Mortal Remains

by Peter Clement

  “They came to do the DONT on me, Melanie,” Earl said, before they could answer. “You remember. N is for narcan, as in reversing the effects of narcotics, such as morphine. Then, after they brought me around, they heard what I had to say about you.”

  Earl’s quiet voice cut into her like a scalpel. It became hard to breathe. She cast around for some way to regain control. “What are you talking about, Earl? Now you let me restart your IV before I call a code forty-four.” She looked over at the others. “He had a psychotic episode this morning, and his infection is getting worse.” She’d adopted her confiding manner, the one used to bring friends and families over to her side and away from the patient’s. She also scanned their name tags. “So Tanya, and Dr. Roy, I know you two meant well, and if you will just get back to your business, we’ll say this little episode never happened-”

  “You know, I talk to Bessie McDonald every day,” Tanya interrupted, speaking so softly it might have been a whisper.

  Melanie’s fright escalated. “You what?”

  “When I brush her hair and clean her nails – she used to be fastidious about that. Oh, don’t worry, she can’t speak back. Never will. I do it in case she can somehow hear or sense that I’m there, caring for her.”

  “Well I’m sure that’s very commendable-”

  “How could you have harmed her so?” Tanya continued. Her voice floated across the room. It made Melanie shiver.

  Dr. Roy took a step toward her. “And I want to know if I’d given her sugar when we found her, would it have made a difference?” He had a harder edge to him. “That will haunt me until the end of my days.”

  Testosterone defined an adversary so much better; it made him far easier to deal with. “You come an inch closer, Dr. Roy, and I’ll lay charges of intimidation and menacing behavior, not to mention libel-”

  The sound of ripping tape cut her off. She turned to see Earl holding up the tubing that had been attached to his arm. He’d wound it into a loop. “You won’t be laying charges, calling any code forty-fours, or doing much of anything once we analyze what you injected in here.”

  Her mouth went dry, and her insides felt trapped in ice. The coiled green plastic caught the light like an emerald ring. She fought the urge to make a grab for it. “I’m sorry, Earl. You leave me no choice but to get the orderlies.” She spun on her heel and walked out of the room.

  She heard Tanya and Dr. Roy offer to stop her.

  “Don’t bother,” Earl said. “She’s finished, and knows it.”

  The day before Nixon left the White House and Kelly gave her the ultimatum leapt to her mind.

  Go to the dean and confess what you’ve done within twenty-four hours, or I’ll do it for you.

  At Kelly’s insistence they’d met around noon by the southeast entrance to Central Park – the place across from the Plaza where horse-drawn carriages waited for tourists. Melanie had felt as helpless to save herself then as she did now.

  The fear had only worsened as the deadline expired and she waited for the police to knock on her door. Just as the fear would build and eat into her now. Except this time there would be no reprieve.

  She walked briskly toward the nursing station, and right on by to the exit.

  Thirty minutes later Melanie sat in her penthouse sipping coffee. It had turned out to be a pleasant day after all. The sunlight crept across the white birch floors on schedule, illuminating her trophies one by one. The designer kitchen, the living room ensemble, the four-poster bed.

  She watched the edge of its shadow reach the glass-topped table in front of her and slowly pass by the items laid out on it. She adjusted her gaze to the southwest, looking out the windows toward the Statue of Liberty and to the sparkling water beyond. A cruise ship glided by the lady, bound for who knows where. She’d known the excitement of that moment, embarking on a Saturday morning, leaving New York and work behind, anticipating what adventures lay ahead.

  Those trips didn’t hold a candle to where she’d be going now.

  There would be plenty of time. At least an hour. Probably double that. No one would believe Earl at first.

  “The drugs – they’ve made him hallucinate,” everyone would say.

  Testing for insulin would also take a while.

  He wouldn’t have the cops at her door anytime soon.

  And she’d be long gone when they did arrive. But then he’d probably known that, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let her go.

