by Lyle Howard
Gabe grabbed Nancy Hayashi by the shoulders and spun her to face him. “The treatment for Digitoxin poisoning … what’s the antidote?”
She looked over at Caputo. “Uh … that would be tannic acid, right?”
Caputo nodded. “That’s right. Flush the system with tannic acid.”
Gabe turned his head toward the chubby doctor. “Tannic acid?”
“Tea,” Caputo said, suspiciously.
“Tea?” Gabe asked, excitedly. “You mean like … regular tea … tea?”
“Yeah,” the overweight intern concurred as his eyes narrowed and his hands went to his hips. “Regular tea … tea.”
“So just drink lots and lots of it?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Caputo asked gruffly.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re no doctor. Who the hell are you?”
Gabe began to slowly back away from the group, trying to look and sound as unassuming as possible. “Well, you’ve been a very helpful group of young doctors. I wish you all the best in your medical careers.” Spinning around in his paper shoes, Gabe slipped and nearly collided with the wall. Enough was enough; clumsily, he tore the fabric off his sneakers and bolted for the exit just ahead of him.
Gabe exploded through the doors and ran into the bracing night air. The cold no longer chilled him to the marrow, though, as a new warmth pumped through every tissue in his body. It was amazing how a single hour could change a person’s life. Just knowing that his destiny was no longer predetermined put a spring in his step that had been missing for months.
As he raced across the catwalk that led to the parking structure, Gabe glanced over the railing at the squad of patrol cars that had already surrounded the main building. A battalion of officers were bathed in the red and blue flashing lights from the roofs of their vehicles. From his bird’s-eye perch, they looked so small and insignificant as they scrambled from place to place … but Gabe knew better. He wasn’t out of the woods quite yet.
There would be no taking the elevator this time; Gabe felt too spry. It was only one flight down, and he vaulted the stairs two at a time. When he reached Chase’s old Chrysler, he popped open the trunk and found a tool box. All he needed was a screwdriver, but he had to work quick. Less than a minute later, he had removed the license plate off the car in the next parking stall and affixed it to the rear bumper of the Chrysler. Then he tossed Chase’s original plate and his medical folders into the trunk and put the screwdriver back in the tool box. Now the car was untraceable.
Climbing behind the wheel, Gabe turned the key in the ignition and the Chrysler backfired twice before chugging to life. A plume of foul gray smoke blossomed from the tailpipe of the old car. If he needed to make a run for it, Gabe thought, this would be the shortest hot pursuit in the annals of law enforcement. Down and around in a never-ending spiral, Gabe drove cautiously until he reached the toll booth. He found the parking ticket above his visor and handed it to the attendant.
“Why didn’t you park in the employee lot?” the attendant asked, noticing Gabe’s hospital garb.
“My other car’s in the shop and it had my parking decal on it.”
“You could have gotten a temporary at the security office, you know.”
Gabe tried not to sound impatient. “It’s no big deal; I’ll have the other car back tomorrow.”
“Well, that repair’s gonna cost you an extra three dollars,” the attendant said, holding out his hand for the toll.
Gabe handed him a five. “Say, what’s all the excitement about?”
The words “Thank You” lit up on the side of the booth as the attendant put the money in his register. “I heard some doctor got murdered, but I don’t put any stock in rumors.”
Gabe drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for his change and for the wooden barricade to lift. “Well, something’s up.”
Gabe blew out a sigh of relief as the attendant waved him through. The jubilation was to be short-lived though. Right around the corner, a road block had been established. There were two cars in front of him, and now one pulled in behind him. He was stuck.
Gabe watched as the patrolman shined his flashlight inside the car ahead of him. This was all normal police procedure, and, if he maintained his composure, he might make it through.
The patrolman signaled Gabe to move up. “Good evening, doctor. Can I see some form of identification, please?”
Gabe rubbed his eyes and yawned as he read the patrolman’s name tag. “What’s this all about, Officer … Kelsey?”
“May I see your I.D. please,” the patrolman reiterated.
Gabe patted his pockets. “I know you may not believe this, officer, but I’ve just finished pulling a 48-hour rotation and I’ve left all my street clothes back in my locker. I’m promising you that if I don’t get home and get some shut-eye in the next 20 minutes, you may find this old battlewagon wrapped around a telephone pole somewhere.”
The patrolman glanced down the length of the old Chrysler. “This is a pretty nasty piece of transportation you’re driving here, doctor. Malpractice insurance been taking its toll?”
Let him make fun of the car, Gabe warned himself. Don’t say anything that will antagonize him. Just make your excuses and let the subject drop. “This car belongs to my neighbor, Mr. Bennett Chase. He was nice enough to lend it to me while my car’s in the shop. Do you want to see the registration?”
Kelsey shined his light in Gabe’s face and then pointed it toward the sidewalk. “That won’t be necessary, doctor, but I am going to ask you to pull your car over to that curb.”
Gabe feigned exasperation. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Can’t you see that I’m exhausted? What if I give you my name and you verify it with hospital security? Won’t that be good enough?”
The patrolman shook his head. “No sir. I can’t let you take to our city streets without your driver’s license now, can I?”
