Doc in the Box

by Elaine Viets

  “Not bad,” he shrugged. “I have some fans.”

  “So I saw. That blonde was definitely demonstrating her appreciation.”

  “She was just a friend,” he said, but I saw the fear. “Gotta go.”

  If she was just a friend, I’d like to see him with someone he knew well. I swilled club soda through the last show, then waited till the crowd thinned. Twenty minutes later, I blended in with a group of giggling women heading for the parking lot. When they went to their cars, I turned toward the distant employees’ lot, and stood in the shadows by the Dumpsters. I could hear something small rustling through the smelly ooze inside, and hoped it was a hungry cat. But with the chemical plants belching their unnatural yellow smoke, even that probably had two heads.

  About half an hour after the show Office Friendly came out the backstage door, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then ran for a blue Miata. As soon as he opened the passenger door, it took off, leaving a white rooster tail of rock dust in the parking lot. The bright security lights caught a long flash of frosty white and blood red inside the car. The platinum blonde in the red outfit was driving, and she kept her car’s headlights off until they were on the highway. Officer Friendly had something to hide.

  I could see the Miata was heading toward Belleville, an old German community on the East Side that was like my neighborhood in south St. Louis, only more so. More little red brick houses and more appreciation of order and sameness. There weren’t too many cars on the road at that hour. I floored my Jaguar and quickly caught up with the Miata, then followed at a sedate pace behind. Soon we were on Belleville’s main street, which was called Main Street, until the Miata turned off into a brick apartment complex. I watched them park, noted which door they unlocked, then went home. It was one-thirty in the morning.

  The next morning I was back in my usual routine, having breakfast at Uncle Bob’s. I was glad I got custody of Uncle Bob’s when Lyle and I split. That’s what happened when a couple broke up: they divided up their old stomping grounds, like they divvied up their other joint property. Lyle got the Central West End, where he lived, and I got the South Side, my natural territory. It wasn’t as bad for us as some couples. I had one woman friend who lost a dry cleaner, a shoe repair shop, and her favorite supermarket in the divorce. The husband was no big loss, but those were irreplaceable.

  I’d settled comfortably into my booth with my breakfast when a shadow loomed over me, blocking my light. Oh, god, it was Warren. I wasn’t ready for Warren before I had my coffee. Warren was a paunchy fifty-five-year-old car salesman who fancied himself a ladies’ man. He used to pat Marlene accidentally on the bosom and buns, until she accidentally dropped a pitcher of ice water on his head. He wore a brown polyester jacket, yellow knit shirt open to reveal silver chest hair, self-belted tan polyester pants, and mustard yellow socks with brown clocks to tie the color scheme together. He had a clunky fake Rolex, an imitation diamond ring, and an insincere smile.

  “I saw Lyle yesterday,” he said. Funny, my real friends never saw Lyle. Just people like Warren.

  “Oh,” I said cautiously.

  “He was at that place you used to hang out together, O’Connell’s. Looked like he was waiting for someone. I didn’t see her arrive, though. I had to go.” That little knife twist. Her.

  “Then how did you know it was a woman he was waiting for?”

  “An educated guess. A guy like Lyle won’t be sitting around getting lonesome after you’ve thrown him out. Of course, if you’re ever feeling lonesome yourself, you can always look me up.” He grinned flirtatiously, showing yellow teeth.

  “Warren, if I spent six months in a lighthouse, I wouldn’t call you.”

  “You don’t have to get nasty,” he said. “You ain’t getting any younger, Francesca. It pays to be nice, you know.” But he left in a huff. I hoped he was really mad and wouldn’t speak to me ever again, but I knew I’d have no such luck.

  “Want me to dump this pot of decaf on him?” Marlene asked.

  “I wished he’d soak his head,” I said. “What a jerk.”

  “Get anywhere with the dancer story?” she said, pouring me another cup. I told her how it was going, then mentioned that Georgia’s doctor was a partner with the murdered Dr. Brentmoor.

  “ ‘Better Sell’ Brentmoor,” she said. “I’m surprised someone didn’t shoot him long ago.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I knew about him. A lot of ER nurses eat here. One of his colon cancer patients was brought to the Emergency Room one afternoon with a possible bowel blockage. The ER doctor called Brentmoor in for a consultation—he was in his office at the Doc in the Box building. The patient was writhing in pain, and the ER was waiting for Brentmoor’s opinion on the X rays, when he looked at the clock, saw it was three forty-five, and said he had to make an emergency phone call. He grabbed his cell phone and went into an empty consultation room. One of the nurses needed some supplies in that room, and heard what the big emergency was. He was calling his broker. ‘The market’s still dropping?’ the great healer said. ‘Better sell.’

  “After that, he was known in the ER as Better Sell Brentmoor.”

  “Jeez,” I said, “no wonder his patients didn’t want to talk to the police.”

  Marlene went off with the coffeepot to top off diners’ cups, and came back from her rounds excited. “Something’s going on in the back room,” she said. “I think it may be the Doc in the Box case. A bunch of police brass are back there, all guys, who think they’re so sharp they’ll cut themselves if they rub their hands together.”

