by E. G. Scott
“I can’t say for sure. But I could guess that she may have sent it to the rest of our surgical team. Definitely Dr. Thornton, and Dr. Knopfler and Nurse Phillips, probably.”
“And have you been in touch with any of those individuals recently?”
“Well, not exactly,” she says.
“I’m sorry?”
She rises from her chair and crosses back to the kitchen. “After Brooke’s email, I got a phone message from Dr. Thornton.” I hear a click, and it takes me a moment to realize that she’s accessing an answering machine. A man’s voice, full of aggression, comes through the speaker:
“Miss Forester, this is Dr. Henry Thornton. I’m assuming that you received the same email correspondence that I did, and I’d like to remind you that we all signed NDAs after the, ahem, incident. I suggest you leave the matter alone and don’t do anything stupid. Thank you.”
The message is followed by the sound of a beep. “Wow,” I say. “Must have been a real treat to work with.”
She shrugs and offers a smile in spite of herself. “You know.”
Wolcott leans forward, catching her attention. “And could you tell us a bit about your experience working with the team?”
“Hmm. Well, Dr. Thornton was the senior member. A little arrogant, if I’m being honest. Had a very high opinion of himself. And a real bully, as you can probably tell. Dr. Knopfler? Well, that young woman was quite impressive. She was being groomed as the next big thing. Had some really groundbreaking ideas in the field of neurosurgery. Those two were working very closely on this experimental surgery. Of course, Dr. Thornton liked to take all the credit.” She rolls her eyes.
“I see,” continues Wolcott. “And how about Nurse Phillips?” he asks, consulting his notebook.
“Oh goodness. Stacy was lovely. Bit of a wild child, though. There were a few incidents of pills being diverted, and the general consensus—”
“Pointed back to the nurse?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I hate to spread gossip, but it was probably the case. If we hadn’t all been dismissed after the tragedy, I think they would have let Stacy go anyway.”
“I wanted to ask you about the dismissal. I’ve read the report, and I understand that the death was ultimately attributed to an allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Is that correct?”
She casts her eyes down to the floor and purses her lips. “I’m afraid so, Detective. We did our homework, in terms of Miss Harmon’s medical history. We were quite thorough. But she suffered an anaphylactic reaction to the anesthesia, and since she was under, we weren’t able to detect the signs in time. It’s a very rare occurrence, but it happens.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” offers Wolcott. “It’s got to be tough to lose a patient like that.”
“Of course,” she says.
“I did want to ask you about Dr. Thornton,” I say. “He was the only member of the team the hospital kept on staff in the wake of the tragedy. That must have chafed, no?”
“Well.” She sighs. “You have to remember that I got into medicine a long time ago. It was a much different field in those days. Female anesthesiologists were not nearly as common as they are today. It was a real boys’ club. I guess I got pretty used to the men in my field being looked after, when it came to job security.”
“But you were forced to walk away from a lucrative career.”
She considers the question for a few ticks. “Don’t get me wrong; I held on to some resentment about the handling of that incident for a time. But in all honesty, it had become a different game. Between the corporate structuring, the bureaucratic headaches, and having to wrangle with the insurance companies, I had become pretty disillusioned. I’d had a long and satisfying career, and it seemed like a good time to walk away. The hospital took care of us on the way out the door, and I’ve been able to live very comfortably.”
“That’s quite the positive attitude,” says Wolcott. “Don’t know that I’d be as forgiving.”
“What do I have to complain about, really?” She looks around the room, a smile taking over her face. “I’m a lady of leisure, with all sorts of free time on my hands. I’m active, I’m happy, and I’m taking care of myself.” She pats her stomach on the last part.
“That does sound nice,” I say, setting the teacup on the table. “Now, just to cover our bases, could you tell us where you were this past Tuesday evening, October first?”
It takes a beat for her to realize that we’re asking for an alibi. “Oh.” She giggles excitedly, as if thrilled by the thought of us entertaining her as a suspect. “Um, let’s see. Tuesday night . . . I made dinner . . . Oh, I remember! I ordered that movie, A Quiet Place, off of Amazon. Have you seen it?”
“It’s on the list,” I say.
“Oh, it’s very good! Scary, but good.”
“I see.” I jot the title in my notes. “Would I be able to use your bathroom?”
“Of course. It’s the last door on the left, just past the office.”
I excuse myself and follow the hallway down to the john. I finish, wash my hands, and head back toward the living room, first ducking in through the open door to the office. In front of me is a large wooden desk, a computer monitor atop it. A rolling chair sits on the other side of the desk, in front of a shelf filled with volumes of medical books and a large collection of sci-fi novels: Asimov, Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, and the like. I take in the room quickly before dipping out and back to the living space.
As I approach, Wolcott glances at his watch and stands from his chair. “We should probably get on the road, to beat the traffic into the city.”
“Good call,” I say, then turn to our host. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course.” She stands, bustles across the room, and retrieves our coats. “And please be in touch if you have any more questions.”
