“Meaning that multiple sclerosis explained every symptom that the patient had before she died. There was no reason to look for other diseases that might cause the same symptoms,” Pearman replied evenly.
“Then why did you look for another disease?” Chapman rubbed his chin, and shifted his weight.
“I didn’t. It came to me when she died. Besides,” Pearman made a wry face and added, “I am much more familiar with death as a symptom.”
The detective chuckled. Off-color jokes were more his speed. “Did the patient actually have multiple sclerosis?”
“Yes, dissection of the nervous system is consistent with MS.” Pearman flipped a page of his notes and read aloud. “Cut sections of the cortex reveal multiple gray, sunken-appearing plaques ranging in size from pinpoint to one-half centimeter, most frequent in the area of the ventricles. Microscopic examination reveals myelin loss, and lipid-laden macrophages.” He looked up. “Textbook definition. Dr. Lane’s diagnosis was correct.”
“What do you know about Dr. Lane?” Chapman changed gears.
“She’s a good doctor,” said Dr. Pearman. “Very dedicated. I heard that she split up with her husband a while back over a woman, but I don’t know much about that.”
“Who was the woman?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know her husband?” asked the detective.
“No, never met him. I can give you Dr. Lane's office number and you can talk to her in person. I’m afraid that we don’t have too much contact.” Pearman crossed back to the front office, and flipped through an ancient Rolodex at his desk. He scribbled the number on the back of his card and handed it to the detective. “Thanks for coming by. Like I said, it looks like a suicide, but I have to report it anyway. Let me know if there is anything else I can help you with.”
“Thanks. I’ll let myself out.”
Back in his car Detective Chapman dialed Dr. Lane’s office number. He watched the misting rain as he counted rings. He was about to hang up when someone answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Dr. Lane’s office?” asked Chapman.
“Yes. I’m sorry, but we’re closed today.”
“How can I reach Dr. Lane?” he asked.
“Who’s calling please?”
“Jack Chapman.”
“Is it an acute problem?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been in to see her before?”
“No,” he said.
“Perhaps we can work you in on Friday. Come by about two o’clock.”
“Thank you,” said Detective Chapman. “I’ll be there.” Two days gave him plenty of time to get the scoop on the doctor. Perhaps by that time the final results would be in on the arsenic tests. In any case, until the lab verified the presence of arsenic there could only be a suspicion of unnatural death.
Chapman called his partner Dex Byers at the station to have him run a check on Ms. Summers and Ms. Lane. Byers had been on the force as long as Chapman had and, as he was the one man in the station who could tolerate Chapman’s rather unpleasant disposition, they had been made partners. To Chapman, this was a marriage of convenience, and he continued to conduct most of his investigations alone as he always had. Nothing that anyone said or did could change that.
When Chapman arrived at the station, Byers had a bio on Summers sitting on his desk which revealed that she was employed at Ness, Inc., so he drove out to the mill to poke around. The Ness mill was bright and modern with a white, concrete facade that glowed in the oblique evening post-storm light. It had been built recently during a booming market, and was testimony to the success of the corporation. Chapman walked up to the reception desk, and a pleasant, middle-aged woman looked up to greet him.
“I’m Detective Chapman. I’m here about Sarah Summers. May I speak to her supervisor?”
“Certainly.” The receptionist’s brows went up slightly, but she maintained her professional demeanor. Rarely did people come by on business during second shift, and never had she seen a police investigation. She picked up the phone and punched three numbers.
“Someone is here to see Bruce Brown. Yes. The police. Yes.” She hung up. “He'll be down shortly. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Chapman looked where she gestured, and saw a row of blue, plastic chairs in the corner. In a few minutes a man came down the stairs. His ID badge read ‘Bruce’ in large letters above his picture. After they greeted, Detective Chapman asked him, “What do you know about Sarah Summers?”
