“Tony’s here,” he told her.
She smiled and turned to see. Tony stopped, hesitating.
“Tony, thanks for coming,” Jack said. “This is Zellie Andersen, the friend I told you about. She’s looking forward to meeting you. Come on in.”
Tony closed the door, but he didn’t come any farther than the entryway. Zellie stood. She looked at Jack, who nodded, and they both approached him one step at a time. When they came to within about six feet, Tony inched back, and they stopped.
“Hello, Tony. I’m Zellie.”
Tony smiled at her then glanced at Jack.
“We saved a plate for you,” Jack said. “It’s in the fridge.”
Tony nodded then brought out a thin tube of brass about a foot long, age-tarnished, with holes along the length and a green plastic mouthpiece. Jack recognized the pennywhistle his father had brought back for Tony from a trip to Ireland.
“Do you play, Tony?” Zellie asked.
Tony nodded. He brought the instrument to his lips and answered with music.
“Can you hear it, Zellie,” Jack asked, turning toward her.
Fairly well,” she said. “It’s lovely.”
It was lovely, a Celtic melody in a minor key, full of lilting trills and graceful shifts. Into Jack’s mind came the image of an ancient green forest. He looked at Zellie. Her gaze was rapt, and her eyes slightly dim with unshed tears.
The song ended, and Tony lowered the flute. He had not taken his eyes from Zellie, which was highly unusual for him, and now he blinked several times—and smiled.
“Thank you, Tony Forester,” Zellie said. “I hope we’re going to be friends.”
“I liked your book,” he responded.
Zellie beamed and glanced at Jack.
“Is this a plot?”
“I gave it to him last night. Tony, have you really finished it already?”
Tony reached into the large side pocket of his parka and brought out the book, safe inside a plastic freezer bag. He handed it to Jack, picture side up, and nodded.
XXVII
Tea And Cadavers
“Listen, this is getting more than a little frustrating,” Jack said, struggling to keep his tone polite.
It was early the next morning, Monday, and he stood before the desk that blocked the corridor beyond which lay Jim Gavin’s room.
“I’m sorry,” said the new nurse, whose name tag read “Lillian Blockman,” an appropriate name if ever there was one, Jack noted.
“He’s been here since Saturday night. Do I have to file a written request or something, Ms. Blockman?”
“Please don’t be angry with me, Dr. Forester. I have no control. Per Dr. Witner, I can only admit staff directly caring for him.”
Once again, another unfamiliar security guard stood nearby, and his expression was bored and unfriendly. He was going to have to talk to Tim about this.
“I’m not angry with you, Lillian, but this is absurd.”
“I understand how you must feel, sir,” the nurse said. “It’s just that all sorts of people were trying to get in. We even had medical students trying to take pictures with their cell phones. And the press, of course.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Would you like me to page Dr. Witner?”
“All right,” he said. “Why not?”
While she dialed, he studied her desk. The monitor crouching on the right side was ICU-quality, giving a continuous display of Gavin’s cardiac rhythm, pulse, respiratory rates and blood pressure. In front of her lay a blue plastic notebook, where she was keeping a record of those parameters.
Witner returned the page. She picked up the phone, and Jack listened to her relay his request. She nodded and hung up, her face coloring.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Forester, but Dr. Witner feels that Dr. Gavin should not be disturbed until later in the afternoon. He said he would meet you here about five p.m. if you’d like, or at nine tomorrow morning.”
“That’s insane.”
“There’s nothing else I can do.”
“Yes, there is. You can let me in for a half a minute. Only you and I and our friend here will know.”
Her face colored even deeper, but this time with anger.
“Maybe you don’t care about my job,” she snapped, “but I do, and so do my kids. I’m a single mother.”
Jack accepted that he was wasting his time. He marched toward the elevators and, a few minutes later, bowled into Tim Bonadonna’s basement office and slammed the door behind him.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Good morning to you, too,” Tim said.
“According to Dr. Witner, I have to make an appointment at his convenience to visit Dr. Gavin.”
“Hell’s bells. Sit down before you pop a gasket.”
Jack was too agitated to sit.
“Any luck finding the letter?” he demanded.
“Like I told you, I found his belongings, but no epistle. Ergo, he probably didn’t have it on him. I bet he left it home.”
“Great.”
“But I did bring you a little present, Jackson. You owe me.” Tim reached into his desk and handed Jack a ring of keys. “These are copies of the keys Dr. Gavin had on him. One of them has to be his house key. These are yours to keep. The originals are back in the box.”
Jack took them, astonished.
“Tim, thank you. This is great.”
“All in a day’s illegitimate activity, my man.” Tim’s eyes darted from side to side as though scanning for potential eavesdroppers, despite the fact they were sitting in a closed office. He leaned close. “Listen, I’m certain he discovered something down there in the rain forest. Be extremely careful.”
“You know, Tim, I have come to the conclusion that you’re right about something going on behind the scenes.”
“Yes!” The animation on Tim’s face was soon replaced by a quizzical expression. “You do?”
