Diagnosis Murder 5 - The Past Tense

by Lee Goldberg

  Steve found Harry Trumble's typed reports, pecked out on a manual typewriter with a crooked "T," and his personal notebooks, filled with his almost illegible handwritten scrawl. From what Steve could tell, Trumble's investigation concentrated on the family members and boyfriends of the two known victims, Sally Pruitt and Tess Vigland. Harry also interviewed known sex offenders in the area, all to no avail.

  He read the statement his father had given to the police after his arrest at Whittington's house. Harry's own report did nothing to contradict Mark's version of events, which made it seem as if he'd been working hand in hand with the police from the outset.

  There was a detailed background file on Mark Sloan, calling him a "member of the police family" by virtue of his father, Detective James Sloan, and suggesting that LAPD should consider using the doctor as a consultant in the future.

  They had come to regret that, Steve thought wryly.

  There was no mention in any report of Dr. Chet Arnold, or Harry Trumble's gunshot wounds, or the house in Northridge, or anything that exonerated Alistair Whittington of the murders.

  Enough of the past, he decided. There was a killer on the loose today and he wouldn't be found in a musty file. Steve made a list of all the players from the 1962 drama and began working the phones, and his computer, to track them down. He'd nearly completed his task when, as if on cue, an officer showed up at his desk with a Northgate High School yearbook.

  Steve started with the senior class, scrutinizing each page, until he found the photo he was looking for. Brooke Haslett was smiling brightly, full of hope and eagerness, ready to fulfill her destiny, never imagining that it was a knife's edge across her throat and the eternal embrace of a cold emerald sea.

  Mark was shocked to find Dr. Dan Marlowe emerging from the operating room in sweat-soaked scrubs, a smile of satisfaction on his face. The big man went to the waiting room, where a frail woman in her fifties, flanked by her two adult sons, rose from their hard plastic seats to hear his news. Her sons steadied their mother on her feet. Judging by her wan appearance and loose skin, and the telltale impression under her shirt of an IV port on her chest, Mark guessed that the woman was chronically ill and undergoing chemotherapy treatment.

  Whatever news Dan told the family must have been good, because the woman practically flew into his arms, giving him a strong, grateful hug that nearly knocked the brown wig from her head. When they parted, she was crying tears of relief and joy. Her sons each shook Dan's hand in turn, and then the doctor made his way to Mark, who stood at a respectful distance from the family.

  "What are you doing, Dan?" Mark asked angrily.

  "What I was born to do," Dan said. "And it feels damn good."

  "What were you thinking? How could you possibly have operated on someone?"

  "Because he was in desperate need of angioplasty," Dan said.

  "Surely you could have referred him to another cardiologist," Mark said.

  "Rufus King has been my patient for thirty years," Dan said. "He trusts me, his family trusts me. And they've endured so much tragedy lately, I had to do this. I couldn't let those boys face losing both their parents."

  "You could just as easily have killed him," Mark said. "You're in no condition to be performing surgery."

  "I told you I intend to keep practicing as long as I can."

  "I thought you'd use your good sense and stay out of the OR. You've got cancer, Dan. You're heavily medicated on painkillers. If your patient knew that, do you think he'd really want you passing a catheter into his heart? One slip—"

  "Damn it, Mark. I feel fine," Dan interrupted. "The minute I think I'm a danger to my patients, I'll stop."

  "Really? Based on what you've done, I don't think you're capable of making that judgment." Mark yanked up Dan's left sleeve, revealing a Fentanyl patch on his inner arm. The patch released a powerful pain medication that was absorbed into the skin and could cause dizziness, slurred speech, and slowed reflexes. "You got someone else to write you a prescription for this patch, because you knew if I discovered you were in that much pain, I would never have let you into the operating room. If someone dies under your scalpel, I'll be equally responsible because I helped you hide your condition."

  Dan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry, Mark. The last thing I want to do is put your career at risk."

  "It's not my career I'm worried about," Mark said.