Bruce answered slowly, “She used to be a good employee, worked the second shift, usually beat her quota. But not recently. She was so sick she couldn’t do the work. She slowed down the whole line.”
“Is that so? Why didn’t you just let her go?’ Chapman eyed the man's slight build. He wore an ill-fitting, blue, plaid shirt, with sagging, faded, uniform pants, and a pinched expression on his face, in spite of his official smile, that spoke volumes. Bruce was probably a lifer at the factory, having worked his way up to supervisor from the line.
“You can’t just fire someone because they’re sick. That’s discrimination.” These were clearly not his own opinions he was quoting.
“Discrimination?” repeated Chapman, confused.
Bruce remained standing in front of the chairs. “Yes. You know. The ADA, the Americans with Disabilities Act. You can’t just fire someone because they’re sick or disabled, even if they don’t do anything.”
Chapman reflected on that for a moment. “I see.” Then, “What did she make working here?”
“About fifteen dollars an hour.” Bruce’s voice rose slightly in indignation as he recalled the insult to his management, and the receptionist glanced up at them.
“So she was costing you a lot of money,” noted the detective, glowering back toward the receptionist.
“You can say that again.”
“I see.” Chapman was calm; in fact he was at his best when interrogating someone who was agitated. “Was she close to anyone on the line?”
“Yes, a few people. Maude Peterson worked closely with her. Do you want to see her?”
“Yes.”
“She’s on duty now. I can take you to her.” Bruce straightened himself walked toward the blue steel door he'd come from.
They walked down two flights of concrete steps, entered a large room that resembled an airplane hangar, and went past a long row of machines to find Maude. Detective Chapman appraised her as Bruce introduced them. She had a careworn face. She looked about sixty-five, but Chapman knew she was probably a good deal younger.
“Maude, this is Detective Chapman. He wants to ask you about Sarah Summers.”
Maude frowned at Sarah’s name.
“Do you mind walking with us to the break room?” Bruce's tone indicated that this was not a request.
The threesome walked back down the line and across the huge warehouse, where the sound of machines was deafening. They stepped into a brown paneled cafeteria full of stale cigarette fumes. The abrupt silence surprised Chapman, but his ears kept ringing.
“We can talk in here,” said Bruce, motioning to one of the many empty, laminated tables in the room.
Maude lit up a cigarette. “Bruce, this ain’t gonna count for my break is it?”
“No, we’ll give you an extra one later.” Bruce was solicitous in front of the officer.
She held her cigarette up in two shaky fingers, drew a long puff, and started talking. “Poor kid never got a good break. Couldn’t do her job, couldn’t get well, and she didn’t have no family at all. Even her boyfriend was married.”
“He was married?” repeated Chapman.
“Yeah, she used to tell me about this great guy who would sit and listen to her, and never stood her up. He was married though. She didn’t want to say, but I could tell. You see, I used to see a guy that was married. They act different. There’s times when they just can’t come by.”
“Were they seeing each other regularl
y?” He leaned forward on his elbows across the cracked Formica.
Maude’s voice was the dry, raspy sort typical of a life-long smoker. “No. I think he was through with her.”
“What makes you say that?” Chapman cocked an eyebrow.
“Stuff she said started sounding more like wishful thinking and dreams. She quit talking about regular dates. And she started to complain more about everything.” Maude waved her cigarette in a dismissive motion.
“Maude, do you think she was depressed?” Chapman focused on the deep lines around her lips where an earlier attempt at makeup had left fuchsia rivers.
“Sure, wouldn’t you be?” Maude took another puff, glancing at Bruce, who checked his watch with an air of disapproval.
“When they broke up, did she ever talk about killing herself?” Chapman asked.
“She didn’t ever really say they were breakin’ up, I just knew. But she didn’t ever say she wanted to kill herself. Did she?” Maude suddenly leaned forward toward him. Chapman recognized the glint in her eyes. It was the carrion eater’s look reporters got when they caught a whiff of injured game from the police.
