Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  He hopscotched over puddles to the parking lot across the street, rehearsing what moves he would use should anyone accost him. About to slide into his car, he noticed a small scrap of paper under a windshield wiper blade. He pried the paper loose and was about to roll it into a wad when, under the stanchion light, he was drawn to two lines smeared in black ink:

  SOON AGAIN

  MY FRIEND

  David pulled out his Beretta Minx.22 and shielded it in the hollow under his left arm as he turned in a circle, casting his gaze at trees and shrubs and along rows of parked cars. Inadvertently, he dropped the scrap of paper. He returned the gun to his shoulder rig and, before speeding off, searched the macadam around him, finally concluding the paper was lost in a gust of wind.

  He felt the force of the wind against the side of his car and tightened his grip on the wheel. The trip home was slow and he had time to convince himself he would level with Kathy for a change. David figured this new message could refer to anyone but, for the first time, he included his own life in the deadly scheme that might unfold.

  Once home, he called Kathy and told her about the wiper message, only to be admonished that he should have a uniformed police officer nearby at all times. David swore and nixed the idea.

  Chapter 8

  On Friday morning, the funeral service for Charles J. Bugles was brief. It was also poorly attended, the collection of mourners as sparse as his remains. He had been cremated. Through the thrum of rain on slate at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, David heard not a sob. He wondered whether the organ was on the blink, and then he strained to see if the two black-clad figures alone in the front pew resembled Bugles, but their heads remained stock-still ahead.

  The minister recited a brief generic eulogy, the gist of which David thought he had heard before. He decided to leave early, hoping there were more people at the reception. He hated funerals and everything associated with them and was glad there had been no wake.

  As he negotiated the turns on a hill overlooking Alton and Nora Foster's estate, David saw cars lined like dominoes on both sides of the circular driveway. At the main gate, he obeyed the homemade sign, its arrow's ink dripping in the rain, and drove along a path beyond the Tudor house, past hedges of arborvitae and a traditional bread oven enclosed by topiary loaves. He swerved into a tight slot and, patting his left shoulder, dismissed the idea of bringing Friday along. He squeezed out of the car and slid through an ice-ridged field toward the house.

  David had been there twice before and remembered cursing the salary Foster commanded but, since then, had learned of the gilt-edged securities inherited by his wife.

  In the foyer, a silver-haired gentleman in an ascot helped with coats. David handed him his scarf and gloves as if, coatlike, they had concealed the black double-breasted suit and straight necktie he wore uneasily. He stepped into a sunken living room and raised an eyebrow whose slant questioned why a piano player had chosen Summertime-at a funeral reception in midwinter. Abstracts in gaudy frames cluttered each wall. The guests, noisy in their late morning excuse for Bloody Marys, mingled like politicians working a crowd. David shook his head at some who leaned back, their shoulders shaking as they laughed. A bartender in a red blazer cracked jokes.

  He knew most of the guests who were packed in there: board members, department heads and their spouses, several private physicians, a few nurses dressed for work, administrative types, area industrialists. And one secretary he recognized: Marsha from Pathology. He spotted Kathy balancing two drinks an arm's length away from her slate turtleneck dress. She dodged her way toward him and, extending a glass, said, "Here, I saw you come in. Sorry, I couldn't make it to the church after all. Something came up."

  "You weren't alone," he said, taking a sip and looking around. "Quite a reception. See anything interesting?"

  "Just that Foster, Tanarkle and Spritz are avoiding each other. At least I think it's Spritz from your description. Reddish hair, always smiling-kinda fake?"

  "That's him."

  "Tanarlde brought his wife. She's all gussied up. Giant hoop earrings. Quite a knockout. Is Spritz married?" "Are you kidding?"

  "Oh."

  Above the gathering, David could make out Betty Tanarkle talking with Foster and tossing her head about in rich laughter. David couldn't resist thinking his pathologist friend had married a bon vivant whose main goal was to cha-cha through life. He wandered over.

  "Well, David, glad you could make it," Foster said. "Nice party, unfortunate reason."