“We will,” says Wolcott, handing her a business card. “And please do the same, if you think of anything.”
* * *
“What’s your take, Silvestri?”
We’re pulling out of Annie Forester’s driveway as she waves to us from the front porch. I return the gesture. “Seems like a nice, lonely woman. Felt a little bad for her.”
“Did you buy her story about the postsurgery fallout?”
“I mean, that would be pretty forgiving. But retirement seems to be agreeing with her.”
“I suppose. Hey, did you notice there were no photos in there?”
“Yeah, I checked out her office when I hit the bathroom. None in there, either.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Maybe there’s no family around. Or they’re estranged? Like I said, she seemed a little lonely.”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “She was awfully excited for a visit from law enforcement.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I say. We make the turn onto 25A and head west. “Now let’s go see what we can pry out of this fucking guy.”
He side-eyes me. “You sound excited, Silvestri.”
“You’re the one who should be excited, pal. Wait until you get a load of my outfit.”
THIRTY-THREE
CHARLOTTE
The only thing that gets me out of bed is a frantic call from Lucy, who I’m genuinely surprised to hear from after abandoning her. She’s either a masochist or really suffering, and I’m the only acupuncturist in town who has an open slot on short notice. She’s having neck and shoulder pain and says she hasn’t been able to sleep, so I tell her I’ll meet her at my office at four thirty P.M.
As I pull myself through the necessary motions of actually getting up and showering, I feel like I’m moving through waist-deep snow. The hangover/heartbreak twofer is dragging me down hard. I turn on the water and step into the shower so distractedly that I don’t realize I
’m still wearing my socks until they are soaked. Too despondent to bother to take them off, I pour conditioner in my hand and pull it through my unshampooed hair in what seems to be some sad autopilot self-cleaning routine. Since my brain has clearly become so preoccupied with the crisis state I’ve found myself in, and it’s anyone’s guess what I’ll end up falling short of in basic self-care next, I skip shaving my armpits and legs.
I think about my first day in Bellevue as I’m getting dressed. That is the last time I recall feeling this dissociated. And that was with 10 ccs of Temazepam in my system. I’ve effectively relegated my inpatient stint at the country’s most storied psych ward to the deepest recesses of my amygdala, but the triggering effect of this week’s onslaught has jimmied that memory safe-deposit box right the fuck open.
It was Henry’s brilliant idea to have me committed against my will, and my mother was unshockingly agreeable in cosigning that sheer act of self-interest and desperation of his. I was the holdout between the two of us, refusing to go along with the official incident statement in the hospital board’s investigation into the death of Michelle Harmon. Henry said my “emotions were getting in the way” of my common sense, but really, my conscience was getting in the way of getting him off the hook for his part in the disastrous surgery.
I shuck my soaked socks before I step out of the shower and hang them on the curtain rod, loud drops of water plunking into the porcelain bathtub. I look at my drawn face in the mirror as I rub moisturizer into my skin and pull a comb through my limp, overconditioned hair. I had a thunderous moment of realization the day that Henry picked me up at my apartment the morning everything changed. It was under the auspices of going to a final meeting with the hospital’s board of trustees, where we were supposed to be discussing the “optics” of the investigation, but in the minutes between him bypassing our hospital and pulling into the drive for the Bellevue emergency room, a distinct feeling of understanding settled in me. That clarity was reinforced when I saw my mother waiting for us at the admitting desk, holding my summer camp suitcase.
Even on the day she was committing her own daughter, she was beaming at the sight of me on the arm of a handsome doctor, no matter that he was guiding me toward a monthlong stay against my will to treat my apparent brink of breakdown.
I was in bad shape and too bereft at the time to fight either of them. The prospect of retreating and not having to say or do much of anything sounded like heaven, once I got over the initial feelings of betrayal and rage. I’d been having some very dark thoughts since Michelle’s death and was growing a little worried for myself. So Henry’s ulterior motives for removing me from the picture ended up being the best thing for my mental and emotional fitness in that moment. (Something I’ll never admit to either of them.) What it didn’t benefit were my relationships with him or my mother, or my career, which was DOA by the time I was released and acquiesced to being driven back to my childhood home.
Without my job, I had no purpose, necessity for my apartment, or remnants of my life in Manhattan. Henry was noticeably absent at my release. The investigation had been concluded, without my being of sound mind. Henry spoke on my behalf.
The last time I saw him in person, he was signing my psychiatric ward admittance papers, his back to me.
THIRTY-FOUR
WOLCOTT
“Thank you for seeing us.”
“Of course, gentlemen! Thank you for your interest in our program.” We’re sitting in Henry Thornton’s office. He’s got a grin shellacked on his face.
On our way up-island, we stopped off at Silvestri’s pad to grab the flannel suit jacket and tie he’s decided on for this meeting. I assume he was aiming for an old-money vibe, but the outfit makes him look like a debauched Alistair Cooke. “Nice place,” he says, slumped in his chair.
