The Death Panel

by Cheryl Mullenax (Ed)

  “You don’t think he killed Price?”

  “Oh no, how could he? He’s kept locked up night and day. Most of our patients choose to stay in their rooms, as I said. Mr. McKennan likes what he’s become. He’s far too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely.”

  “He knew Price was dead.”

  “Well, it’s not something we’ve particularly tried to keep a secret.”

  “Great,” I say, “that helps. Now every nut in here has a head start on the case.”

  “We don’t have ‘nuts’ here, Mr. Fievre, only patients with a tendency to transform into animals. And if I may remind you, there’s still no proof this was anything other than an unfortunate aberration of biology.”

  “Where there’s a body, there’s a crime. Something did something to somebody.”

  Rindelstein sighs. “What will be the next step in your fallacious investigation, detective?”

  “What about other staff? I’m guessing you don’t look after this nut-house on your own.”

  This time he doesn’t try to argue. “There’s only myself and Miss Trimbault. I’d ask that you don’t draw her into this. The poor girl hasn’t been herself since we discovered the body.”

  “Sure, you can ask. It’ll give us something to talk about on the way to her room.”

  * * * *

  Miss Trimbault, who tells me to call her Mary, certainly does look traumatised. It suits her. Most women can’t pull off the crying thing but on Nurse Trimbault it’s oddly charming. Her make-up isn’t so streaky that you can’t tell she spent time putting it on, or see how pretty she is beneath the panda eyes.

  It’s hard to look bad in a nurse’s uniform and Mary isn’t even trying to. They also don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and she isn’t trying so hard to do that either. From a professional point of view, that suggests she’s either genuinely upset, or that she’s playing me. From an unprofessional point of view it doesn’t stop me looking. One other thing I can’t help noticing through that cotton blouse is that she’s not as soft as those pretty blue eyes would suggest. There’s a set of weights in the corner, probably a sensible hobby given some of the inmates she has to take care of.

  On the whole I like her a hell of a lot more than Rindelstein. Still, there are questions to be asked, and I figure I might as well start with the obvious. “You seem pretty torn up, Mary. Did you know the deceased well?”

  She sobs at the word “deceased,” a small noise caught in the back of her throat. “I hardly knew him at all. I took him his meals and changed his bedding once a week. I know I shouldn’t be so upset. It must sound ridiculous to you, but in all the time I’ve been a nurse I’ve never known a patient to die before.”

  The way she says it, it sounds plausible, and I’d like to believe her. “How long is that?”

  “Oh, just over two years, I suppose. I did some care work in Africa when I finished studying, and then came here about three months ago. What I mean is—well, I’ve seen dead bodies, of course, just not like that. When I found him …” Another sob snarls in her throat, and she breaks off. She has a point. I’ve seen more than my share of bodies and the thought of the mess that used to be Price is still making it difficult to keep my lunch in place.

  “It was you that found him? Not Rindelstein?”

  “It was me. I try to check in on the patients that turn fully—it’s painful for them, traumatic. I calm them down afterwards, if I can.”

  “Does that include McKennan?”

  Nurse Mary blanches. “I don’t think Mr. McKennan would accept any help from me.”

  Again, she’s probably right. He didn’t look the type to be put off by a little pain; hell, he’d probably enjoy it. Since there are no obvious holes in her story, and the whole questioning thing has never been my strong point, I decide to call it quits for the moment. “Thank you, Mary, you’ve been a big help. I’ll look you up if there’s anything else.”

  * * * *

  Rindelstein takes me to a room on the second floor and scurries away before I can interrogate him any more. I’ve had enough anyway. I’ve always preferred open-and-shut cases to mysteries and this is looking too much like the latter.

  The room isn’t bad. In fact it’s more of an apartment. There’s a shower and a sink, fresh linen on the bed, even a kitchenette. It suddenly occurs to me that this must be Rindelstein’s pad. The poor guy’s given it up to try and make a good impression. Well, his personality has already screwed that up but I’m still more than happy to abuse his hospitality. A hunt through the fridge reveals a microwave casserole. It’s only a shame there’s no beer to go with it, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  As I chew my way through the doctor’s chicken dinner, my brain struggles half-heartedly for a handle on the case. The fact is I’ve got nothing, and as much as I hate to admit it Rindelstein’s diagnosis of bizarre accidental death might even be on the money.