  Another sip, and she savored its bittersweet bite, tempered as it was by cream and sugar. Normally she used skim milk and sweetener, but what the hell. Today was special.

  She downed the remnants and poured herself a second cup.

  What would her patients think when they found out? Her colleagues? The residents? She couldn’t stand the thought of being ousted as a fraud, exposed as something less than the smart, quick, concerned physician she’d craved to be seen as. Now, instead, she’d be made legend, right up there with other doctors who killed, like Cream, Swango, Shipman. They’d have experts on Larry King, Connie Chung, and Barbara Walters dissecting her place in that particular constellation of the murder universe. But she wasn’t like those creeps. She hadn’t set out to kill anyone. She’d tried her hardest to save them.

  One thing she felt in her bones. There were others out there making themselves shine as physicians the same way she had. It was too tempting a scam for there not to be.

  She poured herself a third cup.

  By now the departing ship was but a dot on the horizon.

  She began to feel sleepy.

  Good.

  The first of the several vials that now lay empty on the table had started to kick in. She wanted to be out cold when the other ingredients took effect. Seizures, arrhythmias, and cardiovascular shock – the symptoms wouldn’t be pleasant once they began. And there would be no remedy. She’d chosen the makings of her drug cocktail too well for that. No one, not even a bright boy like Earl Garnet, would ever be able to resuscitate her.

  Denouement

  That same morning, Saturday, November 24, 9:05 A.M.

  Earl Garnet’s Room, Fifteen East, New York City Hospital

  Mark looked up from the flowchart Earl had handed to him. “So Melanie intended to kill you and set you up as Kelly’s murderer, all to stop you from finding out what she’d done.”

  Earl nodded, but said nothing.

  From his grimace and the sheen of perspiration on his face, Mark knew he was in pain. “But Braden, starting with the M and M reports from Kelly’s file, had followed the same paper trail you were on, reached the same conclusion you did, and realized he had his own scapegoat. He spurred Melanie on to kill you even sooner, intending to set her up as Kelly’s murderer, all part of his master plan to wipe out anyone who could expose him.” Mark glanced up from the flowchart and regarded its author. “Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” said Earl.

  Mark considered the idea. It seemed straightforward enough, but something niggled at him. “Wouldn’t it have been safer for Braden to just stand back – let Melanie carry out her plan to finish you off and make you the fall guy? Kelly’s murder would still be closed, unofficially maybe, but no one would be looking anymore.”

  Earl smiled at him. It seemed forced. “Because serving up a proven serial killer as Kelly’s murderer would be a lot more convincing than leaving people shocked and incredulous that I’d done it. Hell, over the years I’ve even heard rumors that some people call me Goody Two-shoes Garnet behind my back.”

  In spite of everything, Mark chuckled.

  “He needed a definitive scapegoat,” Earl continued, “and he needed it now, the more sensational the better. Otherwise, he couldn’t hope to pawn off what he’d set up for you and Lucy as the freak accident he intended everyone to take it as. The same went for the explosion at Nell’s. Even then some people would still be suspicious, but there’d be no proof of foul play, and the flaming fact of Melanie Collins being in all the headlines,
murderess extraordinaire that Charles Braden had helped bring to justice, would blunt whatever a few naysayers might mutter to each other. Hell, if you hadn’t played it smart and resisted going body-hunting last night, he might have gotten away with it.”

  Mark’s face went warm.

  Instantly Earl’s expression changed. “Sorry, Mark. I never meant to imply Lucy-”

  “It’s all right,” Mark said. “If you hadn’t told me to play it smart, I might have gone out there with her. I owe you my life for that, and whatever chance Lucy has.” But if he hadn’t let what Earl said stir up his own suspicions about her, Lucy might not have gone at all. Instead, she’d probably sensed those doubts, and felt the need to prove herself trustworthy to him. Mark’s instincts knew this about her as surely as she now lay on total life support twelve floors below with a coma score of three, equal to Bessie McDonald’s.

  “Get back to Lucy, Mark,” Earl said. “Above all, don’t lose hope. The recoveries from hypothermia these days can be nothing short of miraculous.”

