Shadow of A Doubt

by William J. Coughlin

  “You mean, that’s all you’re going to tell me.”

  He held up his hands as if showing his innocence. “Charley, would I do a thing like that?

  Like it or not. I would have to go to Florida.

  *

  I GOT the autopsy report on the Johnson boy. Blood work showed he had enough cocaine in him the night he died to keep Bogota prosperous for a year.

  Despite his youth, he was a long-time user and it had taken a silent toll. His young heart was damaged beyond repair, but it didn’t show on the tests they did prior to surgery. No one could reasonably have expected a heart so young in a body so strong to be in such bad shape.

  In a way, he had killed himself.

  I drove out to see his mother. She lived with assorted grandchildren and relatives in a small house in a section near 1-94, a section that was almost exclusively black.

  The house was neat and perfumed with the odor of rich cooking.

  I told her that I had seen the report and talked with the doctors. The last was a lie. I said he had a rare heart ailment that no one could have discovered, a defect that caused him to die during surgery. I said the doctors told me he would have died soon anyway, given the condition.

  It seemed to satisfy her. I didn’t tell her about the drugs. There was no point to it. She offered me money and when I turned it down she made me accept a pie.

  The pie was good. It was one of my more satisfying fees.

  18

  I AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. THAT DAY I had moved to my new apartment and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. Then I remembered.

  A nightmare had jolted me awake, but I had no clear memory of it.

  What I did have was a nagging urge to drink. I could think of nothing else.

  Sleep was out of the question. I put on the light and got up. Sometimes when the need comes it helps to eat, even if you aren’t hungry. I made a sandwich in the kitchen and poured a glass of milk.

  The choices on television, even with cable, aren’t terribly interesting at three in the morning.

  Every time I flipped to a movie I seemed to come in at the middle of a drinking scene. Everyone looked so happy; they paid little attention to the full glasses in front of them. But I did. I was riveted on those drinks, so I kept flipping the channels.

  I caught a nature program in progress. Some scrawny woman with haunted eyes was explaining why she had spent her life studying baboons. The baboons scampered about in the background. Although she obviously adored them, the creatures regarded her indifferently. They didn’t give a damn about her, although they were clearly the center of her existence.

  Love is often that way. Even among nonbaboons.

  I turned off the television and tried to review the events of my day. Something had triggered the sudden need and I wanted to know what it was so I could make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  The day had been a busy one for me, with two motions in cases before Judge Mulhern. But they had been routine matters. No stress, no challenge.

  The main stress in the day had come with the afternoon mail. I had requested reports of treatment from doctors and hospitals that had treated Angel Harwell. Three of them had come in. The medical reports were more confusing than helpful. To lay a foundation to keep Angel’s damaging statement out of evidence I would need some nice clear medical evidence. What I got was not clear or nice.

  A decision would have to be made soon. If I used the medical evidence to show Angel was emotionally fragile Evola might turn it around and convince the jury she was just the kind of nut who would kill someone. It was going to be a gamble at best, and perhaps my subconscious fondly remembered how I used to blunt the pain and worry over risky decisions. To drink, or not to drink, that might have caused one hell of a mental conflict, and conflicts, they say, are the seeds of nightmares.

  It made sense. I finished the milk and went back to bed.

  I lay there in the dark, trying to make myself calm. The damn Harwell case was getting to me. Fear, like a faint odor, was beginning to seep into my mind. Sleep came, but only in tormented naps.

  *

  I CALLED Bob Williams early, before he left home. He sounded grumpy, but so would most people at that hour. Irritation quickly turned to interest when I said I had some of Angel’s medical history in hand. I asked if he could explain the reports to me.

  Angel was a puzzle and he wanted to find the key that would give him the answer. The reports were at my office. He said he would drop by on his way to the hospital. I didn’t have time to shower or shave. I threw on some clothes and arrived at my office just moments before he did.

  “You look terrible,” he said, studying me with a professional eye.

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.” He settled his massive bulk into one of my old chairs.

  He took a few minutes to read the reports. There were hospital charts with entries in what looked like unreadable handwriting. But it didn’t seem to bother him. Finally, he looked up.

  “So, what’s your problem?” he asked.

  “I think that’s self-evident. She was in three different places. Each set of doctors came up with a different diagnosis. Which one is correct?”

  He lay the reports on my desk. “Interesting, this girl. I think you can disregard the first diagnosis from the New York hospital. That was probably done to get her temporarily committed.”

  “They said she might be schizophrenic.”

  He nodded. “Maybe she was then. She had just turned eighteen. Adolescents sometimes seem that way. Psychiatrists know that. We treat what we see, but we are aware it may be only a passing phase.”

  “They say she was hearing voices. That’s not quite the same thing as getting pimples.”

  “Maybe it is, in a way. Anyhow, they put down what she told them and what they saw. You’ll notice that when they sent her to the place in Florida, they thought it was an adjustment disorder. I don’t see any reference to voices when she was a patient there.”

