The Fixer mg-1

by T. E. Woods

  The sleeping dog of grief woke up hard and hungry. The chaos of the nurses’ station. The incessant beeping monitors and ringing phones. The stench of antiseptic. Family members standing around like shell-shocked zombies. Each tortured by the same thoughts that paralyzed Mort on Edie’s last day. “What happened?” “What’s next?” He put one foot in front of the other and prayed the snarling mongrel would lie back down.

  In Bay 13 a man in need of a shower and shave slouched beside the bed of a woman connected to a tower of equipment. As quiet and pale as death, the patient was still remarkably beautiful. Mort’s eyes dropped to the ventilator tube protruding from her throat, saw the bruises, and didn’t have to ask what happened.

  Mort knocked on the doorframe. “Professor Childress?”

  The man blinked bloodshot eyes, as though trying to bring Mort into focus. Mort took advantage of Childress’ disorientation and walked into the room.

  “I’m Detective Mort Grant, Seattle PD.” He showed his badge and nodded toward the bed. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a sad time, but I have a couple of questions.”

  Childress reached for the woman’s hand. “About Savannah?” He sounded like he hadn’t used his voice for awhile. “Why are the Seattle police investigating?”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Childress looked back to the woman. “I wish I knew, Detective. I blame myself.” He bent over and kissed the woman’s chalky forehead. “I always said the department would be the death of me.” He blubbered his next statement. “Instead it may cost me my dear Savannah.”

  Mort loved the power of an open-ended question. He had no idea the woman in the bed was connected to Neuroscience. “Is your fiance a faculty member in your department?”

  Childress reached for a tissue. “No.” He blew his nose. “She just got caught up in something ugly. Savannah’s much too delicate for the blood sport of academia.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Childress pulled his stiff and ungroomed body as tall as he could manage. “You’ve already asked that, Detective.” His attempt at sovereignty fell flat. “Surely your little report doesn’t require the details of her suicide attempt.”

  Mort side-stepped the insult. “I’m not here about your fiance, Professor Childress. Mind if I call you Jerry?” Mort smiled at Childress’ reluctant nod. “I’m actually here about that blood sport you mentioned. Can you tell me more about that?”

  Childress’ fatigue disappeared. His eyes darted around the room. Mort wondered if he was looking for support or escape. Childress glanced out to the roiling bedlam of the ICU central desk. He took four quick steps forward and stabbed his index finger in Mort’s direction.

  “You have no right questioning me about that.” Mort looked down at the bald spot on Jerry’s head. “You leave that alone. It’s departmental business.” His spit flew. “We did everything by the book.” Jerry spun on his heel and stabbed his finger again. “Which is more than Bastian ever did.”

  Bingo. Mort wondered if his current run of luck might extend to a lottery ticket.

  “What can you tell me about Bastian, Jerry?” Mort pulled a chair away from the wall and sat. “Sounds like you have no qualms speaking ill of the dead.”

  Childress took another look outside the ICU bay before he sat back down beside Savannah. “Is this about the faculty meeting?”

  Mort smiled. Childress was making this way too easy for him. “We’ll get back to that. Let’s start with Bastian.”

  “He was a monster,” Childress said. “If there’s a hell, Bastian’s one of its newer inhabitants.”

  “I’d like to hear some specifics, if you don’t mind.” Mort took a small notepad from the pocket of his parka.

  Childress narrowed his eyes. “Are you investigating a sexual harassment charge? Or is it Bastian’s misappropriation of federal funds?”

  Mort clicked his pen open. “You paint Bastian with an ugly brush, Jerry.”

  “I’m just trying to be of service, Detective.” Mort didn’t buy it for a minute. “Tell me specifically which of Fred Bastian’s mountain of offenses you’re investigating so your time here may be efficiently spent.”

  He wanted to tell Childress his arrogance was irritating and ineffective. Out of respect for the circumstances he held his tongue. “I’m a homicide detective, Jerry.”

  He watched Childress’ disorientation return.

