After Fenimore had been transferred to the hospital, his first thought had been of Chuck’s lab tests. He had to see them. As soon as Mrs. Doyle was allowed to visit, he asked her to please get them for him. Her answer had shocked him.
“Certainly not. You aren’t supposed to worry about anything, except getting well.” And she was adamant.
“But—”
“Now, what else would you like me to bring? Your PJs, your bathrobe . . . ?”She ticked off a list of totally unnecessary items.
When Jennifer arrived, he asked her to bring one thing—rather, two things—his bedroom slippers. (He knew Doyle wouldn’t bring them; she would think them too disreputable.) He hated those paper slippers the hospital supplied.
Every time Doyle appeared, he repeated his request for Chuck’s lab report, to no avail. Not until he said, “I’ll worry myself sick until I see them,” did she finally relent. When she brought them, he tore open the envelope like a man possessed.
Scrawled at the top was a note from the HUP cardiologist whom Fenimore had spoken with at the CCU: “Please take a look at this and give me a call. An autopsy is in the works.”
Most of the results were normal, until he reached the last line: serum potassium very low—1.9. The normal range was 3 to 5 milligrams.
Fenimore paused and reread these words. How could Chuck have such low potassium? Did he take something? Or did someone give him something . . . ?
Was Chuck poisoned?
Fenimore felt a little lightheaded himself. He hoped Doyle wasn’t right and the lab report had triggered a relapse. He lay still and took deep breaths.
Who would do such a thing? And if he was poisoned, when and how had the poison been introduced? It must have been before Chuck went to practice that afternoon—deposited in his lunch, or maybe someone slipped something in his Gatorade. All the rowers drank that stuff like water. But how would they disguise the taste of such a poisonous cocktail? Surely Chuck would have noticed something. . . .
“Dr. Fenimore . . .” A nurse came in to take his blood pressure and he had to postpone his detecting. That was the trouble with hospitals—they were no place to get any rest. He recalled the old joke about how they woke you up to give you your sleeping pill. He had to make use of every moment of solitude. After dinner, he usually had a half hour to himself before visiting hours began. From the pocket of his new bathrobe, he drew the pen and pad that Jen had kindly brought him. The bathrobe was a gift from Doyle, because, she said, “You can’t wear that old rag in the hospital.” But Jen had forgotten his dear old slippers, which indicated her mind was elsewhere. She was spending entirely too much time with Roaring Wings.
He was about to write “Suspects” at the top of the page, but cautioned himself. They weren’t really suspects. He had no evidence against any of them. They were merely PPIs—People Possibly Implicated.
Stick to the essentials, Fenimore. Who would benefit from Chuck’s death?
Hank Walsh.
He will be going to Henley now to compete for the Diamond Sculls, the most coveted prize in the rowing world. (But he saved my life—and he’s a nice kid.) Be objective, Fenimore.
Other names quickly followed.
Henry Walsh.
Hank’s father would benefit by having such an illustrious son. He could brag about him at his law firm. It was quite an achievement for an African American to compete in what has long been known as an exclusive, white man’s sport. It couldn’t help but raise his prestige at his firm. And he had been hovering around the ICU when Chuck was there.
Frank O’Brien.
The coach would benefit from Hank’s reflected glory, if he sent an African American to Henley. He would have benefited from Chuck’s glory as well. But diversity was the big thing now—and Hank’s participation would give him a little extra edge over other coaches. Frank had also been in the group hanging around the CCU.
Commissioner Wormwood and the Planning Commission.
Maybe they’re all in on it, like in Murder on the Orient Express. And that Grub woman from the planning commission heads the list. (But she didn’t need to resort to poison. All she had to do was open her mouth and she’d bore you to death.) Seriously, these river accidents could cast an ominous shadow over the whole sport of rowing and provide a reason for destroying Boathouse Row. Didn’t Jen say she’d heard somebody talking about an “accident”?
Jack Newborn.
That developer has ants in his pants. Always on the move, ready to change things for the sake of change—or to put more lucre in his pocket. Besides, he has shifty eyes.
William Ott.
Now there’s a smarmy fellow. He’s so oily he’d slip in his own shoes. And he has everything to gain by getting rid of the boathouses. He could make a real name for himself on that site with his design for a new marina. And didn’t I see him prowling around the hospital after Chuck was admitted?
Myra Henderson.
Are you crazy? She’s 100 percent behind the boathouses.
Maybe too much behind them? Could that Historical Society be a smoke screen? Maybe she’s invested in the marina, under the table. You never know.
Charlie Ashburn.
Now I know you’re crazy. You may not see eye to eye with Charlie on some things, but he wouldn’t try to murder you. And certainly not his son. Unless Chuck refused to race for him. Could my talk actually have made an impression on Chuck, and he told his father he was going to quit?
Caroline Ashburn.