  “If they were really sharp, they’d tip you,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m just a dumb waitress,” she said. “What do I know?”

  Marlene knew everything that went on at Uncle Bob’s and a lot that happened in City Hall. The back room was semiprivate, and a lot of city skulduggery went on there. The men who used it generally tipped Marlene as if each dollar was stripped off their hide, and ordered her around like they were little kings. Marlene got her revenge by reporting their conversations to me.

  “I’m really busy today,” she said. “I can’t hang around back there and listen.”

  “Think I’ll use the back bathroom,” I said.

  “It was open last time I checked,” she said. “Lock the door, and I’ll put up the sign. And make sure the boys in the back room don’t see you going in there.”

  I walked down the back hall next to the kitchen where the waitresses and dishwashers sneaked cigarettes and caught a glimpse of the knotty-pine paneled back room. Two younger-looking men were listening to a fit silver-haired type as if he was promising them eternal salvation. The younger men had that short-haired scrubbed-clean look of very good yes-men. I didn’t know them, but I knew the older guy. He was Major Gideon Davis, high-ranking brass in the St. Louis Police Department. Davis was the first person to get his mug on camera whenever there was a high-profile case, and he often served as a police spokesman. If the case was solved, he never gave credit to the detectives who did the work, but somehow managed to imply that he cracked the case himself, without actually saying that. The three sat at a long table covered with paper placemats, coffee cups, and legal pads, deep in conversation. No one looked up.

  I slid quietly into the back bathroom and locked the door. I heard a clunk on the outside. Marlene had hung the Out of Order sign on the doorknob. I kicked off my shoes. If I stood on the toilet seat, which had a tendency to wobble, I could hear some of their conversation through the vent near the ceiling. I held on to the top of the scratched beige metal divider with one hand, and put my other hand flat against the tile wall, and listened at the vent. I caught “… the hospital lawyers are going to refuse us … mumble … we have to make a formal request anyway … mumble … be denied access to patient records … ask our in-house counsel to file an appeal in circuit court …”

  There was more talk about strategy and precedent and court cases. The court cases were cited by the slick y
oung assistants, who liked to show how smart they were. My feet were killing me and I was having a hard time staying balanced on the wobbly seat. The strong cherry-scented disinfectant did not mask the restroom smells. Also, I had to use the bathroom, but I didn’t want to miss anything major while the police brass were talking. God, they were still talking. I heard, “The police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission … mumble, mumble … we’ll probably lose … hospital will refuse us … a matter of life and death … Missouri Attorney General … grave bodily harm …”

  They batted these same phrases around like a cat playing with a paper ball and said something about a precedent which I couldn’t quite decipher. But I thought I’d heard enough to figure out what was going on. Police investigators wanted access to the late doctors’ patient records, but the hospital lawyers refused. The law protected confidential medical records, the hospital claimed, and the police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission. The police were protesting this decision. They were going to ask their in-house attorneys to file an appeal in circuit court. This was a story, if I ever got out of the bathroom.

  At last, I heard a chair scrape back and someone try the doorknob. Then more chairs were scraping. The police brass were leaving, and none too soon. I waited long enough for them to pay the bill, then put on my shoes, used the john, and left, flushed with success.

  “Hi, Francesca,” said Mayhew, waving me over to his table. “Come join me for breakfast.”

  “Sure. I’ll just have coffee, though. I have to get back to the office. I’m not hungry.”

  “Since when?” he said, shoveling in a huge forkful of bacon. That man looked good even with his mouth full. He was wearing a navy sport coat with gold buttons and a gold wedding ring. I concentrated on the wedding ring, reminding myself that he had little kids. Marlene poured us both fresh cups and he gulped his down. He asked what I was working on, and I told him about Leo D. Nardo’s disappearance. Unlike Marlene, he didn’t take the missing dancer seriously. “Probably shacked up with some customer,” he said.

  “Are you still working on the Moorton Hospital murders?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We’ve done a lot of interviews: all the hospital staffers on duty that day, the security people, the victims’ family, friends, former roommates. I’m beat.”

  I didn’t have to ask if there were any leads. He sounded too down. “Get anything on the tip hotline?”

  “It’s clogged with calls,” he said. “More than three hundred. Most are useless. The killer is their neighbor, their brother-in-law, or someone they saw at the 7-Eleven.”

  “Did you find the UPS driver who was running from the scene, the one with the tanned legs and tight buns?”

  “How’d you know about him?” He looked surprised.

  “I have my sources,” I said. If I told him it was Tina, I’d lose any sense of mystery.

  “He turned out to be a real UPS driver,” Mayhew said. “Heard the sirens and ran to get his truck out of a tow-away zone.”

  “I wonder how they ID’d him—by his tanned legs or tight buns?”

  Mayhew laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to tell me. I waited until he took another bite and then said, “I hear your in-house attorneys are going to go to court so the police can see the confidential patient medical files.”

  He stopped chewing. “How the hell did you find that out?” he said. “Marlene doing your work for you again?”

  “I hear things,” I said, truthfully. “You think the killer is a disgruntled patient, don’t you?”

