The Diagnosis is Murder (A Dr. Valorian Mystery Book 1)

by Steven Gossington

  “The money,” the man said. She felt his hot breath against her cheek.

  Alec touched her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Laura handed the bill to the man, and he walked away.

  Alec started the engine, put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street.

  “Damn it, Alec. How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

  “We don’t. It was a long shot.”

  Laura sighed and shook her head.

  Alec touched her arm. “Any little piece of information may help. We couldn’t use that man as a witness, even if we could find him again. But we may be able to use this kind of information to force someone into the open. You never know.”

  “I just can’t believe it’s Matthew. That guy was probably lying just to get the money.”

  “Keep your mind open and your emotions out of it.”

  Alec drove away from Georgetown. “It’s not too late. Want to pay George Detmeyer—the lab guy—a surprise visit?”

  “Sure. Let’s go. Where does he live?”

  “I looked up his address.” Alec examined a small piece of paper he’d pulled from his shirt pocket. “He lives in Bethesda, not far from here.” He consulted a map with Laura’s help while he navigated the car.

  “Remember, he sued Dr. Preswick and lost,” Laura said. “His wife died after Preswick operated on her.” Laura considered several approaches to gain the confidence of Mr. Detmeyer and chose a plan she thought would work. Thirty minutes or so later, Alec pulled up at the side of the street in front of a well-kept house in a modest Bethesda neighborhood. Some inside lights were on. Laura and Alec walked up a narrow sidewalk to the front door and rang the bell. A dog inside yapped.

  “Let me talk first, Alec. People tend to trust a woman more, especially at night.”

  “He’s all yours.”

  A woman, probably in her mid-thirties, in a yellow T-shirt and shorts cracked the door while holding a small barking Chihuahua. “Yes?”

  “We’re sorry to drop by so late, but we happened to be in your neighborhood,” Laura said. “We have some information for Mr. George Detmeyer. Is he in?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Dr. Laura Valorian. I worked with Dr. Roderick Preswick.”

  The woman processed that information for a few seconds and then nodded. “I’ll tell him.” She closed the door.

  A minute later, the door was opened by a man sporting a faded white T-shirt and a skeptical expression. “Hello, I’m Detmeyer.” He was pudgy, of medium height, and had a receding hairline. Horn-rimmed glasses perched at a skewed angle on his nose.

  “I’m Dr. Laura Valorian, and this is my friend, Alec Dupree. We happened to be in your neighborhood, and I remembered I wanted to ask you something about Dr. Roderick Preswick. Do you recall Dr. Preswick?”

  “Hell, yes. He screwed up his operation on my wife, and she died. He killed her and got away with it.”

  “You know he died recently.”

  “Yeah, I heard something about it.” Detmeyer grinned. “They call that ‘karma,’ right?”

  “I can understand your bitterness, but I think he may’ve been murdered.”

  With an index finger, Mr. Detmeyer pushed his eyeglasses higher on his nose. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I just want to talk to people who disliked him before the police get involved. I want to warn folks that there may be a murder investigation.”

  “Well, they can steer clear of me.”

  “Just to prepare you for their questions, where were you during the late afternoon and early evening of last Monday night, a week ago?”

  Mr. Detmeyer frowned and glared at her. Laura thought for a moment that he was about to slam the door in their faces, but then he let out an audible sigh. “I left work that afternoon about 4:00 and drove straight home. No, I remember, I stopped at a grocery store for a few minutes. Then I came home and had dinner with my wife. That’s it.”

  “What’s the name of the grocery store?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a small store, just a few blocks from here. You probably passed it.”

  “When did you arrive home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What time did you eat dinner?”

  “About 7:30 or so, like we always do.” Detmeyer began to fidget in the doorway.

  “Had you seen or spoken with Dr. Preswick recently?”

  George Detmeyer’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tensed. “Goodbye.” He slammed the door.

  “Thank you, Mr. Detmeyer,” Laura said to the wooden door.