  "Really?" Foster said. He paused for a response which he didn't get.

  "You know Betty Tanarkle, here."

  "Yes, of course," David said. "Good to see you again. How's Ted holding up?"

  "As well as could be expected, thank you, David." Her over-painted lips hardly moved as she spoke. "It's quite a strain, you know. Ted and Charlie go way back."

  David was referring to something else but didn't pursue it. She misinterpreted, he thought, or maybe it was a lame attempt at deflection.

  Betty was taller than her husband or Foster, more so in cranberry platforms. Even David believed the androgynous look of blonde hair clashed with her black bollero and full skirt. And even he felt embarrassed by her neckline, confining his eyes to one brief sweep.

  "Excuse me," he said, moving aside, "there's Everett Coughlin. I think he's about to leave. See you in a bit." He reached Bowie's pathologist and key booster at the front door. "Dr. Coughlin, wait."

  "Oh, hello, David." He removed his brown beret and twirled it in his hands. An older muttonous man, Coughlin appeared as vinegar-lipped as David had always pictured. If the old coot tried to smile, his face wouldn't cooperate, David opined under his breath.

  "I just figured out why Bugles was cremated," Coughlin said. "Not because he thought a normal burial was a wasteful use of land as his sons over there claim." He waited to be prompted.

  "Why, then?"

  "Because he wanted his ashes rubbed in everyone's face." Coughlin said impassively.

  "You didn't take to him much, did you?"

  "Take to him? I suppose it's proper to say it's too bad he's gone, but I must admit, I hated being in a room with him. He contaminated the air around me."

  David didn't remove the notepad from his pocket for fear Coughlin would clam up.

  "I hear your hospital's referring its transplant cases out-of-state," David said.

  "That-is-correct. Wouldn't you?" Coughlin said. His marinated face took on a dark, fierce look.

  "I'm glad I don't have to make those decisions." On a roll, David decided not to letup. "How about Hollings you're still sore, right?"

  "Sore? I'd say gangrene has set in."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Too bad I have to put it that way, but it's the way I feel. They have no conscience."

  "You still giving lectures there?"

  "Yes, until they kick me away. I have one tomorrow, in fact. At nine-why not try to make it. I've entitled it, DNA. What Next?"

  "That's right up my alley. I'll be there. You game for a few questions afterward."

  "I'm always game for questions after I speak."

  "About anything?"

  Coughlin's nostrils distended. "About anything," he said. He put on his hat and stormed out the door. There had been no handshakes.

  David believed he had felt the vibrations from a volcano but chose not to dwell on it. He had not learned anything new except for the Saturday morning lecture and the depth of Coughlin's animus.

  He returned to the living room and put his unfinished drink down at the back of a table filled with sardine canapes, salted nuts, assorted cheeses and minced chicken pate. Eying Nora Foster leaving the piano player, he headed her way, chewing on a single nut. First thank her, then her husband, then mosey by the Bugles men. The Way We Were hung in the air.

  "Nora, thanks for the invite. I preferred your other parties, but it was nice of you to do this."

  "Thank you for stopping by." She held out both h
ands with a flourish. David shook one. "Horrible, ghastly killings," she said in a cavernous voice. "They've made it so difficult for everyone connected with the hospital, especially for Alton."

  He thought the incongruity between Nora Foster's anorexic face and her spherical body had increased since he saw her last. Her black hair was thin, her heavy makeup jagged as if she had applied it in the dark. She wore glasses framed in mottled brown. A brown caftan was sashed at the waist. How did she have enough to make the knot? In their brief encounter, he saw her twice feel for the knot and tighten it. See, even she wonders. They nodded and, as they exchanged picture smiles, he noticed speckles of dandruff on her shoulders.

  He small-talked as he picked his way among hospital friends until he found himself standing before the only two guests who were sitting. They were the two black-clad figures he had seen at the funeral. He stared at them and they stood. Neither reached David's stratosphere, although the thinner one appeared to be six-feet tall, the other, a couple of inches shorter and chunky.

