by Larry Karp
I nodded. “Another little quid.”
“You could put it that way. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m already five minutes late for my first afternoon. I hate to keep patients waiting.”
I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket pad. “If you want to get hold of me for any reason, here’s my beeper number.”
Amusement crept across his face. “I didn’t know police detectives use beepers.”
“This one does,” I said. “It rings right through to me, and it’s always on. Round the clock, seven days a week.”
He smirked. “Just like me. Maybe we’re not as different as I’ve been thinking.”
I pushed the paper into his hand, then walked out without saying another word. Sooner or later, he’d say something that would sink his ship like the Titanic. We were maneuvering through my waters, but he didn’t know that. Guys like him never see the iceberg till they hit it.
***
I browsed magazines in the waiting room outside Puget Community Hospital’s Operating Suite. After three issues of Time, two of Sports Illustrated, and half a copy of Sunset, a slim, middle-aged woman in green scrubs walked in. Roots of gray hair showed toward the front of her O.R. cap; her eyelids drooped. She looked past the two couples and one elderly woman in the room, then approached me. “Mr. Baumgartner?”
I nodded.
“I’m Judith Mortensen. I hear you want to talk to me.”
“If you don’t mind.” I looked around. “Is there somewhere more private?”
“Of course. We can use Dr. Aronoff’s office. He’s on vacation this week.”
***
Ms. Mortensen closed the door behind us, then pulled off her scrub cap and shook her hair free. She smiled, but it took effort.
“Hard case?” I asked.
She nodded. “Cabbage. Seven hours.”
“Cabbage?”
Mortensen laughed. “Sorry. Medical jargon. C-A-B-G, coronary artery bypass graft. A five-vessel special.”
I almost asked if the operation came out all right, but decided to leave well enough alone. “Thanks for letting me take your break time.”
“No trouble. I’m off duty now.”
“I’ll try not to make you stay too late. I’m interested in a particular case of Dr. Colin Sanford…” I paused as the nurse’s face brightened. “I see you know Dr. Sanford.”
She laughed. “Dr. Sanford makes certain everyone knows him, and knows how good he is. He’d be insufferable if he weren’t so darned charming. He’s kind of like a little boy. I once tried telling him he’d do better if he didn’t brag so much, and he told me, ‘If you can do it, it’s not bragging.’ Then he gave me that smile.”
I knew the smile she meant. “The case I’m interested in was a laparoscopy last August on a woman named Joyce Kennett. The Operating Suite record has you listed as the nurse for the procedure. Do you remember it?”
Mortensen looked like she was dredging up material from a deep well. “Kennett…” She tapped a fingernail against her front teeth. “Kennett, Kennett…oh. Isn’t that the woman whose husband just killed one of the lab workers at the U?”
“Yes. She was one of Dr. Sanford’s infertility patients. He did a laparoscopy on her last August, lysis of adhesions between the fallopian tubes and the ovaries. Does that help?”
She went back to the dredge. Lines formed between her nose and mouth. Her lips twisted with effort. Then, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumgartner, but no, I really can’t. Dr. Sanford does so many laparoscopies. And it was almost a year ago.”
“Nine months, to be exact.”
She didn’t make the connection. “That’s still a while to remember a routine case. Was there something special you wanted to know? Maybe that would ring a bell.”
“Try this. Do you remember whether Dr. Sanford took some eggs from Ms. Kennett at that procedure for a research project he was involved in?”
Mortensen frowned. One more time to the dredge. “No, I’m really sorry. I’ve got a faint memory of being there, but I can’t recall any specifics. And Dr. Sanford was doing so many ovum retrievals. For a while there, it seemed as if he was running his patients through a production line. Every week, two or three more.”
I perked up. “You say he was doing a lot of them?”
“Yes. But then he slowed down, a lot, and I’m pretty sure that happened in August…yes, I remember thinking, people must be going on vacation this time of year.”
