Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense

by Lee Goldberg

  So I arrived at his secretary's desk without the slightest idea what I was going to say. As it turned out, it didn't matter.

  "If you're looking for Dr. Whittington, you can forget it," Imelda said, her face overwhelmed and literally overshadowed by her immense beehive hairdo. "He hasn't showed up or called in since yesterday."

  "I know, that's why I'm here. He's sick at home," I said, surprisingly myself with my fluid improvisation. "He asked me to bring him the nursing school applications for"—I made a show of fishing around in my pockets for the list, which I then made an even bigger show of reading from—"Tess Vigland, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen."

  Imelda adjusted her batwing glasses, which were secured with an elaborate chain around her neck, as if she was afraid someone might try to snatch them from her beaklike nose.

  "He could have called me," she said. "I am his personal executive secretary."

  "I wish he had," I said. "He treats us residents like we're his servants."

  She looked at me down her long, pointed hose. "You are, young man."

  Imelda went to her file cabinet and thumbed through it for a moment, her back to me. My heart was pounding. I could feel trickles of sweat rolling down my back. I wasn't sure if I was nervous about my deception or about what I might find out.

  She pulled several files from the drawer and handed them to me.

  There was one for each of the three women.

  I tried to thank her for the files, but I couldn't seem to speak. My throat was too constricted. All I managed to do was nod a few times and back away from the desk.

  One nursing student. Four nursing school applicants. All from Community General. All dead.

  Someone had murdered them all.

  I told Nurse Blevins that Dr. Whittington had asked me to deliver some files to his house, and I drove out to Brentwood, leaving Chet Arnold and Bart Spicer to cover for me in the ER.

  I knew I was going to get in deep trouble, but I didn't care. There was a killer stalking nursing students and applicants at our hospital. Dr. Whittington was the one man who knew all the victims. He could tell me who else had access to the enrollment and applications lists and what else, if anything, the victims might have had in common.

  Of course, Dr. Whittington had no reason to answer my questions and wouldn't take kindly to an underling like me demanding answers.

  I didn't care anymore. What was important now was finding and stopping the murderer before anyone else was killed.

  The sky thundered and crackled with an anger that matched my own, reminding me of the storm's complicity in the deaths. Would the killings end when the storm left? Or would the murderer simply find a new cover for his crimes?

  Then again, I wasn't certain there weren't more killings yet to be discovered that had occurred before the storm.

  I also couldn't figure out why the killer had been so careful to disguise the murders of Sally Pruitt, Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen, and yet did nothing to hide what he'd done to Tess Vigland.

  It didn't make sense, unless...

  He'd stopped trying to use the storm to make the killings look like accidents because there was no longer any reason to. Because he knew his crimes had already been discovered.

  Because he knew about me.

  And there was only one way he'd know about me.

  If I already knew the killer.

  Before I could scare myself too much with that thought, I arrived at Dr. Whittington's house—and had new things to worry about.

  It was drizzling, the sky dark with roiling clouds. Water dripped off the eaves of the house. The drapes on the large front windows were closed. I parked behind the big, black Imperial and got out with the files in my hand.

  I decided I wasn't going to play any games. I'd come straight out and tell him why I was here. Five women were dead, maybe more.

  I walked past the car towards the door when something made me stop. It was that tingle again. I turned back and crouched beside the Imperial, examining the tires. They were new, with no noticeable wear at all. And although I wasn't a tire expert, I was certain of one thing.

  The tread pattern was the same as the one left in the mud beside Tess Vigland's corpse. Was Dr Whittington the killer?

  I thought about turning back, about finding the nearest pay phone and calling Harry Trumble.

  But I didn't.

  I couldn't assume that Dr. Whittington was the murderer simply because he knew all the victims and had the same tires as the killer. There were thousands of cars with the same tires.

  As I got closer to his door, that little voice in my head wouldn't shut up.

  But what if it was his car?

  But what if he was the killer?

  It would explain how the killer had managed to make the other deaths, particularly Muriel Thayer's, look like an accident. Dr. Whittington had the medical knowledge to concoct something that would fool even the best medical examiner.

  Did he? And what would he do when he saw me at his door, holding the evidence that linked him to the victims?

  By the time I asked myself that question, I was already at his door and the point was moot. Because there was a note thumbtacked to the door.

  It was typewritten and wet. Some of the ink had run in the rain. But it was legible.

  Do not enter This is a crime scene. Call the police immediately.

  And it was signed,

  Alistair Whittington.

  Of course I didn't do what the note instructed. I took a handkerchief from my pocket, reached out, and tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. I eased it open slowly and peered inside.

  "Dr. Whittington?" I called loudly. "It's Dr. Mark Sloan."

  I didn't really expect a reply, given the note. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The unmistakable odor of decay and death. I'd never smelled it before, but the recognition comes hardwired in all of us. I covered my nose and mouth with the handkerchief and ventured inside the house. I was scared, but my curiosity was stronger than my fear.