  It doesn’t sit well with me, though. I’m not a believer in crimeless victims. Still, I figure I might as well sleep on it. A lot of my best deduction happens when I’m asleep, and there’s nothing more I can do tonight.

  Rindelstein’s bed is pretty comfortable, and as much as I think the case spiralling around my brain is going to keep me awake, it doesn’t. After five minutes all I can think about is how much better this is than my bunk back at the station. After ten I’m fast asleep and not thinking about anything at all.

  * * * *

  When I wake it’s still dark. There’s no clock, but my mental chronometer tells me it’s nowhere near morning. That means something woke me.

  At first I’m not sure what. Then I hear it again—the creak of wooden floorboards, right outside my door.

  My first thought is that it’s McKennan, come to make good on his promise. Common sense points out that if it was I’d be dead by now, and probably in small pieces too. In any case the steps are receding. Whoever it was, they’re going past, not coming in.

  It could be nothing. It could be that Rindelstein’s got a weak bladder and no toilet in his new lodgings. But my case is at a dead end, and suddenly I’m wide awake, so I pull on my trousers and shirt. I manage to make it across the room and through the door with barely a sound.

  By the time I’m into the corridor I can’t make out the footsteps anymore. If I remember rightly they passed from the right, so I take a gamble and go left. At the end of the passage I can hear them again. Whoever it is, they’re not trying to be so quiet now that they’re past my room, and that’s suspicious in itself.

  I hang back as much as I can, relying as much on guesswork as the mysterious tip-tap ahead of me. I don’t exactly know my way around, it’s dark, and the building design doesn’t make much sense in the first place. After a couple of turns we take the stairs down to the first floor, and after that I’m surer of where I am. I’m retracing my route from earlier, the one Rindelstein led me by when I first arrived.

  Sure enough the footsteps change to the dull slap of skin against stone. We’re heading down into the basement, and I’m not too pleased about that. It might be a trap. Even if it isn’t I haven’t forgotten that Rindelstein likes to leave the doors of his menagerie open. Maybe McKennan is the only really dangerous patient and maybe the good doctor just told me that to keep me off the trail. Either way I don’t want to be stuck in a dark corridor with a guy whose idea of fun is turning into a stoat once a month.

  Still, the case is down those stairs, so I guess that’s where I’m going too. It’s actually not so dark after all—Rindelstein’s left the strip lights on along the main corridor, which is good for my nerves but lousy for my investigation. I peek out round the corner, just in time to see my newfound suspect disappear around the next bend. They’ve got a good lead, my eyesight’s lousy, and they could be just about anybody.

  I pick up my pace, trying to close the gap a little. I’m so absorbed I don’t realise where I am, so that when I hear a voice from off to my right I nearly trip over my own feet.

  “I
can smell you, Mr. Detective. Cheap cologne and bad attitude, I could smell you a mile off.”

  I freeze. I could care less about McKennan, he’s safe behind a reinforced door, but the creep’s not exactly whispering and I am trying to tail someone. But when I listen hard I can hear the footsteps: still steady, still receding. “Better that than wet dog,” I mutter, and keep moving.

  Round this corner and the next, I realise I’ve come to the end of the parts of the basement I’ve seen before. The strip lights cut out after the last of the cells, and the next corridor is steeped in half-darkness. I’m thinking about how this could still be an ambush. Then I hear a door opening somewhere up ahead, and a moment later the sound of it easing shut.

  The door turns out to be at the end of the next passage. It’s a recent addition, unlike those on the cells, white laminate plastic with a frosted glass window. Up close I can hear sounds from the other side; at first just the shuffle of feet, then the clank of something metallic being moved around. Finally there’s another noise that I can’t quite place, a low electric hum.