Wasn’t that interesting. I thanked Ms. Mortensen, and went on to my next stop.
***
The desk clerk in Medical Records motioned me up to her cubicle. “I’ve got the charts you want, sir, all of Dr. Sanford’s surgeries for the past two years. I’m sorry it took so long.”
I stared at the four piles on the table opposite her desk. “Looks like you had a lot of digging to do.”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Sanford probably does twice as many operations as any other doctor on the staff. Everyone says he’s a whiz, and he’s always so nice. If I ever need GYN surgery, I’ll have him do it for sure.”
I nodded. “Okay if I sit here and go through them?”
“Sure. If you need any help, just holler.”
***
An hour and a half later, I said thank you to the clerk, tucked the notes I’d written into my pocket, along with the copy she’d made of one particular page, and walked out of Medical Records. Sanford had been busy, all right. Between January 21, 1976 and August 6, 1976, he’d tried to retrieve eggs from fifty-five patients. Forty-one attempts had been successful, including that August 6 patient, whose name happened to be Joyce Kennett. After that, there’d been only eighteen more retrievals, the last one during the week before Ms. Kennett had her baby, and the name of the patient, Sandra Wellington, fit the initials on the petri dish label in Dr. Hearn’s locked incubator. Ms. Wellington’s indication for laparoscopy was “grand multiparity,” which the helpful clerk told me meant she’d had a lot of kids. Made sense, since her procedure was a tubal ligation. No infertility treatment to look for there.
I’d have loved to go right back to Sanford’s office, lay Joyce Kennett’s op report on his desk, and ask him to explain it. But I felt sure he’d tell me it must be a mistake, the transcriber got a couple of records confused, and I should go chase my wild geese someplace else. Better to lay back for now, give him enough rope that he’d work himself into a tangle that even he couldn’t talk his way out of. Sanford needed his patients, his colleagues, his office staff, surgical nurses, department clerks, everybody, to think he was a genius-doctor who could do what no other doctor could. I’d have bet my last nickel he’d been going hellbent for election to be the first doc to make a baby by in vitro fertilization. But something went wrong.
***
Three-thirty, plenty of time left in the day to try to connect some dots. I went across the skybridge, past the Office Tower, to the University Med complex, and followed signs to the Administration Office. The secretary reeked of that musky-smelling stuff women started dousing themselves in during the hippie years. When I asked where I’d find Personnel, she pointed toward the door. “Catch the elevator right outside here to B-floor, then turn left, take the first left after that, and you’ll be right in front of Personnel.” I thanked her, walked out, and took the elevator down into the bowels of the building.
Interesting how eager most people are to help a detective dig up dirt. Something a little different to break up those eight big ones every day at a desk, and it makes for great cocktail party chatter. Before I was done talking, the poker-faced Assistant Director of Personnel had snatched up a pencil and a pad. “Just give me a list of the names you need, sir. I’ll get you the folders right away.”
I thought she might fall on her face, trying to navigate off to the storage area on those five-inch heel
s. But she was back in record time, charmingly flushed, and holding out a pile of manila folders. She pointed to a table next to the door. “You can sit there if you’d like, sir. And if you need anything else, just let me know.”
I said a polite thank-you, walked to the table, sat, and fanned the folders out in front of me. Okay, I thought. Who wants to go first?
No one answered, so I decided to start with Dr. Colin Sanford, MD. His folder had a red tab, which meant he was medical staff, not an employee. Dr. Sanford was forty-two, divorced, no kids. His father, Arthur Sanford, was a doctor too, retired, living up north, in Shorebeach. Nothing in Sanford the Younger’s file jumped out at me. He was a clinical associate professor of OBGYN on the university teaching faculty, with full admitting and surgical privileges at both University Hospital and Puget Community. He went to med school in New York, interned and did his residency at Bellevue, finished in 1964, then came back out to Emerald and opened his office. I figured he must have gotten done with his training just in time to beat the ‘Nam draft. Guys like him always seem to dodge past stumbling blocks that trip up everybody else.