  “We suspect he might be,” Mayhew said, carefully. “And we’re not even sure it’s a he. I’d like to know where this leak is coming from.”

  “You know I can’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation,” I said, just to yank his chain. It worked.

  “Francesca,” he said, seriously, “tell me you’re not doing anything on the Moorton Hospital murders.”

  “Why not? At this point, the police have about as much information as I do,” I said.

  “Don’t even go there,” he said. “You almost got killed and sued last time you investigated a murder.”

  “Me? Interfere with a police investigation? Wouldn’t think of it. I’m going to concentrate on the case of the disappearing dancer.”

  I was, too. As soon as I wrote the story about the police wanting to examine the patients’ private medical records. I enjoyed calling Major Gideon Davis when I got to the office. He blustered a bit and threatened to fire the person or persons responsible for leaking confidential information to the press. I almost told him where I got it, just to see if he’d fire himself. Then he calmed down and decided to put the best face on things. He said it wasn’t a big deal because they were going to hold a press conference tomorrow anyway. He confirmed that the hospital attorneys had denied the police access to the patient records and the police in-house attorneys were going to file suit in circuit court. Then he actually gave me a decent quote:

  “We do not believe these were professional hits or random killings,” Gideon said. “We believe the killer knew the victims, and knew his or her way around the building. One theory we’re working on is that the killer may be the relative of a deceased patient who used the radiation oncology facilities or a patient whose life expectancy has been shortened by some procedure in that department. A look at patient records would help us determine the feasibility of this theory.”

  By the time I finished the story and took Georgia for her treatment, it was almost twelve-thirty and I was ready to work on Leo’s story again. I stopped by the main library and checked a crisscross directory, a nifty book that listed people by phone number and address. If you had the address, you could find the name and phone number. If you had the phone number, you could find the name and address. The directory told me who Officer Friendly’s mysterious platinum blonde was.

  Next, I drove to Belleville to the brick apartment complex. A rather sharp-nosed neighbor confirmed my suspicions. I now knew enough to ruin Officer Friendly’s exotic dancing career. I marched over to his front door and knocked boldly, for a blackmailer. One P.M. was a late start even for a slug like me, but it was early for a stripper. A bleary-eyed Officer Friendly opened the door in a not-so-exotic blue terry bathrobe.

  I peeked in the door and saw signs of the blonde—one red spike heel flung off by the kitchen and an abandoned gold bracelet on the coffee table. In one corner was a box of toys. A little boy with white blond hair was roaring around the kitchen on a brightly colored plastic tricycle.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “I’d love to, but I’m busy,” Officer Friendly said, starting to shove the door closed in an unfriendly manner.

  “You tell me about your wife, or I’ll tell everyone else,” I said.

  He turned white, then reluctantly let me inside. The little boy toddled up and presented me with a toy truck. It was slimy with saliva.

  “You’re married and this is your little boy,” I said.

  “Jazmin is just a friend I’m staying with,” he said, eyes darting frantically.

  “You’re lying. She’s your wife. That’s your wedding picture on the wall over the couch.”

  He went from frantic to defiant. “Okay, we’re married. So what?”

  “So it could ruin you if it got out. Do you think those women will drive to the Heart’s Desire to watch Ward Cleaver take off his clothes? They can see a naked family man at home for free.”

  “Please, don’t tell my boss. I have a family to support. ”

  “Then tell me everything you know about Leo D. Nardo.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he said. “He likes the ladies and they like him, and he hopes one day someone will like him so much she’ll take care of him permanently.”

  “That can’t be all there is to him.”

  “It is. Please, you have to believe me.”

  I remembered the building crowds last night, and the chubby brunette eag
er to fill his G-string with fives. “You wanted to be a star. You had him killed.”

  “No! How can you say that?” Officer Friendly looked so horrified I thought he’d pass out, right in front of me.

  “Then you helped him disappear.”

  “No. I swear I didn’t. I’d never do that. You got to believe me. I liked things the way they were when I was the warm-up act. I was making nice money, with no pressure. Jazmin works at a bank during the day, and I watch Tyler, then work in the evenings. I never wanted to be a headliner. Now Steve gets on my case if the gate’s too small and drink receipts are too low, like it’s all my fault if the women aren’t buying booze. I don’t know what happened to Leo, and I’d do anything to bring him back.”

  “Then tell me who he dated. Men? Women? Customers?”

  “No men. He’s definitely straight. He never dates one girl, I mean lady, I mean customer, very long. The older ones like to give him presents, and he likes to take them. But he wasn’t with anyone the night he disappeared. I would have told you. I saw him talking to an old lady in the parking lot, and that’s all I saw. I swear it. Then I went straight home.”

  By this time, the little boy was crying, and Officer Friendly was on the verge of tears. I left. I hated to see a grown man cry. I felt like a louse, making wild accusations to stir him up.

  No pain, no gain, I told myself. That was a concept Leo would understand. I had enough now to write a hell of a story about his disappearance. I’d also keep asking questions around Moorton Hospital. My life was about to get really interesting. I’d stirred up two hornets’ nests at once. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next.