  “Homicide?” He sputtered as he reached out to the sleeping woman. “Why are you asking us about a homicide?” Mort was intrigued by the odd use of pronoun.

  “I’m investigating Fred Bastian’s death,” he said.

  “Since when does a heart attack warrant a homicide detective?” Childress asked. “Frankly I’m surprised Bastian didn’t have one sooner, the debauched buffoon.” He rubbed his left hand across his cheek. “There’s no mystery, Detective.”

  “Maybe so. But since I’m here, I might as well do what the good citizens of Seattle pay me for. Do you know anyone who might have a motive to harm Dr. Bastian?”

  Childress barked a hollow laugh. “There aren’t enough investigators in ten police departments to track down every person who wished ill upon Fred Bastian.”

  “I’m listening.” Mort leaned back.

  Childress began his report of Bastian’s rise through the university ranks. He spared no details of Bastian’s corruption and deceit. Childress painted a portrait of a man who wielded his power without thought to ethics or decency. He also described a hapless faculty brow-beaten into submission.

  Childress reached to the nightstand for a cup of water.

  Mort decided to see if his luck was holding. “I hear he was involved with animal research. That piss anybody off?”

  Childress ran his finger around the cup’s rim. “That may be his darkest dimension.” He looked up and Mort saw the disgust in his eyes. “We humans, we each played a part in our torment. Condoning it in our own hapless way. We kissed Bastian’s feet to get promoted or published or simply to keep our jobs.” He swallowed hard. “But the animals had no input. Their cages weren’t money or prestige or a well-funded pension. Theirs were steel. Triple locked. They had no say into the torture and death Bastian handed them.”

  Childress stared at his empty cup. When he looked at Mort his voice was quiet but strong. “Yes, Detective. To use your vernacular, his work with animals pissed a lot of people off.”

  Mort saw Childress’ eyes look high and to the left. A brief look of surprise danced over his face.

  “Well,” Childress turned to his bed-bound fiance. “It’s a big day for visitors, my dear.”

  Mort looked over his right shoulder and snapped his attention back to Childress.

  “She’s coming here?” Mort asked. “You know her?”

  “I do.” A small smile curled Childress’ fleshy lips. “That’s Dr. Lydia Corriger. Savannah’s psychologist.”

  Mort pushed his chair into the corner and leaned back. He watched Lydia enter and greet Childress with a brief handshake.

  “Any change?” she asked.

  Mort thought she looked bone-on-bone exhausted. And more concerned about her patient than any doctor had been about Edie.

  “None, I’m afraid,” Childress said. “May I introduce someone?” He turned to Mort before Lydia could answer. “Forgive me, Detective. I’ve forgotten your name.”

  Mort watched Lydia’s tired eyes widen. He was impressed with how quickly she regained her composure.

  “It’s Mort Grant.” He stood. “And Dr. Corriger and I have met.”

  “You know each other?” Childress sounded intrigued at the notion. “Well, perhaps the world is as small as reported.”

  Mort kept his eyes on Lydia. The pulsing vein in her neck revealed more than the passive look on her face. She kept her smile small and tight.

  He reached into his parka for his car keys. “I’ll be on my way, Professor. Again, I’m sorry for your troubles.” He shook Childress’ hand. “I’m
sure we’ll be in touch.” Mort turned to Lydia. She still hadn’t said a word.

  “And I’ll see you at noon.” His tone was as stern as the look in his eyes. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Mort carried a large paper bag into Lydia’s office at the stroke of twelve. Her office door was closed. Before he could sit down it opened and a middle aged man walked out, drying his eyes and thanking Lydia, who stood behind him. Mort waited for her patient to leave.

  “I brought lunch.” He held up the sack. “I don’t want to waste time driving to some restaurant.” He looked around the room. “Where do you want to do this?”

  Lydia closed the door to her office. “Out here is fine, Detective.” She picked up a book and glanced at her watch.