  He tried not to show that he knew Earl had half-lied to him. Mark had already gone on MedLine, as soon as he’d gotten Lucy settled in ICU, and checked the literature, confirming what he’d already known. Success stories about hypothermia were based on single best cases. The over-all statistics were grim, especially for adults. He nodded, and turned to leave.

  “And talk to her, Mark,” Earl called after him. “Leave tinkering with her biochemistry to others. Every minute you’re at her side, talk to her.”

  That made him pause. “What good will that do?”

  “She’ll hear you. I’m certain of it. Talk to her and help bring her back.”

  As he hurriedly returned to ICU he thought, sometimes even bossy people who treated him like an intern could give good advice.

  Ten days later, Tuesday,

  December 4, 10:00 A.M.

  Seminar Room, Fifteen East,

  New York City Hospital

  Mark glanced at the faces of everyone in the room from where he sat at the head of the long table. Nearly all the people whom he’d invited had arrived.

  But he quickly turned his attention back to Lucy, who sat at his side. She’d been given permission to get out of bed for the proceedings, though still in a hospital gown and tethered to an IV pole. “Just in case,” her doctors had said in the ominous shorthand physicians use with each other.

  “Don’t look so glum, Mark,” she told him. “You and I both know the score. I’m fine.”

  Yes. He knew the score. She had already beaten incredibly long odds. She’d been in a coma for three days. From what she remembered before going in the water, Mark estimated her submersion time had been ten minutes. When Dan and the air ambulance arrived, he had been in the well giving her mouth-to-mouth ten minutes more, though at the time it felt much longer. Even now her myocardium could overreact to the electrical impulses of its own conduction system and fly into overdrive. PAT, atrial fibrillation, ventricular tachycardia – everything Earl had had to watch out for – could now be hers, including the possibility of cardiac arrest.

  “I’ve made it over the hard part, right?” she cheerfully insisted, reaching over and patting his hand as if he were the patient.

  “Absolutely,” he said, forcing himself to give a delighted smile. Still, her condition worried him.

  Earl himself, a few seats away, looked gaunt, his cheeks and eyes sunken from the ordeal of his infection. Cleared to go home later today, he’d be leaving fifteen pounds lighter, but with kidneys, pancreas, and brain intact. Janet leaned close to him, her hand resting protectively on his arm. A suitcase stood at the leg of his chair.

  Opposite Janet, Dan Evans reclined comfortably, a slight smile on his face. It had been there for the last week and a half. He’d been the center of attention for every paper, news reporter, and talk show in Saratoga Springs, and one headline in the New York Herald read: Country sheriff and small-town coroner crack murder that stumped the NYPD for twenty-seven years. Mark had gladly let him make all the public appearances and deal with the media, Lucy being his sole concern.

  A woman occupied the seat to Dan’s right. She had come forward in response to all the media coverage. In her late twenties, she wore a stylish gray business suit and had black hair drawn back into a single long braid. From time to time she’d laugh at something Dan said and touch his arm. Dan’s smile would widen, the way it usually did when someone appreciated one of his jokes. Mark had never met her before, but instantly recognized her voice when Dan introduced her.

  Beside her sat Tanya Wozcek, dressed in jeans, opposite Dr. Roy, in whites as always.

  Hunched over by himself a few places away, Detective William Everett, pasty-faced and sullen, played with a paper clip.

  There were two no-shows – Walter and Samantha McShane.

  Mark had expected as much since this wouldn’t be all about Samantha.

  The one whose presence surprised everyone – Chaz Braden – occupied the far end of the table. Mark hadn’t faced the man since they’d hauled him off his father in the coffee shop. But he looked different somehow. The circles under his eyes sagged less heavily, but the change seemed more substantial than that. He possessed a steadiness in his gaze and a stillness in the way he sat that Mark didn’t remember seeing before.