Not a great friend of the vic’s, he thought to himself, just another gossip. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“I wouldn’t of thought she had it in her,” muttered Maude, leaning back with disappointment in her eyes.
“Where can we find her boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. I heard her talking to him on the phone once. His name was Steve, or Stan, or something with an S. I don’t know his last name, she wouldn’t tell me. She was trying to protect him I guess, but I wouldn’t of told.”
Chapman doubted that last statement. “Did he work here?”
“No, I would of known about that,” Maude said with confidence.
“I believe you would have.” Chapman nodded slowly. “So, did she have any other friends, anyone else that might know something about what happened?”
“She talked a lot about her doctor. I think she was half in love with her. Not like she was gay or nothin’, like the doctor was some kinda rock star or somethin’. It was kinda weird,” offered Maude, taking a long, final drag on her cigarette. Chapman could hear the popping crackle of the burning tobacco.
“Anything else you can tell us?” Chapman inquired.
“I can’t think of nothin’ else.” Maude frowned in concentration, exaggerating all the tiny wrinkles covering her face, and stubbed out the butt of her cigarette in the foil ashtray on the table.
Bruce stood, indicating the end of the interview. “Thank you, Maude, you’ve been a great help to us.”
Maude stood up and smiled, pleased by his accolade. “I’m glad to help. Let me know if you need anything else, Detective,” she finished to Chapman.
“I will.” Chapman was already walking away. He did not care to have Bruce accompany him out, asking a bunch of nosy questions on the way.
Chapter 7
After meeting with Pearman, I went to my office and tried to focus on practical matters. My father had lectured me time after time about the pitfalls of daydreams. When he had caught me gazing into space as a little girl, he would quickly find a new chore for me to do, and tell me the fable of the lazy grasshopper and the diligent ant. I’d always had more pity than censure for the poor grasshopper that starved to death in the winter, but it wasn’t fear that drove me. I’d wanted to be like my father—someone who made a difference in people’s lives.
I put Sarah Summers’ chart into the storage closet. With the threat of a malpractice suit behind me according to Pearman, I felt that I could return to work, but the schedule would have to be revamped. I could no longer keep up the pace I grown accustomed to. For hours, I fumbled with schedule books and graphs until my brain was numb, and I realized that it was well past noon, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
I wandered through the office into the break room, and picked at a package of cheese crackers and a diet Snapple. Then, back in my own room with the overdue and now abandoned lunch, I performed a search on the computer, waiting until the computer found and loaded the information on arsenic that I had requested. The blue background of the Medline finally flashed up, showing me dozens of lead paragraphs from different articles.
Most of the articles referred to food contamination as the source of most arsenic ingestion in the United States. They described the same food-chain effect which causes eagles’ eggs to be laid too fragile to survive their incubation. Those at the top of the food chain ate the accumulated stores of poisons built up through all of the animal links below them. Those levels were eventually too high for any creature to survive, and the predators, in this case the humans, were themselves destroyed.
I was stunned by the last article which gave the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. The symptoms were remarkably like those of multiple sclerosis, primarily distal neural damage. The arsenic damage, however, didn’t recover in the way that most MS lesions would. I stopped with my jaw hanging open, astounded by the bizarreness of it all. I got up and paced around the office, then down the darkened hallway. I peeked into each of the exam rooms, fiddled with the chart racks up front, and finally made a tour of the waiting room, all the while shaking my head in disbelief.
I came back and sat down to face the computer screen. No wonder Sarah had suddenly lost the ability to recuperate from her flares of multiple sclerosis. I was shaken to the core. I stared at my reflection on the computer screen and saw only a frightened ghost.
I recalled my visit with Dr. Krauss a few weeks ago, and the security and confidence I had felt then. It was gone. Sighing, feeling suddenly very helpless, I picked up the phone and dialed the long distance number of the medical school. I needed her help again.
After a pause while the school switchboard operator transferred my call, a kind Scottish voice answered the phone.