Next was another red tag, Louis Gerald Camnitz, MD, MPH, Professor and Chairman, Department of OBGYN. Camnitz was forty-eight, married to Susanna Bancroft Camnitz, two grown kids. He’d spent his whole professional life at Washington Public University, undergrad work, med school, internship, residency, faculty member, and had been named Chairman two years ago. His specialty area was gynecologic cancer.
I opened the third red-tagged folder. Giselle Davida Hearn, PhD, born January 8, 1933. Divorced. Father was dead, mother had a rural mailing address out in Holcomb County, as well I knew. Remembering how the poor old woman had looked when I gave her the news about her daughter, I started to tear up. Crappy way to wind up your tour of duty on the planet. I swallowed hard, then went back to the folder. Dr. Hearn had a BS in Biological Sciences, University of Oregon, 1955, and an MS, 1957, and a PhD, 1961, both from the University of Chicago. She stayed on the faculty at Chicago till 1968, then came to Washington Public University as an associate professor. Her string of publications was a mile long, all about chromosomes and what made them do what they shouldn’t at fertilization. High-level medical science, and clear she was a star in her field. I did pause for a bit to think about the divorce, but it had been seventeen years earlier, 1960, while she was still in Chicago. Not likely to be a factor in this case.
Now, I came to the blue tags, the employees. Loretta Jill Mansell. Age thirty-three, married, two kids, nine and seven. BS in Biology from Washington Public University, taught high school for a couple of years, then had the kids, and after that, got a job in the Reproductive Genetics Lab. By all accounts, she was an excellent worker, and was promoted to supervisor the past September. Again, nothing out of line, off the charts, or off a wall. This was looking like the most boring assortment of normal people I could find anywhere.
I picked up the last folder, another blue tag. Alma Elizabeth Wanego. Ms. Wanego had turned thirty-six a week before she disappeared. She had a certificate in laboratory procedures from South Puget Community College, and had started working at the Reproductive Genetics Lab two and a half years before, but in the eight years prior to that, she’d gone through four different jobs. Laid off at one of them, and quit the other three, one because of “irreconcilable differences” with her supervisor, the other two for “dissatisfaction with the work.” The last of those jobs was in a Urology lab at the University of Oregon Med School. Less than a month after she was canned there, she was on board at Washington Public University, where, in her first four months, her supervisor brought her up twice for insubordination. Both times, though, she got off with a warning. But then the supervisor left, and her job went to Wanego.
It got even more interesting. After Wanego’s promotion, there were three complaints from other techs that they’d been on the wrong end of “inappropriate and unwarranted chastisement.” She also tried to get a housekeeper, Charles Rapp, fired for not carrying out an assignment to fix a plugged-up drain, but in the end, he was transferred to the Anatomy Department. That complaint against Rapp had been filed in early August, 1976. And then came the punch line. Wanego had been hired in the first place on the recommendation of one Loretta Mansell.
I pushed back from the table, scraping the chair on the floor, and jumped to my feet. The Personnel AD looked up from her desk. “Sir?”
“Sorry,” I said. “But how fast can you get me copies of these records?”
She was at her Xerox machine practically before I was done talking, and had copies in my hand in less than ten minutes. I thanked her again, then took off, out the door. After five now, but maybe I could catch Mansell before she left work for the day. I also wouldn’t have minded having a chat with Mr. Rapp, the transferred housekeeper, but he worked a seven-thirty to four shift. Tomorrow.
The Reproductive Genetics Lab was dark, all doors locked. I put Mansell on the next day’s list, along with Rapp, then took a few steps toward going home. But with what I’d found out since Friday, I thought it might be interesting to talk to Joyce Kennett again.