  "You must be Charlie's son," David said after introducing himself and grasping the outstretched hand of the shorter and younger looking of the two. He realized he had also shaken the sleeve of the man's jacket. He pegged one son's age at thirty, the other's at forty-five or so.

  "Yep, I'm Robert. This here's my brother Bernie." Bernie's hand felt like a wilted dandelion.

  David thought Robert looked familiar. "Where do I know you from?" he asked.

  "Bruno's karate classes. I took them for two years. I saw you there sometimes."

  "Of course, now I remember. That was awhile ago. Did you end up with a belt?"

  "Mine's brown." Robert sounded disinterested. Intermediate, David thought.

  Robert's eyes appeared moist and red. He blew his nose. "I'm glad Mom doesn't know how my Dad died," he said to the floor, shoulders collapsed.

  "Oh?" David said, turning to look at Bernie.

  "Mother passed away ten years ago," Bernie stated.

  David was struck by how much Robert resembled his father: droopy lids, omelet eyes, mottled, dark complexion. And, except for a bold nose, his face was as flat as a painter's canvas. A linear port-wine stain wrapped around the angle of his right jaw. In contrast, one could make a case that Bernie's features were a softened version of his brother's and father's. David couldn't label his bearing. Regal? Mysterious? It was something he did with his eyelids-turning his blue eyes inanimate-like bottle caps. But, his left earring clashed with the bearing. David rubbed his decision scar.

  "I give you both my condolences," he said, mustering a measure of sincerity.

  "Thank you," they said in unison.

  They sat in a circle of three straight chairs and spoke about the "obscenity" of Charlie's murder and about his having been "a self-made man." David, while preoccupied with the better fit of Bernie's tuxedo, suddenly snapped to attention when he saw him check his watch.

  "That's about it," Bernie said. He got up and disappeared in the crowd only to return twenty seconds later to add, "Glad to have met you, Doctor. I'll be in touch, Robert."

  What's going on with right wrists these days? David tried to act inconspicuous as he got up and looked around the room to determine that as many people held their glasses in their left hands as in their right.

  Focusing again on Robert, David said, "He's in quite a hurry, I see."

  "Who, Bernie? Oh, yeah, he has a flight to catch. One of them business trips."

  "What's his business."

  "He went to school to be an engineer but now I think he's … he's a little bit of everything. You know, trading. Yeah, he's into trading." He flashed a tobacco-stained smile.

  "What's he trade."

  "He tells me he trades everything."

  "Where's he flying to?"

  "Tokyo. Got some kinda plant there. He's part owner, you know."

  David sat again and edged closer to Robert. "And what's your line of work?" he asked.

  "Me? I'm in the box factory. Packaging." He rocked in his chair and whined, "They know me as Charlie's son or Bernie's brother."

  "Robert," David said, pausing, "look, this may be the wrong time to bring this up, but I'm assisting in the investigation of your dad's death. I understand he lived alone."

  "Yep, like my brother said, Mom died. I was in high school."

  "Would it be possible for me to visit his place? Just to browse around. It could give me a clue or a lead." David knew a search warrant could be obtained if he needed one. He lowered his eyes and flipped open his notepad hoping it might underline the importance of his request. He could feel Robert's silent once-over.

  "My dad said he liked you, Dr. Brooks. And he told me about you being a doctor and a private eye and everything like that."

  David stalled as long as he could before looking up. He thought it best to proceed with another question. "He lived at the Highland Estates, right?"

  "He was even there when it started. Maybe … I'm gonna say … twenty years now."

  "You have a key?"

  "Sure. So does Bernie."

  "Well?"

  "Dr. Brooks, if it'll help in finding the son-of-a-bitchin' butcher what killed him, sure, you can go there."

  "I'd feel better if you came with me, Robert. When do you get off from work Monday?"

  "Three-thirty. That's when I punch out."

  "Good, I'll call you. You live in Hollings?"

  "Yep, my apartment's on Chestnut street. Over there near the hospital. Dad owns-uh-owned the building." Robert's eyes refilled.

  "I'll call you at four. Then I can pick you up." David gave the son one final expression of sympathy before seeking out Alton Foster.