  “You’ll have to read that later, Doc.” Mort pushed several magazines to the side of a coffee table and unloaded the bag. “An hour’s what you promised me and an hour’s what I’ll take.” He looked up at her and saw her jaw tighten. He nodded toward a chair. “Pull up a seat. I got a tuna and a ham and swiss. Name your poison.”

  She watched him arrange lunch before pulling a side chair closer to the table. She tucked her book beside her and reached for one of the bottles of water he brought. Lydia held the water on her lap. Knees together tight. Back straight. Shoulders square. Mort could feel her tension four feet away.

  “Tell you what, these are cut. Let’s take half of each and avoid any decision.” Mort laid the sandwiches out. “And for God’s sake call me Mort.” He grabbed half a tuna and took a large bite, watching Lydia as he chewed.

  “You’re not hungry?” he asked.

  She smoothed a small hand across her corduroy trousers. “I thought we were going to talk about my helping on the Buchner case. You said you’d been thinking about it.”

  He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I have. But I have a few questions before I decide.”

  “Such as?” Lydia twisted the cap off her water bottle and took a sip.

  “Such as why, when I’m interviewing a subject in a homicide investigation, do you show up?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Detec…Mort.”

  He watched her hand tighten around the bottle and softened his voice. “Lydia, Childress told me you were his fiance’s shrink. You’re not violating any doctor-patient privilege.” He put his sandwich back on the table and leaned forward. “I saw the rope marks on her throat. Is that what this is about? Is Savannah’s suicide attempt the reason you want to help solve Buchner’s murder?”

  Lydia’s breathing eased a bit. “What are you implying?”

  Mort shook his head. “Don’t play games with me, Lydia. We can’t work together if you do.” He saw something that looked like optimism flash in her weary eyes. He scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned in. “Did Savannah tell you in session that she killed Walter Buchner? Is that what this is all about?”

  Lydia leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “No, Mort. Savannah did not tell me in session that she killed Walter Buchner.” She held his stare for several heartbeats.

  He sighed and leaned back into his chair. “But you think maybe she did.”

  Lydia reached for a sandwich and sat back. She took a bite of ham and swiss. “Delicious, thank you. It’s my favorite sandwich.”

  “Yeah?” He took another bite of his own. “Well, don’t start thinking I’m like you, some kind of mind reader observing God-knows-what little detail. I can’t get clue one off you.” Mort was relieved to see her give him a brief but genuine smile. Maybe a more oblique approach was what he needed. He nodded to the book beside her.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  Lydia hesitated before reaching for it. “The Bluest Eye”. She handed it across the table to him. “It’s a cautionary tale about the pointlessness of longing for what we can never have.”

  Mort looked at the cover. “Toni Morrison, huh?” He smiled and handed the book back. “She’s one of Edie’s favorites. Always trying to get me to read her.” He shook his head and smiled. “I’d try. But her writing is major league and I’m a farm team kind of guy.”

  Lydia ran a gentle hand across the cover of the book. “But if you bring yourself to her you’ll read the most beautiful words ever written.” She looked at the author’s photograph and smiled again. “Obviously Toni got something out of school that I didn’t.”

  Mort leaned back. “This is nice.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Having lunch and talking. I like you much better when you’re relaxed.”

  Lydia’s face clouded over. She pulled her back straight, looked to the door and down to her watch.

  “Ease up.” Mort reached for a bag of potato chips and pulled it open. “If you’re worried that I’m about to make a pass you can get off that horse.” He popped a few chips in his mouth. “First of all, I’m a one-woman man. Edie Grant’s dead. That doesn’t mean I’m one iota less in love with her than I was on the day we married. Secondly, I’m old enough to be your father. Well, almost. Edie and I have a daughter almost your age.” He took another chip. “I was just saying that if we’re going to work together on this Buchner thing, I like it better like this than when you’re so uptight I can hear you squeak.”

  Lydia threw her shoulders back and inhaled sharply. Mort thought he saw a tickle of a grin on the right corner of her mouth.

  “Squeak?” she asked. “You can hear me squeak?”