  Dan studied his friend's face. "But you're definitely very worried about something, and it wasn't this. You didn't come down here to talk to me about performing an angioplasty. You didn't know about that until you saw me."

  Mark nodded solemnly. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I need to tell you a story."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It would have taken most of the day for Mark to tell Dan Marlowe everything, so he gave him only the key points. He revealed that Dr. Whittington didn't commit suicide, he was murdered by their friend Chet Arnold, who also killed five women. Now someone had murdered another woman in a manner that mimicked those earlier killings. To solve the crime, Mark was revisiting the past for clues and needed Dan's help.

  They sat in the same booth where, only a few days ago, Mark had told Dan Marlowe he was going to die.

  "How could you have kept the truth about what happened secret all these years?" Dan asked.

  "I did it for the good of the families involved," Mark said.

  "I don't know if Constance Whittington would agree with you."

  "She knew the truth, but I didn't see how it would help Gladys Arnold and her kids to know Chet was a serial killer."

  "But they're going to know now, aren't they?" Dan said. "Do you think it's going to feel any better forty years later than it would have then?"

  "No, of course not," Mark said. "They will feel betrayed not only by Chet but by me and the entire police department. I was hoping they'd never have to know. But the killer has made that impossible. Maybe that was the point."

  "I don't see what I can do for you," Dan said.

  Mark wasn't sure either. His entire investigation, at least as far as the past was concerned, was a matter of stumbling around in the dark, hoping to trip over some thing significant.

  "Did Chet ever confide in you?" Mark asked.

  "He never told me he was a murderer, if that's what you're getting at," Dan said. "I know he wasn't happy in his marriage."

  "What was his problem?"

  "Being married," Dan said. "He talked more to Alice than he did to me."

  "I didn't know they were close," Mark said.

  "They weren't," Dan said. "He just enjoyed listening to her war stories and had to contribute something personal to the conversation to get her to talk."

  "I lost track of Alice. She left Community General not long after Dr. Whittington's death," Mark said. "Do you have any idea where she might have ended up?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact I do," Dan said. "She gave up nursing. She's a veterinarian out in Agoura now."

  Mark looked surprised. "You two have kept in touch?"

  "Not at all. I lost track of her the same time you did. My daughter, Emily, and her family live out there. Their dog got a burr in his paw, so she took him to the vet, who turned out to be Alice. That was three, maybe four months ago."

  Mark looked past Dan to see Steve entering the cafeteria and heading their way. Dan twisted around in his seat to follow Mark's gaze.

  "Hey, Steve," Dan said, shaking the detective's hand. "You look pretty grim."

  "Murder is grim business," Steve said with a shrug.

  "On that happy note, I better go clean up," Dan said. "Thanks for the coffee, Mark. I'll keep our discussion to myself."

  "I appreciate it," Mark said.

  "Just returning the favor," Dan said, walking away. Steve looked after him, then turned to his dad, speaking up once the cardiologist was out of earshot.

  "What favor?" Steve asked.

  "One I can't do for him any longer," Mark said with a sigh. He knew
he couldn't keep Dan's condition a secret from the hospital administration, not after this. Dan's privileges would surely be suspended immediately.

  "But that's nothing for you to worry about," Mark said. "What's up?"

  "A few things. I checked out Jesse's weather theory. Since 1962, there have been many rainstorms over these same days in February, though none quite as destructive as that one was."

  "So we're still left with no clue why the killer waited until now to resurrect the past."

  "I've also managed to track down everyone you worked with back then," Steve said. "I'd like you to be with me when I talk to them."

  "I wouldn't miss it," Mark said, "though it feels strange to actually be invited."

  "You're the key to this case," Steve said. "You're the only one who can break it. But there's one visit I have to make that you might want to sit out."

  "What's that?"

  "We've identified the murder victim," Steve said. "Now I have to tell Brooke Haslett's parents that their daughter is dead."

  Mark filed his report on Dan Marlowe with the hospital chief of staff, then accompanied Steve out to Valencia, where Brooke Haslett's parents lived. It was a thirty-minute drive they made in silence, both lost in their thoughts.

