by Lisa Gardner
“Yeah?”
“Bobby? Thank God. I've been trying to reach you since last night.”
“Hey, Pop.” Bobby relaxed, but only a fraction. He continued walking, his legs eating up the six blocks to the bus stop. “I called you this morning, but couldn't get through.”
“Had to take the phone off the hook. Damn reporters wouldn't stop bothering me.”
“Sorry 'bout that.”
“I didn't tell them anything. Good-for-nothing sons of bitches.” Bobby's father hated journalists almost as much as presidents from the Democratic Party. “You okay?”
“Working on it.”
“On paid leave?”
“Till we hear from the DA.”
“I did a little calling around,” Pop said. Once upon a time, Bobby's father had gone by his real name, Larry, but then he'd set up shop as a custom pistolsmith to augment his retirement income. So many of his customers were Bobby's fellow police officers. They'd started calling him Pop, too, and now it had stuck. Bobby'd been surprised by the evolution, sure his gruff, hard-assed father would hate the familiarity. But Larry didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, he even appeared flattered. Things changed, Bobby supposed. In his own way, Bobby was trying to change, too. It was just a longer time coming.
“I'm hearing good things,” Pop said quietly. “You did what you had to do.”
Bobby shrugged. Saying “Thanks” would sound too cavalier. Saying anything else would be ungrateful.
“Bobby—”
“I know I should've tried harder to call you,” Bobby cut in. “I shouldn't have left you so long to worry.”
“It's not that—”
Bobby rushed on, quickly now, before he lost his courage. “I guess it all just hit me harder than I thought. I mean, I don't doubt taking the shot. I could only act on what I saw, and what I saw told me to shoot. But still, the guy's kid was in the room. Right there, not five feet away, and I blew his father's brains out. Now the boy has to live with what I did, and I have to live with what I did, and I . . .” Bobby's voice broke off, sounded more ragged than he would've liked. Jesus, how did he get into this mess?
Pop didn't try to say anything this time.
“It gets to me, Pop,” Bobby said more quietly. “I didn't think it would. But it gets to me. And last night . . . last night I had a beer.”
His father didn't speak right away. He said finally, heavily, “I heard it might have been more like half a dozen beers.”
“Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was probably closer to five or six.”
“Did it help?”
“No.”
“How did you feel this morning?”
“Like shit.”
“And tonight?”
“I'm done. I slipped, I learned my lesson, I'm done.” Bobby couldn't quite resist adding, “And you?”
“I'm good,” Pop said. “One asshole in the family is enough, don't you think?”
Bobby had to smile. “Yeah, one asshole is enough.”
“And Susan?” his father asked gruffly. “Now you got some time off, maybe you can bring her out for a visit.”
“I don't know.”
“What don't you know, son?”
“I don't know . . . a lot of things.”
“Come visit me, Bobby. It's only a thirty-minute ride. You could spend an afternoon. We could talk.”
“I should do that.” Which they both knew meant that he wouldn't. Pop was trying, Bobby was trying, but there were still things both couldn't forgive and neither could forget.
“Hey, Pop, I gotta go.” Bobby could see the small cluster of three people at the bus stop. An older woman stared at Bobby. He stared right back.
“Have you talked to your brother at all?”
“No.”
“I'll give him a call. I'd hate for him to catch it on the news.”
“Pop, George lives in Florida.”
“Yeah, but these kinds of stories . . . they have a life of their own.”
A T THE HOSPITAL, ironically enough, Bobby couldn't catch anyone's attention. He stood for ten minutes at the registration desk before growing impatient and heading for the hospital directory next to the elevator. He found a listing for Anthony J. Rocco, M.D., on the third floor. Bobby took the stairs.
Arriving at the top, he was breathing hard. He found a glassed-in waiting room filled with children's toys and snotty-nosed toddlers. Two kids were crying. One was trying to cram a metal car down her throat. Greater Boston Pediatrics, the sign said. Bobby decided it must be the place to start.