“Thank you,” says Thornton proudly. “Now, which one of you gentlemen is Mr. Papworth?”
“Ahh.” I produce my shield. “He couldn’t make it today.”
The expression on Thornton’s face takes a sharp detour south. “You,” he sneers.
Silvestri flips open his shield and waves with his other hand. “Me too.”
Thornton places a hand on the telephone receiver on his desk. “Seems like a long drive just to have me call security on you two.”
“Now, that would be the move of a guilty party,” I say. “We’re just here to ask you a few questions about your colleagues.”
He considers this for a moment and removes his hand from the receiver. “Okay,” he huffs. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Now, we understand you were the recipient of a recent email from Brooke Harmon, sister of—”
“Now, there’s the real criminal!” he spouts. “You should be talking to her.”
Silvestri hops in. “I’m afraid Miss Harmon isn’t doing any talking these days.” I study Thornton’s face as the information sinks in.
“Wait.” He shakes his head. “You mean . . .”
“Brooke Harmon was found dead. We’re investigating her murder.”
He involuntarily mouths the first syllable of the last word out of my mouth, his eyes wide. “Okay, listen,” he stammers. “I had nothing to do with that.”
Silvestri sets his phone in front of the doctor and taps a finger against the screen. “We’re curious about your response to her email: ‘What’s it going to take to shut you up once and for all?’ That sounds, well, threatening.”
“That was in reference to the prolonged harassment. The emails, the calls to the hospital. She wouldn’t let up. I had to get a restraining order against her, for Christ’s sake.” My partner and I remain quiet. Thornton squirms in his seat. “Detectives, come on.” He sweeps his hand to illustrate his well-appointed office. “You think I . . . really?” I dead-stare the guy, which incenses him. “She was trying to shake me down, and now you have the audacity to come in here and accuse me? I’m going to have your fucking badges.”
“Pump the brakes, guy.” Silvestri ices him, which seems to deflate Thornton. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything. But I do find your interpretation of Miss Harmon’s email interesting. At no point do I remember her explicitly asking you for money.” He turns to me. “Did I miss something in there, partner?”
“No, no, I don’t think you did.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be naive, Detectives. It’s always about money.”
“We’ve read the official report,” says Silvestri. “Seems like it was a pretty straightforward case of accidental death due to an allergic reaction. What grounds would Miss Harmon have had to come after you monetarily?”
“Listen, people are greedy. They always think they’ve got an angle, and they’re never shy about exploiting tragedy when money is involved. I can’t tell you how many times this sort of thing happens.”
“And how do you normally handle it?” I ask. “When ‘this sort of thing happens’?”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve got some set of balls on you, Detective.”
“Just one more question,” says Silvestri. “Can you account for your whereabouts in the early hours of October second?”
“Okay,” he says, incredulously, “I’ll play this game.” He picks up his cell phone, taps the screen, and scrolls. “October second . . . I was . . .” His smug smile drops. “Um, I was with a young woman.”
My notebook is at the ready. “And may I have the name of the lucky lady?”
“Let me clarify; I was with a young woman other than my wife.”
“I see. I’m still going to need the name of the woman in question.”
“Come on, Detective.” There’s panic in his eyes. “I’m trying to be discreet here.”
“Dr. Thornton, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation. Your convenience is not our concern.”
“Jessica Hughes,” he seethes, and reads off her contact informatio
n.
I jot it down and close the notebook. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
His rage boils over, and he slams his fist on the desk. “You actually think I’d throw this all away on that greedy twit?!”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know what the real tragedy here is?” He’s at full throttle. “The techniques that I was pioneering were on course to revolutionize the field of neurosurgery. That operation would have changed the face of medicine, if only the incompetents in that room could have managed to keep up with me!”
“Uh, that’s the real tragedy here?” Silvestri is incensed.
“I had nothing to do with that girl’s death.” Thornton’s eyes shift between us. “Okay, playtime’s over.” He lays his hand back on the receiver, threatening action. “You two get the fuck out of my office.”
THIRTY-FIVE
CHARLOTTE
Lucy is waiting outside my office when I arrive. I’ve gotten here a few minutes before our appointment, but she looks like she’s struggling to stand fully upright, and there’s an expression of consternation when I get close to her.
“Charlotte! Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice. You are an absolute lifesaver! I really did a number on my body last night.”
“Of course.” I place a comforting hand on her arm and move her in the direction of the door while she talks.
“I wrenched something in my shoulder and neck, and my lower back is killing me.” She winces as she recounts her pain points.
“Lucy, I’m so glad the spot was open. It is great to see you again.” I feel a tad guilty for making it sound like I had other clients scheduled for today when she called. I usher her inside, switch the lights on, and take her coat and hang it in the closet along with mine.
“Just give me a sec, and I’ll get you right in.” Rachel’s treatment room is closed. She’s not back in until Tuesday.