“Ellen. This is Veronica Lane. How are you?”
“Brilliant! Twice in one month. That must be a record.”
“Yes. I’m afraid I need more advice.” I closed my eyes.
“Tell it me, then.” Her accent broadened when she took on her coaching role. Ellen Krauss was a bottom line sort of person. She nonetheless cared a great deal for people.
I was grateful to hear the words. “Could we meet this evening to talk?”
“Here?” Krauss was surprised but delighted. “I’ve a meeting at six, but perhaps I can leave early. I’ll see you at my house about 6:45. How does that sound?”
“Great. Thank you so much.” Some of the sense of isolation abated as I hung up the phone. I knew that Krauss could help, and I willed the time between now and our conference to pass quickly.
I checked my watch as the phone began to ring; it was just before five. I needed to get on the road. I tried to ignore the phone, and let the service get it, but then I wondered if Krauss might have dialed back to change our plans. I grabbed up the handset. Just a patient named Chapman, trying to schedule an appointment. I told him to come in Friday when I hoped to be back to work, then grabbed my raincoat and left.
The streets were black and liquid. Rain pelted the windshield as I strained to follow the winding Atlanta roads that led back to my Alma Mater. Rain was usually my friend, soothing worries and lulling me to sleep. Now, it simply interfered when I needed this visit so badly. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and slowed down on the curves, gritting my teeth at the delay.
Dr. Krauss’ home was a large Tudor manor hidden among the dripping pine trees, just a scant five miles from the school. A kind-faced German man, whom I recognized as Auguste Krauss, answered the door. He welcomed me inside to a mellow foyer decorated with antique tapestries of hunt scenes and Greek mythological deities. In the living room were large, Gothic furnishings interspersed with comfortable upholstered pieces. It looked like a happy castle in the black forest.
“Ellen is coming home soon,” the grizzled man said. “She said to me you were coming, and for you to make yourself at home. You
like strudel, yes? You have not yet eaten?”
The thought of strudel made my stomach growl. Mr. Krauss was an excellent chef. He cooked the foods he had learned at his mother’s knee. I remembered the strudel well from when he served it at an end-of-session party Dr. Krauss had hosted at her home a few years ago. Ellen Krauss was, of course, not Germanic at all, but she had adapted well to the old-world ways of her husband. I’d always felt that they were beautifully romantic.
The massive front door opened and a burnished copper and silver head appeared. Ellen bustled into the room and said happily, “Nic, I am so glad to see you. Have ye been fed?” Food was a priority of hospitality, and they would not let me get away without any.
Not that I would have. I wouldn’t have been able to turn down their culinary delights. I shook my head in response, and gladly accepted the plate Auguste handed me a moment later. Ellen and I strolled into the dining room and sat down next to one another with our chairs turned face to face, so that we could nibble at our food as we spoke. Auguste politely excused himself back into the living room to resume his paper. As Dr. Krauss sat down, her expression changed to one of concern.
“Now then, ye’ll be tellin’ me what it is that has driven ye down here on such a saft night?” Krauss’ accent broadened once more as she relaxed into her home environment.
My mouthful of buttery crust saved me from bursting out in an overwrought soliloquy. I took the time that I was chewing to compose myself, so after I swallowed I was able to speak slowly. “A patient of mine died. You remember her. It was the woman I had been treating for multiple sclerosis. I admit her to the hospital to start chemo for the marrow transplant, and she died that day. The autopsy showed arsenic poisoning.”
“Aye. Apparently the pathologist on that case sent some specimens here for analysis. The wee med students have all been herded to the lab to see the specimens. Once in a lifetime learning opportunity, I gather.” Krauss sipped a crystal tumbler of whiskey, neat, that Auguste had brought in, and tilted her head at me to inquire if I wanted any.
Treating Murder: Book One of the Veronica Lane, M.D. series (medical thriller) Page 6