I knew you’d be getting to her. Well, you can cross her off as far as Chuck goes. Mothers simply don’t go around murdering their sons. Anyway, I can’t think of a single motive. Life insurance? (I’ll look into that.) God, Fenimore, have you no heart? Bah humbug. She’d have fewer qualms about bumping me off, I’m sure. But for what motive? Because I tried to keep her from attending tea parties at Henley? Too far-fetched, even for you, Fenimore. Besides, she certainly wasn’t steering that motorboat. But she could have hired someone. Money was no object to Caroline.
Is that it? Not quite.
Geoffrey Hunter-Powell.
That snot-nosed British scout. He had everything to gain from eliminating the competition.
Well, that about winds it up. He put down his pen just as Mrs. Doyle bustled into the room, closely followed by Jennifer, Rafferty, and Rat. What ever happened to that golden hospital rule: no more than two visitors at a time?
CHAPTER 30
After three days, Fenimore was released from the hospital, but he was cautioned by his physician to take it easy. He was not to do any physical exercise other than limited walking for at least a month. So much for rowing. But Fenimore’s appetite for the river had decreased significantly during the past few days.
On his first day home, Fenimore paid the Walshes a visit. He had called ahead and asked if he could stop by after dinner. Then he had spent the afternoon in a futile search for a gift. He had wandered from department store to sporting goods store to jewelry boutique. But what gift can you give someone who has saved your life? He finally gave up and decided that a few heartfelt words and a strong handshake would convey his feelings better than anything he could buy. He prepared his words carefully as he drove to Germantown.
Feeling empty-handed and awkward, Fenimore rang the bell at the Victorian stone house. The petite woman who had reminded him of a bird at the regatta opened the door.
“Dr. Fenimore!” Mrs. Walsh grasped both his hands and drew him into the living room. Henry Walsh and Hank rose simultaneously from the sofa, where they had been watching a baseball game, and greeted him. All awkwardness was forgotten.
Quickly seated in a soft chair, Fenimore was offered a long list of beverages—from iced tea to Scotch and soda. He wanted Scotch, but since he was driving, he took tea. Henry disappeared to get the drinks and Fenimore decided to save his speech until he came back. But as soon as Henry returned, Hank launched into a detailed description of his rescue of Fenimore—how he’d found him, dragged him from t
he river, given him CPR, and finally revived him. “I was scared shitless you were going to die on me,” the boy said.
“Hush.” His mother sent him a look.
Fenimore laughed. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to spend the night on Peter’s Island with a corpse.”
They all laughed.
The conversation naturally turned to rowing, the recent regatta, Chuck’s victory, and, inevitably, the boy’s death. The party grew somber. Remembering that he was in the company of two people on his PPI list, Hank and his father, Fenimore observed their reactions carefully as they spoke of Chuck. The distress of both men seemed genuine, and they moved on to other things. There were few pauses in their talk, and whenever Fenimore tried to begin the little thank-you speech he had prepared, Henry or Hank or Mrs. Walsh would bring up a new topic. The evening passed quickly. When Fenimore glanced at the clock on the mantel, it read past eleven. “Mercy, I must be going,” he said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Walsh quickly agreed. “You must take care of yourself and get plenty of rest.”
Fenimore rose and tried once more to make his speech. “Before I go, I want to th—” Again he was cut off. Chatting and laughing, his three hosts escorted him to the door. The next thing he knew, he was standing outside, alone, under a starry sky, his speech still unsaid. Nevertheless, as he drove into the city, he felt content. He knew the Walshes had understood what he had come to say—without words.
When Fenimore arrived home, he had intended to go into his office and cross Henry and Hank Walsh off his PPI list. But he was so tired he went straight to bed.
CHAPTER 31
Mrs. Doyle had taken it upon herself to reduce Fenimore’s patient load to a mere trickle, and he found himself at loose ends—pacing his office, browsing through the magazines in the waiting room. (He was beginning to recognize some of the faces in People!) He even watched television with Tanya occasionally. (But their tastes differed. Tanya liked American Idol and Fenimore preferred the History Channel.) The thought that occupied his mind day and night was Chuck’s autopsy report. He couldn’t go ahead with his investigation until he saw it. He thought about little else. Every now and then he let thoughts of Jennifer seep in. She hadn’t called since he’d been home. You’d think she’d want to know how he was doing. . . .
He tried to divert his mind by reading JAMA and The New England Journal of Medicine, but the articles seemed longer than usual and he had trouble concentrating on them.
Oh no! He was standing stock still when his nurse came in.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sharply.
“Have you noticed anything wrong with my mental abilities since I’ve been home?” He looked panicky.
“No more than usual,” she said briskly. For once her insult was reassuring. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought my attention span was shorter and I might have suffered brain damage while I was unconscious.”
“Pshaw! Even if you did, you have plenty to spare.”
Did he detect a compliment?
“This report just came.” She shoved some papers under his nose.
All worries about his mental deterioration vanished as he stared down at Chuck’s autopsy report. He scanned it quickly, for the gist. To his amazement, Chuck’s heart and blood vessels were normal. There were no signs of any abnormalities, such as an enlargement of the heart or thickening of the arteries. Why the ICD implant, then?