“But not what you’re thinking.” Jack carefully led his friend into the web of connections he and Zellie had outlined the previous night. When he’d finished and leaned back, Tim’s eyes were wide and his expression astonished.
“Jack, I know Witner is a pompous turd, but good God, this is hard to swallow.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh.
“Harder to swallow than the cloak-and-dagger theory you’ve concocted?”
The big man stroked his beard, and after a moment he smiled.
“Well, maybe you’ve got a point. Don’t forget dinner tonight.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the Jefferson County Coroner’s Office, which occupied the basement of the Public Health Department on St. Vincent’s Street. He found the coroner, Dr. Annabel Singh, in the break room drinking a cup of coffee and eating a cookie. In her late fifties, Dr. Singh was also a professor of pathology at the university, and had long gray-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Very good to see you, Jack. You have been sending me too much business from the emergency department lately. You are not saving enough people. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”
She nodded toward a platter on the table. When Jack declined, she took one and put it in his hand.
“Eat it, please, and tell me what you think. I have added cinnamon to the recipe. I made them for my new assistant because it is his birthday today. But who needs an excuse to enjoy a cookie. Tell me?”
Jack took a bite and told her it was wonderful.
“So, what brings you to see me?”
“Annabel, you did the autopsy on Bob McCarthy, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“It was declared an accident, correct?”
“Yes, that is right.”
“And there was no suggestion of foul play?”
“Of course not. We did all the usual toxicological studies and organ analyses, you know, and nothing unusual. Why do you ask?”
“Some questions have surfaced.
”
Her dark eyes pinned him.
“What sort of questions?”
“I don’t really know yet.”
“So, questions have surfaced you do not really know anything about yet?”
“I can’t say anything more at this point.”
“It is funny you should mention this.”
“Why?”
“There was something about my findings that I could not easily explain, and it has been like a grain of sand in my shoe.”
“What was that, Annabel?” Jack put down the half-eaten cookie on the table.
“It was not enough to change the final determination, but I always want to explain everything about a case, and it was something I could not completely understand. Here, let me get my report and I will show you”
She returned a minute later with a folder.
“The cause of death was asphyxia,” she said. “But there were signs of what might represent a struggle before he died.”
“How so?”
“His fingertips were deeply abraded. We could explain that easily, though, because he would have clawed at the walls of the cave, trying to find his way out. How awful those last minutes must have been.”
A shiver crept up Jack’s spine.
“No doubt.”
“I found these linear contusions on his shoulders that did not quite make sense. Here, you can see what I mean for yourself.”
The pathologist laid out a series of color photos, and the muscles in Jack’s neck and shoulders tensed. McCarthy’s face was frozen in a grimace, his eyes wide open in an expression of terror heightened by a rectangular indentation in his skin the shape of his diving mask.
“Now look at that,” said Dr. Singh, pointing. “Do you see what I mean?”
Jack brought the photo closer. Across the top of each shoulder was a faint dark line in a nearly identical location on each side.
“Could that have been caused by the straps of his air tank?” he asked.
“That’s what I thought, too, Jack, and perhaps that is what it is. But the straps were very wide, and padded by his wet suit. Logically, they should not have caused bruising like that.”
“Do you have any other ideas?”
“No, but it reminded me of an autopsy I did many years ago on a young man who had died in a prison riot. He had put his head between the bars and was trying to break them loose with his shoulders. It left bruises not unlike those on Dr. McCarthy’s shoulders.”
“Strange,” Jack agreed. “Did you tell the police about it?”
“Certainly. But it turned out he had been doing some yard work the day before and might have carried something on his shoulders. Nothing else made sense, so I just noted this on the autopsy report. Probably it means nothing, but it is still, as I said, a grain of sand in my shoe.”
* * *
Gavin lived in a neighborhood of large houses dating back to the 1920s, many of which had been converted into flats. It was a favorite area now for med students and residents—quiet, safe, an easy walk to the hospital.
It was half-past four in the afternoon, and dusk was near, the sky thick with clouds and the temperature dropping. The radio had forecast snow that evening, and it sure looked like it to Jack as he slowed the Jaguar and eased by Gavin’s home. There were no other cars and no people on the sidewalks. He checked his watch again. He was not due to meet Zellie for another hour.
It was an old two-and-a-half-story brick colonial with gables and a slate roof. The front lawn was blanketed with maple leaves. He turned left at the next cross street and parked a long way down the block. He got out of the Jaguar, locked it and strode casually back up the street—somebody just out for a little walk before dinner.
When he reached the house, he didn’t slow at first. He walked by and waited for a car to glide past, then he doubled back, cut across the yard and went to the side door, which luckily was hidden from the street by an overgrown hedge. The fourth key on the ring Tim had given him opened the door. He looked around. Still no one in view.
Inside, the door closed and locked behind him, he climbed three steps to a landing that opened directly into the kitchen. The light outside was failing quickly, but he could still see well enough to make his way. Now, the question was—where would Gavin have left the letter? With any luck, it would be lying on a counter in plain view, and he could get the hell out of here. Prowling around the empty house was a creepier sensation than he’d expected.