  Time to get under way. He snapped on the portable tape recorder he’d brought with him and placed it on the table. “Thank you for coming everyone. I remind you that what is discussed here must remain confidential, and it will be entered as part of my final report on the murder of Kelly McShane. I’ve already talked to you individually and gone over what each of you knows. I’ve also collaborated with my colleagues, Sheriff Dan Evans and Dr. Earl Garnet, to piece together the findings. What we ended up with is a story of murder and how trying to find out old secrets uncovered a trove of current ones. This meeting will give all of you a chance to correct any omissions or errors. I caution that for some, the testimony will be painful.”

  He paused and glanced around at his audience, paying particular attention to Chaz. No signs of anger. So far so good. “Dr. Garnet will begin.”

  Earl leaned forward, clasped his hands on the table, and looked around him with the easy assurance of a man used to addressing large groups.

  “As most of you have seen in the media, I met with Kelly on the eve of her disappearance. While she had already confided in me her intent to end her marriage and drop out of sight, she kept the specifics of her plans private, other than mentioning she had some matters to take care of first. Such secrecy you may find strange, but she didn’t want me or any of her friends to search for her, in case we unwittingly gave away her hiding place.”

  Prior to the meeting, Earl had indicated a willingness, albeit reluctantly, to explain his relationship to Kelly for the record, “So as to avoid any claims later that I’ve been less than forthright. Otherwise, some idiot’s liable to say I compromised the credibility of the whole inquiry by covering up my own role in what happened.”

  “Don’t feel obliged to bring it up unless someone else does,” Mark had advised. “But anybody who can read a newspaper has already guessed the truth.”

  Nevertheless, Earl paused, giving his audience every chance to question him, his gaze tactfully fixed on Janet, presumably to avoid the appearance of trying to stare down whoever might feel inclined to request that he tell all.

  Janet gave him a smile of encouragement, as if whatever he had to say would be all right with her.

  Chaz seemed to be holding his breath.

  No takers.

  “So despite her furtiveness, what do we know about Kelly’s actions on the last day of her life?” Earl continued. “Direct testimony gave us some leads, we deduced a great deal more from the evidence we gathered, and speculation will have to fill in the gaps.” He glanced toward Chaz. “One of those ‘matters’ she mentioned, we subsequently learned, involved a confrontation with her husband, Dr. Charles Braden IV, when she announced her int
ention to leave him. The encounter occurred in the street outside his office.”

  Chaz didn’t so much as flinch an eyebrow at the disclosure. He’d been the source of this information, including it in his statement to the police. Everett then passed it along to Mark as a professional courtesy.

  “By our investigation of phone records for that day we were also able to determine she’d made a call to Charles Braden III at his maternity center in Saratoga. Presumably at the time he convinced her to come and meet with him in the evening. She did, and, we think, confronted him about the irregularities in his statistics for the facility, specifically the impossibly low number of newborns with congenital defects.”

  There’d been no statement out of Charles since his arrest other than asserting his right to remain silent. The only information Everett had been able to provide about him – “The son of a bitch sure looks good in an orange jumpsuit.”

  “We also think it’s safe to assume that Kelly did not leave New York without confronting Melanie Collins…”

  Earl went on to recount the saga of the digoxin toxicity cases.

  Confront your fears, went the pop jargon, Mark thought, half-listening to the familiar account. Yet here a woman who’d run from confrontation all her life finally stood her ground, and got killed for it.

  “… Knowing Kelly, however, my own opinion is that she probably intended to give Melanie the chance to do the right thing by turning herself in, and hadn’t told anyone the full extent of her suspicions. If she had confided in somebody, it most likely would have been to Dr. Cam Roper, Mark’s father and her mentor. But if he’d known the whole story, wouldn’t he have acted on it after Kelly disappeared? Instead, I think she may have only asked his opinion on the files, without naming the culprit, but promising to take care of the problem before her departure. When no headlines to that effect appeared, I think Cam Roper tried to check it out himself, following the same paper trail I did and going after the original charts. Except he never got a chance to finish…”