The receptionist at the counter barely glanced at him. She slid him a sign-in sheet and a chewed-up pen while cracking her gum and talking on the phone. Bobby had to wait until she hung up to inform her he wasn't a patient; he simply wanted to talk to Dr. Rocco. This confused her greatly. He flashed his badge, said he was with the police, and finally got a response. The girl flew out of her chair and trotted down the hall in search of the infamous Dr. Rocco.
Bobby didn't know whether to feel triumphant or vaguely ashamed. He'd put on a pair of khakis, a button-down shirt, and his best sports jacket for this occasion. He was doing his impression of a homicide detective, which probably only proved that even state troopers could watch too much TV.
Earlier in his career, six or seven years back, Bobby had debated making the transition from uniformed patrol officer to investigative detective. Uniformed officers were considered the grunts of the operation, the front-line troops even in an organization as elite as the state police. Detectives were smart; patrol officers, good at doing what they were told. Bobby had the brains, his sergeant had urged, why settle for driving a Crown Vic for the rest of his life?
Bobby had still been debating his options when he'd learned of an opening on the STOP team. He'd submitted his resumé and begun the rigorous selection process. He had to pass oral boards, prove proficiency with special weapons, and endure intense physical fitness requirements. Then came the special drills: scenarios involving swinging from ropes to see if the applicant was afraid of heights; scenarios involving a smoke machine to test how well the applicant functioned under extreme stress. They were tested with cold, tested with heat. Made to crawl through mud carrying eighty pounds of gear, required to hold a pose for up to three hours.
Always it was drilled into their heads: Tactical teams deployed anytime, anywhere. They could be called upon to enter any sort of situation and all kinds of terrain. You had to think fast on your feet, thrive under pressure, and be fearless. Survive the application process, and you received the honor of training four extra days a month while surrendering all your nights and weekends to be on call twenty-four seven. All this, for no additional income. Men joined the tactical team purely for the sake of pride. To be the best of the best. To know that as a team—and as an individual—you could handle anything.
Bobby'd survived the selection process. He'd won the open slot, and he'd never looked back. He was a good cop, serving with the best cops. At least that's what he'd thought until two days ago.
The receptionist was back, cheeks flushed, and breathless.
“Dr. Rocco will see you now.”
A toddler screeched a fresh round of protest from the waiting area. Bobby pushed gratefully through the connecting door.
He found Dr. Rocco sitting in a small office halfway down the hall. The desk was buried under heaps of files, and the walls were covered with children's drawings and immunization schedules. A few things struck Bobby at once. One, Dr. Rocco was younger than he'd pictured, late thirties to early forties. Two, the doctor was a lot more attractive than Bobby'd imagined: thick dark hair, trim athletic build, and an oozy sort of country-club charm. Three, Dr. Rocco obviously read the Boston Herald and knew exactly who Bobby was.
“I have some questions about Nathan Gagnon,” Bobby said.
Dr. Rocco didn't say anything at first. He was eyeing Bobby up and down. Wondering where Bobby got the gall to show his face in public? Preparing to cite doctor-patient confi
dentiality? Dr. Rocco finally glanced up again and Bobby saw something unexpected in the man's gaze: fear.
“Have a seat,” the pediatrician said at last. He gestured to a file-covered chair, then belatedly grabbed the stack of papers. “How can I help you?”
“I understand you're in charge of Nathan Gagnon's care,” Bobby said.
“For the past year, yes. Nathan was referred to me by another pediatrician, Dr. Wagner, when she failed to make progress on his care.”
“Nathan has an illness?”
“Officially, he's listed as FTT.”
“FTT?” Bobby asked. He took out a small spiral notebook and a pen.
“Failure to thrive. Basically, from birth, Nathan's been behind the curve in size, weight, and key developmental benchmarks. He's not developing in a ‘normal' manner.”
Bobby frowned, not sure he was getting it. “The boy's too small?”