  "Alton, thanks. Is there anything I can do?" David asked.

  "Like what?" Foster said, smiling.

  "I don't know. Like parking cars or putting rock salt on the ice out there." David didn't wait to see Foster's expression. He spotted Kathy and signaled he was leaving, then thought better of not conversing with her. Sidling over, he said, "I've had enough of this charade. I'll call you."

  "Learn anything?" Kathy said.

  "I'll call you. And, oh, I have a question."

  "What's that?"

  He lowered his voice. "In this huge collection of humanity, guess who loves you?"

  He zigzagged through the gathering, bounded up the step to the foyer, asked the guy with the ascot for his scarf and gloves, and then felt like he was doing a Bernie Bugles when he returned to Foster.

  "Incidentally, Alton," he said, looking around, "wasn't Victor Spritz here?"

  "Yes, but he didn't stay long," Foster replied.

  Once alone on the front stoop, just this side of a chilling rain, David filled four pages of his notepad with notations and sketches.

  The next morning, the tower clock registered eight-fifty. David got out of his car and hurried to the cafeteria to pick up coffee and a doughnut.

  At the cash register, he heard the page operator scream, "Dr. Brooks, stat! Dr. Brooks, stat!" David had heard plenty of pages before, but they never quivered with such emotion.

  "Paging me?" he said aloud.

  He bolted to the nearest wall phone. "Dr. Brooks, here."

  "They want you at the parking gate."

  "Who's 'they'?"

  "Security police. Said it's something serious. They saw you drive in earlier."

  "Thanks, Helen." He was about to hang up the receiver. "Wait," he said, "which gate?"

  "Doctors' parking lot."

  David heaved his breakfast into a trash container, and, Friday in hand, burst through the cloakroom and out into a gloomy drizzle. Shallow mounds of snow rimmed the lot. Ahead, stem faces huddled around a late model white Cadillac parked directly opposite the card machine at the toll gate. Its arm was in the up position.

  A security guard met him halfway. "We opened the door to see if we could help the guy, Doc, but it was no use. We probably got our prints all over. Looks like a single bullet through the temple. The poli
ce are on their way."

  At the driver's side of the car, several resident physicians and nurses separated for David. He noted the window in the opened door was down. He saw a man slumped over the passenger seat, his face twisted back and to the left. David leveraged himself on the headrest and leaned forward to get a better look. It was Dr. Everett Coughlin.

  Chapter 9

  David straightened when he heard sirens getting closer. He reached over and palpated unsuccessfully for a carotid pulse, careful to avoid the sliver of crimson that crusted Coughlin's jaw above. Turning, his left foot slipped to the side and, after catching himself, he bent to verify that the corner of a shiny object wedged between the front wheel and a clump of snow was worth identifying. It was a laminated plastic entry card bearing Couglin's name and the designation, "Courtesy Staff."

  Face hardened and flushed, David clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the passenger side. He peered through the wet front window as he put on his gloves, and he carefully opened the door. The body's head and neck were now more clearly visible. There was a small round wound above the left ear but no tattooing, soot smudge or burn. A slender ribbon of blood was caked down the ear. He didn't disturb the head to examine it for an exit wound.

  Three police cruisers, flashing lights cutting through the raw grey morning, funneled to a screeching stop along with a small van and several nondescript cars. Kathy, Nick, Sparky, a technician, the medical examiner, two deputies and a handful of uniformed police officers piled out. One officer ran back to the parking lot entrance to cordon it off with yellow tape. Others ran tape from both corners of the nearby hospital wing to trees deep in the woods on the opposite side. Another sealed off the entrance from the hospital itself. David rubbed his nose, wondering how doctors would retrieve their cars to leave. Worry about that later. He also wondered if the crime scene unit kept its vehicles idling, waiting for such calls to come in.

  "It didn't take you long," he said to Kathy.

  "Luckily, we were having a special Saturday morning briefing. Dropped everything. What do we have?" She raised the collar of her blue trench coat against the drizzle, now turning coarse.