  I decide to wait and see what happens.

  After ten minutes leaning against one wall, listening to the mysterious noise, I’m starting to get bored. After what seems like half an hour my eyelids are becoming heavy. I’d shuffle about, but I don’t want to make too much noise, so I try to think awake thoughts. I guess there’s a hot water pipe running through the wall, it’s nice and warm, and that and the dark aren’t helping. Whatever the hum from the other side of the door is, it’s soothing, like the tinkle of a stream or wind in leaves.

  I hear a loud thud, and suddenly my head is sore. Where am I? The last I remember, giant plants had taken over the world, only one of them was my mother and she was telling me I had to get up for school.

  I have a moment to realise this was a dream, that I’m lying in the corridor on my back and the thud that woke me was me falling over, and then the door swings open and I barely have time to scrunch up and get my arms over my face before it crashes into my shins. That hurts more than my head does. By the time I even think to look who’s run past me they’re around the corner, and I realise I don’t have a chance of catching them.

  I get to my feet, massage my bruised knees, and swear loudly. After all, there’s no reason to keep quiet anymore. Through the door I can see what looks like a laboratory or a surgery. There’s a padded trolley in the centre of the floor, and work benches ranged along two sides, with glass cabinets full of what I assume to be medical equipment. Sadly we’re not exactly in mad scientist territory here. It makes sense that Rindelstein would keep a lab, and it’s clean and orderly, no severed heads in jars or pools of blood on the tiles.

  Inside I notice a table on the left, and this one catches my interest. On top is a large metal box with knobs and dials spread over its face, with something like a soldering iron hanging from it by a lead. Beside that is an electric shaver, a handful of BIC razors, two cans of shaving cream and a tub of aftershave gel. The cans and tub are open and the lights on the box are on. When I step closer, I can read “Holier 0911 Electrolysis” in black type across its top.

  There are globs of shaving cream everywhere, and careful inspection reveals dark stubs of hair scattered over the floor and the edge of the table. Somebody has an exfoliation problem, and this looks a lot like the hair growing all over Price. Of course there’s no shortage of people here with body-fuzz issues. But how many have a reason to sneak around to treat themselves in the middle of the night?

  Now all I need is a motive, and some proper evidence.

  I’m not feeling much like sleep anymore. I’d wake Rindelstein for another bout of interrogation, but I don’t know where to find him, and the thought of searching the entire building in the dark doesn’t appeal. I do know where his office is, we passed it yesterday. I figure even in the dark I can find it pretty easily.

  In fact it takes me half an hour of dead ends and aimless wandering, aggravated by a limp from the soreness in my knee and a buzzing in my head from the knock I took. In the end, though, it’s hard to miss. Rindelstein has his name stencilled across the glass pane like in those old detective movies. I’m pleased to discover that the door’s not locked.

  Rindelstein’s office is the opposite of his lab. At first I think someone’s already searched it, but careful inspection reveals that he’s just ridiculously untidy. Books and papers and bric-a-brac are scattered everywhere, including the floor, and his desk looks like some homeless guy made a house out of it. While searching it isn’t going to be easy or fun, I’m still far too wired to sleep, and I’ve nothing better to do.

  On the plus side, my initial root around reveals a half-full bottle of scotch and an almost-clean glass, so at least I’ll have some company while I search.

  When two hours have gone by and most of the scotch is gone, I’m starting to wish I had some idea what I was looking for. I could just wait and talk to Rindelstein in the morning, perhaps ask him to explain his filing system to me. Maybe going back to bed wouldn’t have been such a bad idea; maybe the third of a bottle of whisky wasn’t such a good one. I decide to make a start on one last pile and one last slug of booze, and if neither offers any answers I’ll call it quits.

  Then, finally, there it is—crammed between medical notes and pages torn from magazines, half a dozen sheets, and maybe I didn’t know what I was looking for but I know when I’ve found it. The top two pages are a job application, the next two an employer reference, and behind that is a copy of Rindelstein’s reply. There’s an address and phone number at the top of the reference. I still don’t know what any of it means, or exactly why it’s important, but there’s a feeling in my gut that isn’t just the alcohol.