  She and Alec walked away. Halfway to the car, Laura turned and spotted Detmeyer standing at a window, watching them. Alec revved up his car, and they drove away.

  “He wasn’t a fan of Dr. Preswick,” Alec said.

  “I’d say he qualifies as a suspect.”

  “He does. That reminds me, I need to do background checks on all your suspects.”

  Laura showed him the copy of the suspect list she’d made for him. “I think any one of them is smart enough to figure out that a designer drug is a potential murder weapon, and possibly an undetectable one at that.”

  “Good point. All of them are connected with the medical world and could ferret out that information if they wanted to.”

  Alec stopped in front of Laura’s house and walked her to the front door.

  Laura thought about asking him inside. She sighed and turned to him. “Thanks, Alec. What a day. I feel good about this. I think we’re on the right track.”

  “I agree.” Alec smiled and touched her shoulder.

  Laura held her breath as she studied his face.

  He gulped and said, “Sweet dreams. I’ll be in touch.” He watched as she stepped into her house. “Remember to keep an open mind.”

  Laura hesitated, and then closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 16

  Laura slept until later the next morning, since she was scheduled for the night shift and didn’t want to be too short of sleep.

  Early in the afternoon, she picked up the phone to call the medical examiner. What weirdness will I hear today?

  “Dr. Stiles, this is Laura Valorian again. Any new findings on Dr. Preswick’s autopsy?”

  “No, no, no, not yet. As you suggested, I located a lab that can check for unusual opiate derivatives. I expect the special toxicology report in a few days, a few days.”

  “Great. I’ll check with you later.”

  “You think we’ll find something really juicy?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “Come on, we need some excitement around here, real excitement. In fact, I’m thinking about doing a reality show. I can do autopsies and show how some folks really die. People will love it. They’ll beg for more. What do you think? I can have you on as a guest—”

  “Dr. Stiles, I have to go now. I’ll talk with you another time.”

  She called his psychiatrist and reported the continuing erratic behavior. He told Laura that he would try to contact Dr. Stiles that afternoon.

  Laura then tried Dr. Blake Sutcliff’s phone number. Again, no one answered. “Maybe I’ll ask Alec to track him down.”

  Laura had an inspiration about how to spend her afternoon. I haven’t been to Mount Vernon in a while. She phoned her friend Clarissa. “I know it’s short notice, but I’m spending the afternoon at Mount Vernon. Can you join me?”

  “Sure. I was going shopping, but I can do that later. I’ll meet you at the entrance gate.”

  Spring afternoons were often an ideal time to visit Mount Vernon. Hot summer weather hadn’t arrived yet, most of the tour groups would be winding down their visits, and many of the morning tour and school buses had already departed.

  Laura drove with her windows down so she could feel the wind in her face and smell the trees and flowers. Tree-lined George Washington Memorial Parkway led her south to Mount Vernon from Alexandria. In fact, she could often spot her jogging trail, wh
ich followed the Parkway all the way to Mount Vernon. Laura thought about running the distance from her house to Mount Vernon and back some day. Definitely on my bucket list.

  Laura parked in the public lot, paid her admission fee, and waited near the entrance gate for Clarissa. She was daydreaming as Clarissa called to her.

  “Thanks for coming,” Laura said as they hugged.

  They entered the grounds of George Washington’s home and plantation. Laura relished the view from the mansion across the Potomac River. “It’s fun to think that this view is probably similar to the one Washington had.”

  A light meal at the food court satisfied her hunger and would carry Laura through her work shift that night. Laura told Clarissa about Dr. Preswick’s untimely death.

  As they strolled around the mansion and grounds, Laura tried to imagine rural life in the 18th century. They eventually approached Washington’s tomb and watched a wreath-laying ceremony. Laura leaned toward Clarissa. “Did you know that Washington died of an upper airway infection? One of the three doctors attending him had suggested performing a tracheostomy to relieve his progressive breathing difficulty, but the procedure wasn’t commonly performed at that time.” Laura drew her finger across her lower throat to show Clarissa the location of the incision. “So, Washington didn’t receive a tracheostomy, although in retrospect, it might’ve saved his life, or at least prolonged it.”