Chapter Eleven
Sanford
I had a late-afternoon delivery, so it was close to seven by the time I pulled into a parking space in front of Joyce Kennett’s house. The four concrete steps up to the front door were crumbling; for that matter, the place could’ve used a couple coats of paint. James hadn’t been much of a DIY guy. But with the payday Joyce was looking at, she’d have no trouble getting her house spiffed to the nines. Or she could up and move to any neighborhood she might fancy.
I took the steps carefully, then rang the bell. A woman’s face appeared through the small window in the door, then the door opened, and a short, round gray-haired woman in a white pants suit that made her look like the Michelin Lady greeted me. “Why, Dr. Sanford, hello.” Her smile faded into uncertainty. “There’s not any…problem, I hope.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Enright. Just checking up, making sure Joyce is doing all right.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re making a house call?”
Of course. “When it’s not possible or reasonable for my patients to come to me, I go to them.” I lowered my voice. “Especially considering the circumstances. And I’m glad you could come out. Having you here will make all the difference for Joyce.”
Mrs. Enright made a go-away motion with her hand. “What else is a mother going to do? My husband can look after himself for a little while. Please, come in. Joyce is resting, but I think she’s awake. That policeman really wore her out.”
“Policeman?” Now I was doubly glad I’d come by. “I thought the police were finished with Joyce.”
We walked through the living room and down a short hallway. “I don’t know why he was here, Doctor. Joyce was so tired afterward, she didn’t want to talk. She just said he asked her some of the same questions as he did Friday, but pushed her harder on the answers. He was in with her for almost an hour, then said he’d be back if anything else came up. He only left about fifteen minutes ago.”
At the doorway to the bedroom, Mrs. Enright threw an arm across my chest. “Joyce, dear,” she called. “Dr. Sanford’s here to see you. Are you decent?”
“Yes, Ma. I’m beyond reproach.”
Mrs. Enright rolled her eyes. “That girl. She’s always been so sarcastic, even when she was little.”
I laughed, then walked in, and up to the bedside. “How’d it go today, Joyce?”
Big sigh. “Okay, I guess.” She glanced at her mother. “Having Ma here is huge. She says she’s going to give Robbie all his night feedings.”
I bent over the baby, sleeping in the bassinet next to the bed. “Beautiful baby, look at that head of hair. But then, I only deliver beautiful babies.”
Joyce smiled politely; her mother gushed, “Oh, Dr. Sanford.”
“
And that little bit of jaundice he had looks much better now. All the tests for blood-group incompatibilities that the pediatricians did were negative.”
Joyce smiled. Mrs. Enright turned her eyes upward. “Thank God.”
“It was pretty much a formality,” I said. “Especially since it was a first baby, the odds of a problem were very low. But it’s nice to be sure.”
Mrs. Enright shook her head. “When it’s your only grandchild, anything less than sure isn’t good enough.”
“No argument. Joyce, are you doing all right with pain? Any problems with your breasts?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got them bound, and I’m putting ice on them. I haven’t needed any pain pills at all. I think things are…as good as they can be.”
Mrs. Enright tried unsuccessfully to keep back tears.
“Stop that, Ma,” Joyce said. “You’re going to start up my waterworks. That police detective really wore me down.” Her voice quavered. “He wanted to know all about James and me, whether we were having any problems, how James felt about the pregnancy and the baby, whether James had any hangups about the sperm separation process, whether I’d met Dr. Hearn…I thought he was never going to stop.”
“Hmmm. He was in my office the whole lunch hour, asking questions.”
Joyce turned to her mother. “Ma, I’d love a cup of tea. Would you mind?”
“Why should I mind? What do you think I’m here for? Dr. Sanford?”
“I’m not much of a tea drinker, thanks. In any case, I’ll need to get along soon.”
Mrs. Enright waddled out of the room and around the corner into the corridor. When her footsteps died away, I whispered, “Does she know? About the procedure?”
Joyce shook her head. “I’ve never mentioned a word about it to her or anyone else.”