  Mark was thinking about what he'd just done to Dan and how his old friend would take the news, once it came down. There was no doubt in Mark's mind what the hospital would decide to do. Dan would be stripped of his hospital privileges immediately. And it would be entirely Mark's fault. First, he'd told Dan he was going to die. And tomorrow, he'd probably have to tell Dan he was taking away his right to practice medicine. Mark was going to prevent Dan from doing what he loved most, perhaps the one thing that gave him the strength to fight the cancer that was ravaging his body and would soon claim his life.

  Steve was thinking about what he was going to have to tell the Hasletts. He wasn't just telling them their daughter was dead. She was murdered. Without knowing a single detail, they would be tortured by that fact alone. They wouldn't be able to stop themselves from imagining the terror and pain their daughter must have experienced. But the real nightmare would come when they inevitably found out the atrocities that she had suffered.

  There was no soft or easy way for Steve to do this, and he'd yet to develop a thick enough skin not to be emotionally affected himself.

  Steve Sloan would never admit it, but he was grateful to have his father with him. Mark was experienced at delivering devastating news to family members on an almost daily basis. His bedside manner was impeccable. He was a natural, calming presence. Many families had found comfort and strength in his warmth, good humor, and integrity. Steve hoped his dad would apply those same skills in this unpleasant situation.

  The Hasletts lived in a sprawling, brand-new neighborhood of tract homes, duplexes, and condominiums crowded around a shallow man-made lake that was, essentially, a massive duck pond. The nicest homes were "lakefront" properties with tiny docks for their pedal boats, some of which were tricked out to look like aircraft carriers, ocean liners, Rolls-Royces, and even the Starship Enterprise.

  The sun had broken through the gray clouds for a moment, and people were out on the wet sidewalks and bike paths, taking full advantage of the intermission in the storm.

  Ginny Haslett was outside her colonial-style lakefront duplex, washing duck droppings off her unadorned pedal boat with her garden hose, when Mark and Steve approached her. She was tall and sun-bronzed, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, baggy shorts, and leather flip- flops in a show of bright optimism in the face of certain showers.

  "Excuse me," Steve said. "Mrs. Haslett?"

  She turned and, startled; nearly lost her balance. Mark rushed forward and took her by the arm to steady her from falling.

  "Are you all right?" Mark asked. "We didn't mean to frighten you."

  Mrs. Haslett laughed. "You didn't scare me, Doctor. I'm just surprised to see you again."

  Now it was Mark's turn to be startled. "You know me?"

  "I'll never forget you, but I certainly don't expect you to recognize me," she said. "I've changed a lot in forty years."

  Mark suddenly felt as off balance as Mrs. Haslett had only a moment ago. If he hadn't still been holding on to her arm, he might have tipped into the lake himself. He exchanged a look with Steve, whose blank expression revealed none of the anxiety his father knew he must be feeling.

  "Please forgive me, Doctor, but there is one thing I've forgotten," she said. "And that's your name."

  "Mark Sloan," he said. "And this is my son, Steve."

  "The last time you saw me, I was twelve years old and came close to drowning in the LA River," Mrs. Haslett said. "I had a dislocated shoulder. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as big an event in your life as it was in mine."

  Mark stared at her. It was during the rescue of her and her little brother that firefighters had found the corpse of Sally Pruitt.

  "I remember," Mark said, his voice, barely above a whisper, feeling the full impact of the killer's careful planning, the cruel significance of Brooke Haslett's murder, and the true scope of the evil that was unfolding.

  Whatever horror had started on that rainy February day in 1962 had come full circle. The killer was saying that there was no escaping the past. Not for Mark Sloan. Not for Ginny Haslett. And not for their children. The only way out was death.

  Mark knew now that Brooke's class ring was intentionally dropped on the beach. The killer wanted the police to discover who his victim was, but he also wanted them to have to work at it a bit first.

  More manipulation.

  More games.