  Clarissa chuckled. “I wonder if Martha thought of suing the doctors.”

  “A malpractice lawsuit? Was there even a plaintiff’s attorney around who would’ve taken the case?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Haven’t we always had lawyers with us?”

  Laura was quiet as they walked toward the exit.

  “You seem stressed,” Clarissa said. “Is anything wrong?”

  Laura sighed as they sat down on a bench. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have these recurring nightmares. I’m not sleeping well. I lose my temper at work. Heck, I can’t even find a guy I like.”

  Clarissa cocked her head. “I can help you with that last problem.”

  “Thanks for trying. Maybe one day it’ll work out.”

  “Count on it. You’re a real catch for some lucky guy.”

  Laura slapped her thighs. “I’m obsessed with Dr. Preswick’s death. I can’t stop thinking about it.” She shook her head. “I’m a doctor—not a detective—but it’s like sometimes I’m two completely different people.” She looked at Clarissa. “Is something wrong with me?”

  Clarissa put her hand on Laura’s shoulder. “I know this: You have a passion, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You have to follow the passion that’s inside you. That’s the right path for you. Just go with it.”

  Laura covered her eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m losing control.”

  “Well, some people do better with counseling. I know you’re a doctor, but maybe you’d benefit from counseling?”

  Laura was quiet for several minutes, then she turned to Clarissa. “You may be right, but I think talking with you is therapy enough for me.” She hugged Clarissa. “Thanks for being here.”

  As they walked to the parking lot, Clarissa leaned toward Laura. “I know a guy I think you’d really like. He’s nice and very cute.”

  Laura smiled. “Thanks, but not now.”

  “He’s tall and runs marathons.”

  Laura laughed and waved goodbye.

  Nighttime was the preferred shift for some emergency physicians. Fewer administrative problems cropped up, maybe because fewer hospital administrators were around after hours. However, the patient population differed and could be more stressful to the staff. More alcohol- and drug-related problems were in evidence, and psychiatric patients often showed up during the night hours.

  At one point, nurse Amy stopped Laura in the hallway. “Is there a full moon tonight?” she said, repeating a well-known ER myth that a full moon is associated with an increase in psychiatric patient visits. “We’ve already had two overdose suicide attempts.”

  Laura chuckled. “I don’t know about that full-moon theory. Every night shift can be an adventure in psychiatry.”

  “Well, get ready for your next adventure. One of our frequent flyers is in Room Four. He has abdominal pain, but he doesn’t seem to be hurting all that much.”

  Laura reviewed the patient’s vital signs, documented in the record by the nurses per ER routine. Yes, I know him well. She stepped into the room. “Hello, Mr. Hamilton. I understand you’re having pain in your abdomen?” Mr. Hamilton was 46 years old—lanky—with long, light brown, disheveled hair.

  “Yeah, Doc. Here.” He put his hand flat over the middle of his abdomen.

  “When did the pain start?”

  “Years ago. It’s off and on.”

  Here we go again. “Can you describe the pain for me? Is it sharp? Does it move anywhere?”

  The man’s eyelids narrowed. “I know who’s causing the pain.”

  “Someone is causing your abdominal pain?”

  “That’s why I first came here, to D.C. from California. I want the Justice Department to get them off my back.”

  “Who’s bothering you?”

  “I don’t know their names, but wherever I go, they follow me and irradiate me. See the red skin on my stomach? See my skin shake?” He pointed at his abdomen.

  Laura studied the abdominal skin but saw no redness or quivering.

  “They follow me and set up satellite dishes to irradiate me. I need help before I really get hurt, before I get cancer, before they kill me.”