Fenimore read on. “A blood specimen taken just before the patient died showed an extremely high potassium level—13.6.” My God. A small amount might have been introduced to correct the effects of the low potassium when he was admitted. But that would have been introduced gradually, over a ten- to twelve-hour period. Such a large amount, introduced all at once, could have been the immediate cause of death!
Fenimore had barely recovered from the impact of this discovery when the phone rang. He picked up, not waiting for Doyle.
“I hear you’re a friend of the celebrated Ashburn family,” Rafferty said.
“In a matter of speaking. Why?”
“In a matter of speaking,” he mimicked Fenimore, “the medical examiner has labeled it a suspicious death and sent me the autopsy report.”
So it was out.
“I was going to go back to the ME for a translation of this gobbledygook,” Rafferty said, “but thought I’d check it out with you first.”
“His initial collapse was thought to be an SCD episode. His father was diagnosed with an SCD tendency, and the condition is often genetic,” Fenimore said.
“So what was he doing rowing?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
Fenimore told him about Caroline Ashburn’s request for help with her son; Chuck’s subsequent examination by Dr. Burton; the doctor’s report that he was SCD-free; the later discovery that he did, in fact, have an SCD tendency and had received an ICD implant. (He skipped adroitly over how this knowledge had come to light.)
“And he was still rowing?”
“Yes. He and his father hid his condition from his mother.”
“Nice family. Go on.”
“The kid was twenty-one, so legally he could do what he wanted. I tried to change his mind—but failed.”
“Right.”
“Now, the autopsy reveals”—Fenimore continued—“that Chuck had no evidence of cardiac dysfunction: no enlargement of the heart; no thickening of the arteries; and no apparent need for the ICD implant. The doctor’s report was a fabrication and the implant was an unnecessary procedure.”
“What the hell? Have you asked the father—your pal—about all this?”
“We’re not on speaking terms at the moment.”
“What about the doctor? Why would he falsify his reports?”
“I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”
“Fine. What about the lab report.”
“I’m coming to that. The autopsy revealed an incredibly high potassium level. The low potassium that he registered upon admission to the CCU had to be corrected, but the replacement is always done gradually. I’ve never seen this degree of hypercorrection. It indicates that the potassium was given to Chuck all at once and could have been the cause of death.”
“How did they give it to him?” Rafferty asked.
“Intravenously.”
“Could someone have made a mistake?”
“Unlikely. It was too gross.”
“That narrows the time down, at least. The lethal dose had to be administered after he was in the CCU,” said Rafferty.
“That’s right.”
“It also eliminates a lot of people. Only medical personnel would know how to administer potassium via an IV.”
“True—unless they paid someone to do it.”
“You have a Machiavellian mind, Fenimore,” the policeman said. “But why would someone want to kill the kid? Do you have any ideas?”
“No.” Fenimore wasn’t ready to share his PPI list just yet. “But I’m going to check out a few alibis.”
“Be careful, Fenimore. Someone tried to drown you, remember?”
“This time, I promise I’ll stick to dry land.” He hung up.
Mrs. Doyle stood in the doorway, looking displeased. “It’s that woman,” she said in a low voice. “She’s in the waiting room. She was going to just walk in on you, but I stopped her. She doesn’t have an appointment. I was half tempted to throw her out.”
Fenimore had often thought his nurse had missed her calling. She would have made a good bouncer. “What woman?”
“The Ashburn woman. I know, I know, she’s suffered a terrible loss. But she’s so pushy!”
“Easy does it,” the doctor soothed. “Send her in.”
Mrs. Doyle flounced out. At least as much as someone of her girth could flounce. A moment later, Caroline Ashburn came in. She did not look pushy. She looked weak and frail. His nurse must have been basing her opinion on past experience. Fenimore g
uided her to a chair.
As soon as she was seated, she said, in a voice that had lost most of its timbre, “I’m so sorry about your accident, Andrew.” Fenimore could scarcely hear her. “I wanted to come to the hospital, but . . .”
“Nonsense. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the service.” Liar. That had been the one silver lining in his hospital stay; he had been spared the ordeal of Chuck’s funeral. But he could have bitten off his tongue, because the mention of the service triggered a choking sob from Caroline. He jumped up and offered his handkerchief. He always kept a clean, cotton one in his upper left jacket pocket, just in case.
She blew her nose noisily.
Fenimore pretended to study some papers on his desk until she regained her composure.
“I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all you tried to do, and . . .” She faltered. Fenimore was afraid she was going to break down again. But she took a deep breath and continued. “And I . . . I . . .” She looked around the office as if wondering where she was and how she got there.
“Are you all right, Caroline?”
“Oh yes . . . I just . . .” Again, she paused and the vacant stare returned.
Was this all caused by grief or could she possibly be taking something? “Has your doctor prescribed a sedative for you?” Fenimore asked.
“Hmm?”
“Tranquilizers. Are you taking them?”
She looked as if she had never heard of them.
“Caroline?”
She focused on him, but it seemed to require a great effort.
“How did you get here?”
“Uh . . . train.”
The Doctor Rocks the Boat Page 11