  Ginny Haslett must have read something on Mark's face, or suddenly realized he was here for a reason and, judging by his expression, it wasn't a pleasant one. Her surprise quickly faded, uneasiness and dread washing over her.

  "Where's your husband, Mrs. Haslett?" Steve asked gently.

  "At the grocery store. He'll be right back." She turned to Mark, and when she spoke, her voice trembled. "Why are you here, Dr. Sloan?"

  There was so much Mark wanted to say, so many apologies he wanted to make, but he couldn't find the words or the voice to speak them.

  Steve pulled Out his badge and held it up for her to see. "I'm a homicide detective, Mrs. Haslett. Perhaps we should go inside and wait for your husband to get back."

  "Oh my God," she said, crumpling into Mark's arms and breaking into deep, guttural sobs.

  Mark held her tight and thought he felt some of her tears on his cheek before he realized they were his own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mark and Steve left the Hasletts' home and the grieving parents, who were sobbing quietly in each other's arms over the loss of their only child.

  Steve maintained his professionally stolid composure throughout the agonizing, and ultimately fruitless, interview, but he could feel the stomach cramps wrought by his suppressed emotions. As soon as he got home, he intended to jog the cramps and the pain away on the beach, no matter how hard it was pouring outside. In fact, the more soaked he got the better, to wash away the stink of his ugly job.

  Mark wasn't as successful at hiding his sorrow, his pain, or his fury. The emotions clashed within him, a battle visible on his face and in his eyes. He felt personally responsible for the horror and misery inflicted on the Hasletts. They were suffering so that he would, too. And this, of course, brought the anger. Whoever was doing this to Mark, and to the Hasletts, had to be stopped.

  No, it was more than that.

  Whoever was doing it had to be punished.

  As soon as Mark got into the car, Steve started the motor and glanced at his father.

  "I'm no doctor, but you don't look well to me," Steve said. "I can drop you off at home if you aren't up to this."

  "You said it yourself, Steve. I'm the key to this murder. I fit into the motive somehow. I need to be at these interviews," Mark said. "But you're right, I'm not well. I've never felt so emotionally sick or encountered such a cold, calcu
lating evil in my entire life."

  "You've seen worse," Steve said. "We both have. The difference this time is that it's personal. The killer is making this about you."

  "I wish I knew why," Mark said.

  "Let's try revenge for starters." Steve opened his note book. "Alistair Whittington was never publicly or officially cleared of the killings. And his son, Roland, just happens to be in Los Angeles for the first time in thirty years."

  "What's he doing here?" Mark asked.

  "He's an attorney for a British pharmaceutical company, working on a merger with an American competitor," Steve said. "And maybe he's also taking care of some unfinished family business."

  Roland Whittington's lavish suite at the Century Plaza Hotel had a breathtaking view of West Los Angeles, clear to Santa Monica Bay. From where he stood, his back to the Sloans, he could see Community General Hospital and the Brentwood neighborhood where he had once lived.

  The attorney bore an uncanny resemblance to his father in looks and bearing. He certainly had his father's taste in clothes, wearing an impeccably tailored four-button charcoal-gray, single-breasted Brioni suit, a Turnball and Asser shirt, and a crisply knotted Oxford tie.

  "I assure you, it's a coincidence," Roland said, turning to face the Sloans, who were sitting on the couch in the suite's small living room. "Though I will admit I had reservations about coming back to Los Angeles. But I felt it was time to confront the past."

  "It's how you've chosen to confront it that concerns me," Steve said.

  "Are you accusing me of murder, Lieutenant Sloan?" Roland asked.

  "No," Steve said. "I just have a hard time accepting coincidences."

  "The confrontation I speak of is being waged entirely within myself," Roland said. "I have no resentment towards anybody except my father, which is unfortunate, since he long ago escaped being held accountable to me for any of his myriad sins."

  "Then you won't mind if we look into your activities while you've been here," Steve said.

  "Not at all," Roland replied. "You should talk with my executive secretary, Miss Lawson. She controls my calendar and has kept a detailed record of all my billable hours."