  “What’s an adjustment disorder?”

  He shrugged. “Just what it says. Something traumatic happens or a person is going through a rough phase. They can’t adjust to it emotionally. Perhaps they go into a depression or are nearly paralyzed by anxiety. Most of the time, with treatment, or even without, the thing straightens itself out. And, sadly, sometimes it doesn’t. I also see they think she may have an Electra complex.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The opposite of the Oedipus complex, where little boys want to sleep with mama and think daddy is in the way. Electra is when a little girl wants to go to bed with daddy and it’s mama who is in the way. I don’t see the basis for their conclusion. Anyway, it’s an interesting theory.”

  ‘That last place, the other Florida hospital, says she has a personality disorder,” I said. “That agrees with what you thought originally.”

  He nodded slowly. “Maybe. But they think it’s a hysterical disorder. I disagree, but maybe when they saw her it was exactly that. We can’t tell, of course.” He tapped the reports with one huge finger. “Many of these records have been altered.”

  “Oh? How can you tell?”

  “You can when you’ve been a psychiatrist as long as I have. Some of the treatment notes, the usual stuff we do after talking with a patient, are missing from the record. Most of them, as a matter of fact.”

  “I could raise hell about it and make them produce what’s missing.”

  “I doubt if that’s possible, frankly. This was done some time ago, unless I miss my guess. Someone insisted that something be deleted.” He pulled out the New York reports. “See, there are some references here to family discord. Believe me, that would have been developed, but there are no notes by the treating doctors.”

  “What are you telling me? Can you bribe a hospital?”

  “You can’t. Too many people. However, if you ask the treating physician to delete certain things from treatment records, he wi
ll if the reason is good enough.”

  “Isn’t that unethical?”

  He shook his head. “No. Doctors don’t enjoy the same protection as lawyers and priests. You should know that. Oh, some courts will say it’s the same, that a patient’s statements are privileged communications, but others, many others, say they are merely confidential and will compel doctors to testify to what their patients told them. A doctor has to keep what is told him confidential — that is, he can’t tell anyone voluntarily or he can get sued. But he can often be compelled to tell under oath in court.”

  “So?”

  “Charley, psychiatrists are keenly aware of that little legality. When people tell us things they think it will go with us to the grave. If they thought otherwise, they wouldn’t talk about anything but the weather. We try to protect them in various ways.”

  “Like altering records?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes. At least the official records. The patient or the family may even request that harmful material be excluded. If there’s a good reason, it might be done. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Many things. Like health insurance, for instance. If a patient is paying through a health plan and certain things are required to qualify, those records are sent and can’t really be altered later. However, if the person is what we call a direct pay, we possess the only records and editing them is no problem. As I say, it’s done when it’s in the patient’s best interest.”

  “What’s your idea of a good reason?”

  “Let’s say that you’re a congressman and you get depressed to the extent that you’re contemplating suicide. You realize you need treatment, but if it gets out, for whatever reason, your mental health will become an issue in the next campaign. So you ask the doctor to keep any harmful details out of the treatment notes, perhaps even keep them under a false name.”

  “Is that done?”

  He came close to smiling. “Did you get anything on Angel from Buckingham Hospital yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Buckingham has a program for public officials and others who need psychiatric treatment but who cannot risk that becoming known. It’s all private-pay stuff and the patient is given another identity, like someone joining the French Foreign Legion. Any inquiries, court or otherwise, will get the same response — they never heard of the person.” He shrugged. “If Angel Harwell was enrolled under that program while a patient, you’ll get nothing from them.”

  “Even with her request for release of information?”

  “Not unless she supplies her secret identity, which is probably impossible.”

  “Why?”

  He did smile. “Simple. They never tell the patient. She’d have no way of knowing.”

  “All this sounds like you people should burn incense and wear clerical costumes, complete with masks. It’s like something out of the Middle Ages.”

  “Charley, if the law treated us the same as you lawyers or religious people, we wouldn’t have to resort to such tactics.”

  “But it is the same.”

  He shook his head. “Remember the guy that blew up his boss in California, the one who was engaged to that movie star?”

  “Yeah, I read about it.”

  “Well, he confessed doing it to his psychologist. The psychologist told his girlfriend, who blabbed to someone who blabbed to someone else, and the psychologist was forced on the witness stand to tell what had been told him. Remember that? The bomber was convicted.”

  “That’s up on appeal.”

  He got up. “Perhaps. According to what I read, the judge in that case thought the statement could be admitted because it had been told to a third person. An exception to some rule, he called it. That seems to be stretching things to me, but you lawyers are very inventive people when you really want to be. When a doctor like myself reads something like that, he knows he must be very careful to protect his patient.”

  “Angel’s school records were also altered,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Probably for the same reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who knows? Maybe that’s what Angel is concealing. I told you what I suspected.”

  “Have you ever altered your records?”