He checked the kitchen first, then went into the dining room. Nothing. Then he climbed the stairs and found the master bedroom. A small carryon bag lay open and empty near the bed, and the bed itself was unmade. He scanned the bedside table and the chest of drawers, but they were clear of anything made of paper. It went against his grain, but he began opening drawers.
It was painful to see the clothing folded inside the dresser. There was even a drawer of things that had obviously belonged to Betty Gavin. He shut it quickly and checked the nightstand drawer. There were a few coins and a bottle of nasal spray. Feeling increasingly like an intruder, he strode out of the room.
Descending, Jack entered the living room, where the furniture was still covered by sheets. Only a feeble light was filtering in the windows now. He checked the top of the coffee table, the end tables and the mantle. Then he noticed another, much larger suitcase by the entrance to the foyer, where Gavin must have set it when he’d gotten home.
Kneeling, he laid the suitcase flat and opened it. A familiar smell of clothing and aftershave wafted out, and for some reason, he thought of his parents, more intensely than he had for quite some time. It was a long moment before he could continue.
He closed the suitcase, coming to grips with the idea that he’d reached another dead end. Then he remembered Gavin’s study. As he rose, a sudden cracking noise caused his heart to thump against his ribs. He froze. It came again—like a bone breaking, this time followed by a watery tinkling sound.
He breathed again. It was only the radiators. The boiler in the basement was coming to life with the fall of night, sending hot water into cool pipes.
Gavin’s study was at the very back of the house. When he had guests over, Gavin would often invite them back there after dinner for a brandy and some shoptalk. Jack himself had spent more than a few hours there. The hallway was deep in shadow. He came to the door and tried it. It was unlocked. With the window shades down and the curtains pulled, it was pitch dark. Just as well. He shut the door and flipped the light switch.
The first thing he saw was a pile of sheets lying on the floor. Gavin must have uncovered the furniture in here and hadn’t taken the time to put the covers away.
Jack looked at the desk, and his hopes surged. On the blotter lay several envelopes. Disappointment returned. There was a letter from the New Canterbury Municipal Orchestra, another from the National Wildlife Federation, and the last was a Southern Tier Gas and Electric bill. There was nothing else on the desktop, or on top of the file cabinets or bookshelves.
He sagged down into Gavin’s chair and opened the top drawer. There was a photograph of Gavin and Betty, standing proudly on either side of Colin. Colin was wearing a cap and gown—probably his graduation from Stanford Medical. He replaced it then opened the lower right-hand drawer, which contained a number of hanging file folders, each with a name on the tab. Might he have filed the letter?
Sure enough, there was a folder labeled “Les Zyman.” Jack opened it to find many letters, his spirits rising. There was correspondence dating all the way back to 1968, but nothing more recent than about three years. He checked it carefully again, then replaced it.
A thought occurred to him. What if there was a file on Witner? He looked again, and there it was—“Bryson Witner: Confidential.”
He lifted the file out and set it on the desktop. He checked his watch—he’d been in there for twenty-five minutes now—and opened it.
It contained only three letters, all dated shortly before Bryson Witner had arrived in Ne
w Canterbury several years ago. One was from Witner to Gavin, inquiring about a position. Another was also from Witner to Gavin, thanking him for giving him the post and promising Gavin the decision would never be regretted. He scanned these quickly, then reached for the third.
It was a letter of reference written on the elegant letterhead of Magnus Schwartz, MD, Professor of Medicine at the Harvard Medical School and vice-chair of the Department of Internal Medicine, Massachusetts General Hospital.
Jack smoothed it out and read.
Dear Jim,
I trust all is well with you and yours at New Canterbury and I look forward to seeing you again this fall at the Scientific Session in San Diego. To the point: I can understand your concerns about hiring Bryson, but am glad to hear you are leaning in that direction.
I strongly believe his problems are behind him, and I think he would flourish in the nurturing environment you have created there for new faculty. He had risen so quickly and accomplished so much here in Boston that his breakdown didn’t come entirely as a shock. In short, Jim, I believe the man overworked himself in the service of his calling.
But I am happy to say that Bryson’s six-month hospitalization at McLean led to a full recovery, and thanks to the ministrations of some very talented psychiatrists, I am convinced he learned how to prevent such an event from ever happening again.
In truth, I wish he’d stay with us. His work in geriatric endocrinology—particularly the effects of aging on dopamine receptors—will provide fruitful research for decades. But breakdowns carry a stigma that can never be fully erased. He wants to start fresh.
I cannot think of a better place for him to re-blossom than under your wing, my friend. I give Bryson Witner a hearty thumbs-up. I assure you, also, that the medication he now takes will not interfere with his clinical work, his research, or his teaching activities.
XXVIII
At First Blush
Jack had first seen the Seneca Hotel many years earlier when his parents had taken him there for someone’s wedding reception. As he waited for Zellie, he decided it looked much the same as he remembered, with the potted trees and the pink marble columns around a sunken central lounge, classical music playing in the background. He spotted her on the far side of the lobby, sitting in an alcove and talking to a woman whose face was hidden by a plant.
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