“Well, that's one element. Nathan's height of thirty-four inches puts him in the lowest one percent for a four-year-old boy, and his weight—twenty-six pounds—doesn't make the curve at all. His condition, however, has to do with more than just size.”
“Explain.”
“From birth, Nathan has struggled with vomiting, diarrhea, and spiking fevers. He seems constantly malnourished—he's had rickets, his blood phosphate levels are too low, same with blood glucose levels. As I said before, he's lagged behind almost all traditional benchmarks for development—he didn't sit up until he was eleven months old, he didn't cut teeth until he was eighteen months old, and didn't walk until he was twenty-six months old. None of that is considered good. And then, in the past year, his condition appears to have worsened. He's had several attacks of acute pancreatitis as well as two bone fractures. He's failed to thrive.”
Bobby flipped a page in his notebook. “Let's talk about the bone fractures. Isn't it unusual for a four-year-old to have two broken bones in one year?”
“Not for a patient such as Nathan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nathan suffers from hypophosphatemia—low phosphate. Combined with the rickets, his bones are unusually brittle and prone to fracture. For the record, he also bruises quite easily.”
Bobby looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out if Nathan was being abused. To prove to yourself you killed the right man.” Dr. Rocco added quietly, “For the record, I think you aimed just fine.”
Bobby scowled. He hadn't expected this turn in the conversation, to be called head-on. He felt overexposed and it pissed him off.
“Do you think Nathan was being abused?” Bobby asked tightly.
“There are a lot of ways to harm a child,” Dr. Rocco replied.
“Did someone break Nathan's bones?”
“No. Rickets broke Nathan Gagnon's bones. I can tell from the X-rays.”
Bobby sat back. Dr. Rocco's assessment didn't please him. In fact, it left him more confused than ever. “So what's wrong with this kid? Why does he have all these problems?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“That's essentially what a diagnosis of FTT tells you—we don't know. We can't pinpoint an exact cause, so the boy remains under the catchall umbrella of ‘failure to thrive.'”
“Well, Doc, you must have explored some options?”
“Sure. We conducted initial tests—complete blood count, lead levels, urinalysis, and a set of electrolyte values. We've tested him for diabetes, reflux, malabsorption, and cystic fibrosis. One of the best endocrinologists in the country has examined Nathan for thyroid diseases, metabolic disorders, and hormonal imbalances. Then a nephrologist studied Nathan's kidneys and did more tests related to electrolytes, diabetes, and anemia. I've tested Nathan, I've studied Nathan, and I've sent him to the best experts I know. And I still don't have a diagnosis for him. Medically speaking, there's nothing majorly wrong with Nathan Gagnon, except for the fact that he's very, very sick.”
Bobby was starting to hate this conversation. He twirled his pen between his fingers, then put it down and picked it up again. “You didn't like Jimmy Gagnon,” he said bluntly.
“Never met the man.”
“Never?”
“Never. Nathan's been in my office two or three times a month. For that matter, he's been rushed to the emergency room four times in the past six months. And not once have I ever met Jimmy Gagnon. That tells you something right there.”
Bobby regarded the doctor's country-club looks. “So when did you start sleeping with Catherine?”
The man didn't bother to appear shocked. “She deserved better than him,” he answered evenly.
“A neglected wife?”
“Worse.” The doctor leaned forward, his face growing intent. “You're not asking the right questions yet. Maybe Nathan had a medical reason to bruise easily, but Catherine didn't.”
“Jimmy beat her?”
“I saw the bruises myself.”
“Black eyes?”
“Give the guy some credit. He never hit her where just anyone could see. I used to go to school with guys like Jimmy. They figured if they beat their girlfriends in private, it gave them some class.”
“You could've reported it.”
“Really? So some cop could look at me the way you're looking at me right now? I didn't even need to be sleeping with her. As long as I simply wanted to be sleeping with her, none of you uniforms would've taken me seriously.”
“Ever consider dealing with Jimmy yourself?”
“I thought about it.”
“And?”
“I went to the house once. When I knew Catherine and Nathan were away. I knocked on the door, but no one was home.”