  The blinds were open to the backyard, filling the house with dim gray light. Everything in the room was neat and orderly. There were no signs of a break-in or violence. I moved slowly to the kitchen.

  There was a coffee mug on the kitchen table and a tiny plate with leftover crumbs from a pastry. Yesterday's newspaper was neatly folded in the center of the table.

  I turned back towards the living room and noticed that the double doors to the study were ajar. Flies buzzed in and out of the narrow opening and crawled on the doors. I knew what that meant and it made my stomach churn. My whole body was damp with sweat and I was filled with dread as I cautiously approached the study.

  "Hello?" I said. "Dr. Whittington?"

  I called out more for the comfort of hearing my own voice than to alert anyone to my presence. If there was anyone in the house, they already knew I was there.

  I eased the door open. The stench hit me with almost physical force and I could hear the incessant, furious buzzing of flies.

  The study was a stark contrast to the contemporary styling of the rest of the house. The room was decorated in dark leather furniture and rich wood, the walls hung with landscape paintings and lined with bookcases containing leather-bound volumes. One of the paintings was on the floor underneath the wall safe it had once covered. The safe was open and empty, all of its contents apparently stacked neatly on the coffee table. The papers included the deeds to two homes, the doctor's life insurance policy, his will, his passport, and a stack of Blue Chip stamp books tied with a ribbon and set atop the most recent catalog. There was also some women's jewelry and some cash in U.S. and British currency.

  Dr. Whittington was sitting in his big red leather desk chair, facing the door. He was sprawled facedown on his desk, a gun in his hand, blood and brain matter splattered on the curtains, the chair, and the typewriter behind him.

  I turned away, gagging. The sight and the smell and the flies were too much. My whole body rebelled. I
wanted to run outside. I wanted to vomit. But I wouldn't allow myself to do it. I fought against it with all my willpower. And once again, my curiosity overwhelmed my natural revulsion.

  I had seen death before, many times, but nothing like this.

  When I was sure I had myself under control, I made myself look back at him, to stare at Dr. Whittington until I could see him dispassionately, until I could forget that this was someone I knew and had worked with. Until he wasn't Dr. Whittington anymore.

  He was a corpse. A cadaver. Just like the ones we worked on in med school.

  He was wearing a white dress shirt and a cravat. I couldn't imagine what other man, besides Dr. Whittington, would wear a cravat even when relaxing alone at home.

  I examined his head wound and took note of his degree of decomposition. From what I could tell, he'd been dead at least a day, perhaps longer. I didn't have any actual experience to draw on. I was basing my judgment entirely on my medical school training and what I'd learned growing up around cops.

  I also determined that he'd killed himself. I was basing my judgment on the gun in his hand, the point-blank bullet wound to the head, and, most important, the suicide note under the paperweight at the edge of his desk.

  The note was typewritten, with his signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Yesterday's date was in the upper right-hand corner. February 12, 1962.

  I read the note.

  Dear Sirs,

  As you will have no doubt noticed by now, I am quite dead, my life taken by my own hand. But I'm saddened to say that my life was over long before I chose to put a gun to my temple and pull the trigger My undoing has been slow and very painful.

  I've made several large investments over the years, particularly in the bomb shelter development business, which haven't lived up to my expectations. In the last few months, I found myself facing the frightening prospect of complete financial ruin. In desperation, I turned to less honorable methods of acquiring funds.

  I used my position at the nursing school to coerce the young applicants into trading sexual favors in exchange for admission to our prestigious program. I also intimidated them into selling their favors to others and paying me a percentage of the income from those endeavors.

  But I underestimated their guile. They attempted to blackmail me, threatening to expose my infidelity and my criminality. Not only was facing the loss of my possessions, but my family and career as well. This could not be tolerated. So I removed the threat. It was an act of self-defense.

  Ultimately, however, it was futile. The bank will soon be coming to take the house, the car and the appliances. The telephone and other utilities are about to be disconnected. My crimes will also soon be revealed.

  So this, my final act, is a courtesy to myself and to my family, sparing them the pain and embarrassment of my inevitable ruination.

  My dear wife has left me, returning to our home in London with our son. They can now make a new start, freed from the burden of my failures.

  I've opened my safe and left all my pertinent papers on the coffee table for you. I've also left some library books for you to return. They are due Thursday.

  Sincerely yours,

  Dr Alistair Whittington

  I glanced back at Dr. Whittington. Everything in his life was going wrong, yet even in his last few moments, he was still trying to exercise some measure of control over it anyway. The stuffy, intimidating, very British doctor was true to his character to the very end.

  Using the handkerchief, I picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the police.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The first thing Harry Trumble did upon arriving at Dr. Whittington's house was have me arrested. I was handcuffed by a police officer and driven downtown, where I was placed in a jail cell. I wasn't given the opportunity to make any phone calls—not that I would have anyway.

