew loud in Jack’s ears. When the front door slammed shut, he started. In his mind, he heard the voice of Katrina Hinkle. My father and Dr. Witner are friends, but I don’t like him. His hands are like ice.

  “Can I share a thought with you, Jack?” Bedford said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If I were you, I’d consider making my peace with Bryson Witner. Like I said, he thinks highly of you. He’s a mover and a shaker. I’m sure he can help things get back on track.”

  “You don’t know the whole story,” Jack told him. “And I doubt you’d believe me at this point.

  “How’s your brother getting along, by the way?”

  “Fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “I can’t tell you how impressed I am, Jack, at the way you look out for him. Again, you’d have made your parents proud.”

  “That’s good,” Jack replied, so distracted by his thoughts he barely heard the compliment. “So, Dr. Gavin’s case is being officially ruled an attempted suicide?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about that missing letter?”

  “I’ll put out the word to our people to keep an eye out for it. But I think I know pretty much what it’ll tell us. Jim got a letter from a dead friend along with a notice of that friend’s death. It must have been a huge shock. We can’t wish bad things away.

  “Listen, it was good to see you, bud.” Bedford drained his mug and stood. “I’d better be getting on to the office By the way, that nutty security guard actor friend of yours—what’s his name?”

  “Tim Bonadonna.”

  “Yeah, Bonadonna. He’s called the department three times demanding that we investigate the possibility a drug company tried to murder Gavin.”

  “He means well, Chief.”

  “I’m sure he does, but if you see him, please ask him to put a lid on it. What’s up with that guy?”

  “He goes off on tangents sometimes, but he’s a great friend. A little too much imagination for a small town, maybe.”

  “Well, tell him to stick to Shakespeare.”

  * * *

  Jack came out of the supermarket with two handfuls of shopping bags and loaded them into the Jaguar’s trunk. With a couple of hours remaining until his rendezvous with Greta, he drove by the medical center then crossed the Seneca River Bridge under a steel-gray overcast. There were no other cars in sight. He jammed the gas pedal down and accelerated through the winding curves of Route 19 toward Lake Stanwick.