“And you never returned? Man's beating the woman you love, so you show up at an empty house and that's action enough?” Bobby's voice was cold.
“What would you have me do?” Dr. Rocco said tightly. “Threaten him with a gun?”
The barb was meant to hurt. Bobby merely shrugged and told the man honestly, “That's what I would've done.”
Dr. Rocco finally flushed. He leaned away from Bobby, crossing his arms in front of his chest and staring at a spot on his desk. “I told her to leave him,” he said at last.
“You'd take care of her?” Bobby glanced meaningfully at the doctor's left hand where he was wearing a gold band.
Again, the good doctor refused to be cowed. “I would've been honored.”
“But she didn't do it. She stayed.”
“She said I didn't know what I was saying. She said if she ever left Jimmy, he'd destroy her life and anyone else who tried to help her. She said my career would go down in flames.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No. Yes. I don't know. I'd never met Jimmy Gagnon, remember? I'd just heard the stories. But then, six months ago, Jimmy found out about our . . . relationship. I had written some letters. I guess Catherine hadn't the heart to destroy them. Things were rough for her. The notes, I wrote them to give her hope.”
Bobby waited.
“Next day, a private investigator was in my office, asking all sorts of questions about Nathan. He had a signed affidavit from Jimmy demanding release of his son's medical records. Within ten minutes, the investigator's strategy was clear. He wanted to know if Nathan's condition could be the result of prolonged starvation or some other form of parental abuse. Basically, he suggested that Nathan's illness had been caused by Catherine—that she was starving her son to death.”
“Is that possible?”
“I don't believe so.”
“You don't believe so?” Bobby arched both brows. “You just told me the kid has some kind of hard-to-diagnose disease. Now you're saying she could've done it?”
“Look, without having pinpointed a specific cause for Nathan's condition, medically speaking I can't rule anything out. Sure, one or more of his parents could be physically starving him. Or someone could be tampering with his food, or s
omeone could be mentally manipulating him not to eat. As a doctor, I've followed up with Catherine, Nathan, and the various nannies about his eating habits. I've gotten answers assuring me that the boy is receiving plenty of food and plenty of the right kind of food. But at the end of the day, I'm still just the doctor. I go home to my family, and Nathan goes home to his.”
“So someone could be abusing him?”
“It's possible.” Dr. Rocco said it impatiently. “But I don't think it's probable. And that's what I told Jimmy's investigator. Anyway, it didn't matter. I stopped seeing Catherine, she made nice with Jimmy, and all the questions went away. That's what it was about. It was Jimmy making a point. If Catherine left him, she could kiss her son goodbye and say hello to the criminal justice system. Catherine's a smart woman. She did what she had to do. And for the record, I don't know what the hell else Jimmy did to her, but the day Catherine came to my office to end things, she could barely walk. That's the kind of man Jimmy Gagnon was. So I said it once, and I'll say it again. From where I sit, Officer Dodge, you aimed just fine.”
Bobby narrowed his eyes. “With Jimmy dead, do you think Nathan might magically start to get better?”
“I don't know. And frankly, it's no longer my responsibility. As of this morning, I formally ended my relationship as Nathan's doctor. I referred him to Dr. Iorfino, as I was instructed to do by Dr. Gerritsen, the head of Pediatrics.”
“You were fired as Nathan's doctor?” Bobby asked in surprise. “By your own boss?”
“You'd be amazed by the kind of power Judge Gagnon wields,” Dr. Rocco said quietly. Then he got an odd smile on his face. “But don't worry, Officer. I'm not quite as helpless as you think. Dr. Iorfino is a geneticist. Call it a hunch, but I think I'm going to have the last laugh yet.”
B OBBY WAS JUST leaving the hospital when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. He picked up his pace, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, head down as if staring at the sidewalk, though in reality the angle gave him a peek at the traffic behind him. Dress shoes, high-gloss black, he determined. Pimp shoes, his father would call them.