  Laura was accustomed to Mr. Hamilton’s stories. He showed up at the ER once a month or so with delusional episodes, usually because he’d stopped taking his psychiatric medications. She’d heard the Justice Department story before, with slight permutations.

  She completed her questions and physical examination to make certain that he had no serious acute abdominal problem. “Do you want to stay in the hospital for a while for us to help your pain?”

  “No, I’ll be okay, as long as the Justice Department can help me.”

  “Remember, what can help the pain is your medications. You need to take them.” Laura turned to leave the room.

  “Dr. Valorian.”

  Laura stopped and looked back. Mr. Hamilton was now sitting erect and appeared more rational. He sometimes told her something interesting, even factual, at this point in their encounter. Mr. Hamilton lived on the streets. He watched and listened. His mind swirled with random facts about happenings in the world of alleys and dark corners of the city—a world beyond Laura’s suburbia. She’d learned yesterday that Alec also had discovered how useful an informant Mr. Hamilton could be.

  Laura sat down and waited. Mr. Hamilton stared at the wall. After several minutes, he spoke, “It has to do with drugs.”

  “What does?”

  “That surgeon’s death.”

  Laura gasped and tried to remain calm. Her murder theory might’ve just been corroborated—sort of—Mr. Hamilton wasn’t exactly a reliable witness. She asked a number of follow-up questions but was unable to get any more pertinent data.

  Mr. Hamilton thanked her and left the ER.

  Laura sat dazed in the doctors’ office. Sometimes, that man amazes me—delusions and all. She thought of Washington, D.C. as a schizophrenic city of sorts. Monuments, memorials, museums, and large official buildings imparted a reassuring sense of permanence. At the same time, the cyclical arrival and departure of political contingents with their entourages conveyed a transitory feeling to the city’s inhabitants. Every few years, D.C. was invaded by new faces and new platforms, but the problems were often the same old recycled ones. Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton over and over again. Maybe that’s the secret to longevity: continual rebirth.

  Laura heard commotion near the nurses’ station and spotted a man pointing his index finger at a nurse. “I want to see Dr. Valorian, now.” She hurried out of the office and approached the man. “I’m Dr. Valorian
. How can I help . . .?” After scanning his wrinkled clothes, bloodshot eyes, and unshaved facial stubble, she froze, her eyes wide open. “Dr Stiles.”

  Dr. Stewart Stiles jogged over to her. “I have to talk to you about my ideas—wonderful ideas that can change the world.” His hands and the corners of his mouth trembled.

  “Come with me.” Laura led him into an empty patient room. A male ER tech followed them and stood just inside the doorway.

  Dr. Stiles rocked on his heels and flailed his arms as words spewed from his mouth. “We doctors must join together. Because of my research, we have a unique opportunity to cure many diseases and make a lot of money for ourselves. I’ve developed an amazing product from rare plants and powerful antioxidants that will cure heart disease and many cancers. One of the plants is from the Valeriana group. It has unbelievable healing properties, and almost no one knows about it. I’ve reviewed the research literature over the last three decades, and this new product is a sure thing. I’ve put all my money into the project, and I’m offering you an opportunity to join in—”

  Laura held up her hand. “Slow down, Dr. Stiles. It’s late, and you look short of sleep.”

  “I’m not tired at all, and I feel great. I’m telling you, we can heal the world. This is Nobel Prize material—”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Laura asked.

  Stewart Stiles fell back into a chair. He took several deep breaths, his head bobbed backward, and his eyes stared at the ceiling.

  “Dr. Stiles?” Laura walked over to him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m weak. I can barely lift my arms.”

  Laura called a nurse into the room. “Help me get him on the stretcher. Please take his vital signs, and I’ll order lab tests.”

  Dr. Stiles did not protest.

  “I’m recommending you stay in the hospital for a few days. You’re sleep-deprived and probably malnourished.”

  He strained in vain to lift his head from the stretcher. “Why can’t I just rest in my own bed at home?”

  “I believe you need evaluation from a specialist. You’re not thinking coherently.”