  “Sometimes. If there’s a good reason.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “No. I treat sick people, I don’t judge them.” He chuckled. “If I did, I might strangle a number of them.”

  “What about justice?”

  He walked to the door. “I leave that to lawyers. Or God. Either way, it’s a pretty dicey concept.”

  *

  I DIDN’T want to go to Florida.

  But someone had to talk to the Florida cop. His information might be nothing but fluff, harmless gossip that was inadmissible anyway. But it could be something else and the cop might turn out to be Evola’s chief card, his ace. There was only one way to find out.

  And there was Angel’s Florida psychologist. I had sent him a release-of-information form but so far had received nothing back. I had to talk to him.

  Down there I could nose among the neighbors down on Sheridan Key. They might come up with something to bolster my suicide theory. It was worth a try.

  Also, the days were passing swiftly and I had to prepare Angel for the courtroom. Robin, too. It is a technique lawyers call polishing the witness. It is more art than science and I consider myself pretty good at it.

  I called Sheridan Key. A maid answered and I waited for a very long time before Robin finally came on the line.

  “Hello, Charley,” On hearing my voice, she sounded pleasant enough but not overly enthusiastic.

  “Robin, I need to come down there and do a few things. Is any time better than another?”

  “What things?” she asked.

  “The prosecutor is calling one of your local cops as a witness. I need to talk to him. A couple of things like that.”

  She hesitated. “Well, I suppose one time is as good as another. Will you be staying with us?”

  “Would it be better if I stayed at a hotel?”

  Again there was a significant pause, as if she was thinking that over carefully. Then she spoke. “It would probably be more convenient for you if you stayed here.”

  “I don’t wish to impose.”

  “Don’t be silly, Charley. We have plenty of room. When would you come down?”

  “How about tomorrow? I can only stay for three days. I have some court appearances up here that can’t be adjourned.” That wasn’t entirely true. I did have some court dates but they were routine and easily rescheduled. This was to be a working visit and I needed to establish that right at the start.

  “Do you know your flight number and arrival time? I can have one of our people pick you up.”

  “I wanted to check with you before I arranged all that. I’ll rent a car at the airport. Just tell me how to get to your place.”

  I took notes as she gave detailed directions.

  “Is there anything you need done here before you arrive?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “When you know what time your plane gets in, give us a call.” She paused. “Angel will be so pleased that you’re coming.”

  “And you?”

  Again a pause. “I would think that would be obvious.”

  Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t. I would soon find out.

  *

  DESPITE my dreadful credit history a bank in Delaware had recently offered me a credit card, albeit at ridiculously high interest rates. Apparently they had sent the mailing to every lawyer in the country. I had filled out the application thinking I didn’t have a chance of being accepted. To my surprise I got the card, practically by return mail. I tried it a couple of times to make sure it worked. It did. After that, I just kept it in case I ever needed it.

  I used the card with a local travel agent and charged the tickets, full fare since it was short notice. I would add the tickets to the growing list of Harw
ell case expenses. If it had been my own money I would have flown tourist. It wasn’t, so I chose first class. There was no problem getting a flight to Sarasota. Not too many people were rushing off to steamy Florida in the middle of summer.

  A car would be ready for me when I arrived. The travel agent said the rent-a-car people were pathetically grateful for my business during the off season. I could have any kind of car I wanted, any kind. At very reasonable rates.

  I ordered a Cadillac.

  I almost couldn’t remember when I had last flown first class or had been behind the wheel of a Cadillac. I had almost forgotten what that kind of life was like.

  *

  ON the flight down I was the only passenger in first class. Part of the allure of paying the extra money is the free drinks. The stewardess, a pretty girl, thin but pleasant, so young she looked like she belonged in high school, kept trying to push drinks at me as if she was being paid by the ounce.

  Habit is an odd thing. I hadn’t flown much since my troubles, and when I did, it was always in the cheap seats.

  Prior to that, I went first class as if it were a tenet of my religion. When I boarded in those days, I would insist on a drink, a double, even before we took off. They do that for you in first class. Then, as they winged me through the skies, I used to consume more alcohol than the plane did fuel. Some people were nervous in airplanes, but in those circumstances any alcoholic would love to fly.

  Habit, as Pavlov’s dog would agree, is a very powerful thing. I spent every minute wishing for something I couldn’t have.

  I was damn glad when we touched down in Sarasota. The direct flight from Detroit had been just over two hours, which is a long time to be salivating.

  It had been warm in Detroit. Here it was hot. Very hot. There was no wind. The humid air lay on the place like wet slime. Sweat began to pop out on me before I even got down the ramp from the plane.

  It was just like the tropics, except you didn’t have to go through customs.

  I had to sign all kinds of forms at the rent-a-car desk, but the Cadillac was waiting. Parked out in the sun the gleaming car was as hot as anything could get without bursting into flames. However, the air conditioner pumped cold air in minutes and by the time I was ready to drive out of the small airport it was beginning to cool very nicely.