  The confinement wasn't so bad, if you don't consider the stench of urine and sweat that permeated the walls. I'd smelled a lot worse that same morning. I was able to block it out of my mind. I spent the first two hours in custody going over all the details of the case again, this time fitting Dr. Whittington into the blanks.

  Although Dr. Whittington had confessed to just about everything in his suicide note, he did it in rather broad, vague way. I wished he'd taken the time to go into a bit more detail before shooting himself. I would have liked to know exactly how he staged the murders of Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen without leaving any trace. I'm sure Dr. Barbette would also have liked an answer, especially since he would soon be facing the tiresome prospect of exhuming the corpses and conducting new autopsies.

  At least there was no mystery about the mistakes Dr. Whittington made trying to disguise the murder of Sally Pruitt. The only reason I discovered that her death wasn't an accident was because of the sloppy way he dressed his victim after he drowned her. It was as if he'd been in a hurry, not paying attention to the crucial details.

  With the other killings, however, he was careful and meticulous, leaving no sign at all that the deaths were anything but tragic accidents.

  What had happened with Sally Pruitt that caused him to be so sloppy?

  Tess Vigland's murder was even more puzzling to me. It was a vicious killing, his fury over his victim undisguised. Did he do it because he knew there was no point in going to such elaborate lengths to disguise his crimes anymore?

  That didn't make a lot of sense to me. There was no downside to covering up a murder, unless he wanted people to know she'd been killed, perhaps so her gruesome demise could serve as a warning to others.

  Who would those others be? Other nursing students involved in the blackmail scheme?

  I thought of Joanna Pate and the kiss she gave me. Was she one of Dr. Whittington's call girls? Was she trying to seduce me that night into becoming one of her clients?

  And if they were blackmailing Dr. Whittington, what was stopping them from extorting money from their other clients as well?

  Despite Dr. Whittington's suicide and all that it explained, too much of what had happened was still a mystery to me for me to feel satisfied.

  Perhaps I never would be.

  As I pondered all the unanswered questions, I got sleepy, and so I spent the remainder of my four hours in au enjoying a nice, restful nap on the hard, flat cot.

  It was late afternoon when Harry Trumble finally came down to get me, kicking the cot to wake me up. Without saying a word, he led me into an interrogation room and slammed the door. I was thankful that at least he hadn't put me in handcuffs again. I would have liked a hot cup of coffee, but I wasn't about to ask for one. He was getting far too much pleasure already out of my discomfort. The less upset I appeared, the more it would irritate him.

  I sat down at the table and watched him pace for a moment. He looked tired and angry. There was also a certain resignation in his posture, a palpable sense of defeat. I tried to appear unhurried, unperturbed, and uninterested.

  "Did Dr. Whittington call you and ask you to pick up those files?" Harry asked finally.

  "No," I said.

  "So you lied to his secretary," he said.

  "Yes," I said. "I did."

  "How long have you known that Dr. Whittington killed these women?"

  "I didn't know," I said. "I still don't."

  Harry glared at me. "He confessed in his suicide note."

  "He said he removed the threat," I said. "It's not quite the same as saying 'I killed four women, maybe more.'"

  "More?" Harry said.

  I shrugged. "We won't know until we check out the list of nursing school applicants."

  "We?" Harry roared, slamming his fist on the table, startling me.

  "It's just a figure of speech," I said.

  "The hell it is," Harry said. "You've been running your own rogue investigation from the start."

  "So what if I have?" I said. "If I hadn't, you'd still be stomping around in the mud looking for two killers instead of one. And nobody would ever have
known that Muriel Thayer, Ingrid Willis, and Clara Cohen were murdered."

  "We still don't know that," Harry said.

  "They were all nursing applicants," I said. "They all knew Dr. Whittington, and they're all dead, just like Sally Pruitt and Tess Vigland."

  "We can prove those two were murdered," he said. "We've got no evidence whatsoever on the others."

  'Then find it," I said, my irritation coming through despite my best efforts. "I can't do everything for you."

  Harry came around the table, grabbed me by the collar, and lifted me out of my seat. He looked as if he might strike me. I met his gaze, silently daring him to.

  After a long moment, he released me, and I sat down again, straightening my shirt.

  "I need you to make a statement," he said, standing over me, glowering. "Everything you know, and when you knew it, starting from the beginning."

  "Not until you tell me a few things," I said.

  "You want to go back to that cell?" Harry said, jabbing his finger in my face. "I can keep you in there as long as I want."

  "And I can tell the officer who takes my statement just how little you had to do with the investigation of your first homicide," Mark said. "How's that going to look to your superiors?"

  Harry's face reddened. I wondered how much was anger and how much was embarrassment.

  "What do you want to know?" Harry asked.

  "Have you found any keys belonging to Dr. Whittington that match the ones Sally Pruitt and Muriel Thayer had?"

  "Not yet," Harry said.

  "You should see if Tess Vigland, Ingrid Willis, or Clara Cohen had the same key."