  Now all I have to do is work out where the hell Rindelstein’s hidden his phone.

  * * * *

  An hour later and the case is pretty much closed. I don’t know all the facts, I don’t have a motive, but those are things a good detective can work out as and when he needs them. The devil isn’t in the details—he’s holding court in the south of France the last I heard—and as far as I’m concerned the hard work is done.

  I push back in Rindelstein’s chair, a vast construction of padded leather that’s surprisingly comfortable now that I’ve cleared away the books and half-eaten food. Suddenly I’m desperately tired. There’s something almost post-coital about the adrenaline rush I get from breaking a tough case. And of course there’s the whisky, which has gone right to my head, and to everywhere else as well.

  I figure it’s okay to catch up on a little sleep. If my suspect was going to make a break for it they’d have done it by now.

  This time when I dream, it’s about angels—a sky thick with them, swarming like fireflies, fearsomely beautiful. So when I open my eyes and Nurse Mary is leaning over me it doesn’t come as so much of a surprise. It’s still dark, and I guess she’s just got up because her hair is attractively tousled, her uniform crisp with starch, her expression one of drowsy concern. She’s so close I could kiss her. If my mouth didn’t taste like a hamster cage I might be tempted.

  Rindelstein spoils the moment by pushing into her place, pointing a bony finger at my forehead, and exclaiming, “What on earth do you think you’re doing in my chair?”

  I brush the finger aside. “I’m solving a murder, doctor, what else?”

  “Mr. Fievre, your persistence in pursuing a non-existent crime is simply flabbergasting. I’m almost impressed by your determination in the face of overwhelming evidence.”

  “Yeah? I’m glad that impresses you, doctor, because I’m about to go one better.” When I stand up my hangover punches me in the brain. Fortunately the desk is close at hand. I manage to turn falling over into what I hope is a suavely casual stance. I notice the clock above the door says ten to five; I guess the working day starts early when your tenants aren’t all housetrained. Rindelstein is still hovering over me, but Nurse Trimbault has backed away toward the door.

  “It was good o
f you both to come here.”

  “You’re in my office,” Rindelstein points out sulkily.

  “I’m not going to bore you with my long and complex process of deduction. I’ll skip right to the important bit. A couple of hours ago I managed to get a call through to Lisala in the Democratic Republic of the Congo; which took some doing I can tell you. I had a chat with a Doctor Lavander. It was a lousy line, but I did pick up a few pertinent facts.”

  Nurse Mary’s whole body stiffens when I mention her former employer. If I didn’t already, I now have her full attention.

  “He told me about an incident with one of his employees. The young lady in question was attacked by something, some kind of monkey, he thought. It bit her pretty badly before they managed to put a bullet in it.

  “After that she was sick for about a week, nobody was quite sure what with. Then suddenly she got better, and she went back to work. But, he said, she kept acting strangely after that. She stopped going out, stopped mingling with the other staff. Less than a month later she asked for a reference and left, just like that.”

  Nurse Mary’s glare could strip paint. “Yes, I worked for Lavander. I told you that. It hardly makes me a murderer.” The way she says it, you’d think I had my hands around her throat.

  “So here’s what I think happened. I think that after you got bitten, you started noticing hair sprouting in unusual places. Like everywhere. Maybe you weren’t swinging from trees and craving bananas once a month, but you weren’t one hundred percent human any more either. Still, you figured you could keep it under control, it just meant spending all of your free time shaving. Then you read about this place …”

  This time her voice has gone very small. “Just say you’re right. It doesn’t make me a killer.”

  “… maybe you can find a treatment. Maybe you can find a cure. Either way, Rindelstein’s been struggling to run this place on his own, and he’s not about to say no when a qualified nurse writes asking for a job. It turns out Rindelstein probably couldn’t cure hiccups, but he minds his own business, and at least he has plenty of equipment you can use to keep things under control. For a couple of months everything’s okay—until it all goes bad.”