Grab a bigger shovel, Gabe. This hole you’re digging just keeps getting deeper and deeper.
Gabe let his head fall against the steering wheel. “Please Officer,” he moaned. “I live less than ten minutes away from here. If I promise to have Mr. Chase drive me back tomorrow morning to retrieve my wallet and identification, can’t you find it in your heart to let me slide this one time? Be honest: do I look like I have the energy to lie to you?”
If anyone gave the appearance of having worked 48 hours straight, it was Gabe. The patrolman shined his light in Gabe’s haggard face one more time before finally acquiescing. Besides, there were now four more cars cued up behind this one, and the line wasn’t getting any shorter. “Okay, doctor. Just let me have your name.”
Gabe never hesitated to give Patrolman Kelsey his most disarming smile.
“Thanks a lot, officer. Now, you see what a little honesty can do for you? The name’s Caputo … Ellis Caputo.”
Excerpt from the Los Angeles Tribune:
Famed Running Back J.R. Jackson Killed in Bizarre Accident on Palm Springs Golf Course
Palm Desert California
American Football League Hall of Famer, and 1974 All Collegiate Trophy winner, Jordan Roosevelt Jackson was killed yesterday when the golf cart he and a fellow player were driving in mysteriously exploded shortly after they pulled away from the first tee at The Desert Palm Golf Links.
Jackson, the perennial all-star running back for the Buffalo Bulls, had been playing golf and staying out of the public spotlight since his notorious acquittal last December of the murder of his ex-wife, Janice Bowen Jackson, and her recent companion, Robert Feldman.
Jackson had just finished signing autographs for a group of his supporters when his golf cart “literally disintegrated,” an injured eyewitness commented.
Everyone in Jackson’s playing foursome were killed instantly and eight others waiting to tee off had to be airlifted to Palm Springs Memorial Hospital for treatment. The eight survivors suffered various injuries ranging from third- degree burns and concussions to one player
with a shattered spine. The force of the blast left a crater in the ground measuring eight feet deep and 25 feet across.
The other members of the foursome that killed in the blast were John Watkins, 43, and Mark Petersen, 46, two friends of Jackson that he regularly played with. The fourth player was a guest of the club filling in for Simon Kaplan, a very fortunate record executive vacationing in the Bahamas with his family.
The guest, whose identity police are checking into at this time, was said to have been an older man whom employees in the pro shop said looked to be unusually frail to be playing a strenuous 18 holes of golf.
Police and arson investigators are not ruling out foul play, but, there is so little physical evidence left to sift through, investigators say that it will be nearly impossible to piece together any clues.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the course superintendent, Roger Perkus, said. “It’s physically impossible for a golf cart to just vaporize like that, even these gasoline-powered models. We’re going to suggest that the cart manufacturer take a long, hard look into their design.”
Over the past four months since his controversial acquittal, Jackson had received countless death threats, but none were ever substantiated.
A police spokesman now says each of those cases will have to be reopened to see if there is any connection between those threats and this tragedy.
44
Fifteenth Floor
Tower of the Americas
Less than ten minutes after the hospital workers discovered Kenneth Sanborn’s bloody remains, the phone beside the bed in August Bock’s private quarters rang. Unlike the adjacent business offices, this cluster of rooms was decorated in an elegant Oriental motif, with red, black and gold flocked wall trimmings, Asian designed furniture, and unique Mandarin sculptures that ornamented the black marble floors. This was August Bock’s personal hideaway—a restricted retreat, where he could escape his physical limitations and let his imagination and libido run free.
When the phone interrupted him, Bock was lying on his back with his head lounging on two down pillows. Between his legs, his amply-endowed paid escort for the evening was practicing her masterful oral techniques beneath the rumpled silk sheets. Bock’s head was turned toward the panoramic glass wall that looked out over the city’s sparkling skyline, but his functioning eye was sightless. He was staring beyond the flickering lights at some invisible spot on the horizon; as the world became a blur, his body shuddered with its climactic release.
The phone continued to ring … seven … eight … nine times, before Bock, totally annoyed, stretched over and snatched the receiver off its cradle. Captain Leon Williams was on the other end of the line. He sounded out of breath and very impatient. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
It took a few seconds for Bock’s head to clear, and to distinguish the voice. Throwing off the bed sheets, he gestured impatiently for the prostitute to leave the room. She stood up—her long, dark hair all tussled—and stripped the red silk top sheet off the bed. Her high heels clicked on the marble floor as she wrapped her curvaceous form in the sheet and obediently headed for the bathroom. August Bock paid her well, so she was never offended and always did what was asked of her.
Bock waited until he was alone, and then used his elbows to pull the dead weight of his lower torso into a sitting position, up against the headboard. “Wanted me to be the first to know what?”
Williams lowered his voice until it was barely audible. “We’ve just found Ken Sanborn dead in his office.”
Bock listened indifferently to the news and let a bored yawn escape. This information was of little consequence to him. Sanborn had already served his purpose. “The truth is, the doctor’s probably done us a favor by taking his own life,” Bock said, pitilessly. “He was a gutless bungler who would have eventually had to been silenced. One loose end Shayla won’t have to deal with.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Williams chided. “I never said, Sanborn took his own life.”