  “All the way over here.” He tossed a bag of chips onto her lap. “Thought it was my cheap shoes at first. But it’s you.”

  Lydia laughed. Mort got the impression she hadn’t done that in years.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Maybe I’ll trot out my old jokes and give you the giggles more often.” He waited a few seconds before asking his next question. “You and Savannah ever talk about Childress?”

  “I can’t talk about anything therapy related, Mort. You know that.” Lydia took a long drink of water and followed it with a bite of sandwich. “But,” she smiled again. “I can tell you I met Childress for the first time yesterday. I was surprised when he introduced himself as Savannah’s fiance.”

  “Fair enough.” He was happy to see her fear subsiding. “What’s your read on him?”

  “Childress?” she asked.

  “Yeah. What’s your great power of observation tell you about Lover Boy?”

  Lydia smiled and Mort watched her eyes dance in spite of their obvious weariness. He thought she could be beautiful if she loosened up. Maybe use a little make-up and do something with her hair besides pulling it back in one of those scrunched-up thingamabobs.

  “I think he’s pompous, rude, arrogant, and condescending. In a nutshell, scared witless and all wrapped up in his defenses. The kind of man who’ll fight for power and hang onto it like a she-bear protecting her cub because he knows no one will ever willingly give him any.” She popped a potato chip in her mouth. “And he’s unhealthy. Fleshy and greasy. He’s spent a lifetime using fine wine and buttery French food as a substitute for the warmth of human companionship.”

  Mort wondered what Lydia used as her substitute. “Wow. That’s a lot from just the one meeting.”

  Lydia shrugged. “Like I told you, I’m good.”

  He was glad she was still smiling. “Good enough to tell if he’s capable of murder?”

  Mort watched the smile slide off her face. She crumpled the potato chip wrapper and laid it on the table.

  “You think Childress killed Buchner?” The vein in her neck throbbed with her rising pulse. Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Him?”

  Mort leaned forward. “Take it easy, Kid. I’m just asking.” Mort was surprised at her flash-triggered fear. “You wanna ride shotgun with me, you’re going to have to be brave.”

  Lydia’s face turned stony. “There’s nothing wrong with my courage, Detective.”

  She reminded Mort she had a patient at one o’clock. He knew she’d retreated far enough that a
ny more questioning would be futile. He tried another tack to lower her defenses.

  “You don’t mind my saying, you seem awfully upset about Savannah’s suicide attempt. I’d have thought you shrinks had thicker hides than that, given the folks you work with.”

  Mort watched her sway nearly imperceptibly in her chair. She stared into the distance and he wondered if she was lost in grief or fatigue.

  “Sometimes hides are thinner than we hope,” she whispered.

  He shifted in his seat, pushing off a near-instinctive desire to tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he stood, gathered the lunch rubbish into the paper bag and tossed it into the garbage can before pulling on his jacket. Lydia rose and walked him toward the office door.

  “We’ll work together on the Buchner case, then?” she asked.

  Mort shook his head and smiled. “You’re a tough one, Lydia. Tell you what. Next time you buy lunch and we’ll talk more about who killed old Wally.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “In the meantime, there’s anything I should know, you’ll call me, right?”

  Lydia nodded. “Thank you for lunch, Mort.”

  He hesitated before leaving. “And take care of yourself, will you? You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”

  He left her office, sloshed through the melting snow, and settled into his car. He stared back at Lydia’s office and wished she’d relax long enough to tell him what had her so frightened. He pulled out his cell and punched number three on speed dial.

  “Hey, Mort,” Jim De Villa answered.

  “You get down to the coroner? Speak to Dr. Conner?” Mort kept his eyes on Lydia’s building. He hoped the rest of her day was easier than the morning had been.

  “I did. He promised to run a complete tox screen on Bastian’s blood. Says he’s got several vials on hand.”

  “Good,” Mort said. “Let me know as soon as he calls, will you?”

  “Anything else you need?”

  “No.” Something tugged at the back of Mort’s mind. “Well, maybe. Can you run a background on Toni Morrison for me?”