There was a pause and then Bock chuckled callously. “There. You see what I mean? He didn’t even have the balls to take his own life.”
“He had been stabbed with his own letter opener and there were signs of a struggle.”
Bock gazed out at the city and, in the distance, the glistening water of Biscayne Bay, as a brightly lit party boat knifed through the gentle indigo swells. The water always made him think about his wife, but he was quickly snapped back into reality by the sound of the bathroom shower coming to life. “So he was murdered … good riddance. What are you so freaked out about? The fact that someone got to him before us doesn’t change anything.”
Over the line, Bock could clearly hear the pandemonium of sirens and other street noises in the background as Williams tried to whisper over the racket.
“I just thought you would want to hear it from me directly instead of reading about it in the morning paper.”
“Okay, consider me informed,” Bock said, stifling another yawn. His companion had really earned her money tonight. “Speaking of the dead, Captain, what did you think of our little operation in California?”
“I assumed that was your doing,” Williams admitted, “but I’ve been so damned busy trying to turn down the heat on the Waxman investigation, I haven’t paid much attention to the news.”
Bock grinned with pride. “Our crusade is picking up momentum, Captain, and, over the next few months, at least four more acquitted convicts will be dealt with.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything else I can do…”
Bock never hesitated, his mind was like a powerful microchip, always plugged in and calculating. “As a matter of fact, Captain, I think there is something I need from you…”
“I’m listening.”
“I think you need to wrap up this Sanborn situation as quickly and as quietly as possible. I don’t have to tell you how the media gets when it gets its claws into something like this. Despite what I thought of him personally, Doctor Sanborn was still a prominent figure in the medical community. I want you to get into his office and scrutinize all of his files, destroying any you find pertaining to WDI. If you come across one you’re not sure of, burn it anyway. I’m sure this incident will be the lead on tonight’s local newscasts, but I don’t want it dragging on any longer than it has to.”
Williams had to raise his voice to be heard over a passing ambulance. “But I still have a killer at large.”
“Play it down,” Bock said calmly.
“How do you suggest I do that?”
Bock heard the shower shut off and the sound of wet feet padding around inside the bathroom. He closed his eyes and racked his brain; there had to be a way this could work to their advantage. Then, it came to him like a bolt out of the past—an idea that was so vivid, it almost took his breath away.
“I think I’ve just found Doctor Sanborn’s killer for you, Captain.”
“You’re going to have to speak up. Did you say you know who killed Sanborn?”
“You know? Sometimes, I even amaze myself,” Bock gloated as he reached over to the night stand to retrieve his eye patch. “Yes … I believe I do.”
“Who?”
Bock stretched the narrow elastic band around his head and covered his disfigured eye with the black patch. “Try to follow me on this, Captain,” he said, condescendingly. “Sooner or later, Gabe Mitchell’s in-laws were bound to start questioning his sudden disappearance, am I right?”
“Hold on a minute,” Williams wondered, out loud. “What does Gabe Mitchell have to do with this?”
Bock’s companion for the evening stepped out of the bathroom, toweling off her long dark hair, dressed in nothing more than one of Bock’s own royal blue silk kimonos loosely tied with a golden sash. Bock gestured for her to mix him a drink by stirring his finger around in an imaginary glass. She shot him back a coy wink, untied the gold ribbon, and let the kimono seductively tumble to the floor. Bock rolled his eye as if to say, “Good
God woman, what are you trying to do, kill me?” She lifted one of her firm breasts in each hand and wiggled her eyebrows lustfully at him. Bock covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with his hand and growled playfully back at her. As graceful and unabashed as she was insatiable, she seemed to float across the floor as she strode into the next room to fix his beverage.
“I believe we can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,” Bock said, turning his attention back to the very inopportune phone call.
Williams didn’t get to his position of authority by not being able to read between the lines. “So, you want me to make it look like Gabe Mitchell killed Sanborn?”
“Why not? Think about it; the plan is foolproof! We couldn’t have concocted a better script if we’d tried!” The excitement was rising in Bock’s voice, as it did whenever he had a brainstorm. “Follow this scenario: we start with a terminal patient who, after growing despondent over the loss of his wife, daughter, and his partner, is at the frayed end of his emotional rope. Add to that dismissal from the force, the loss of his son to his in-laws in a messy custody battle, and then stir in his tragic diagnosis and prognosis … and what have you’ve got? One volatile compound for murder.”
“So you’re saying…”
“What I’m proposing is that, when our desperate Mr. Mitchell couldn’t take it any longer, he dove off the deep end and took out the doctor that broke the bad news to him. It’s a no-lose situation for us. You get to put another notch in your belt by closing the case, and we tie up all our loose ends in one tidy little package.”
“But then, what should I do about Sanborn’s real killer?”
Bock gritted his teeth. “You hunt whoever it is down like a rabid dog, and we’ll let Shayla handle them discreetly. No one gets away with murder on our watch.”
“Okay, leave it to me.”
“You’ve just got to keep your investigation into the real killer under wraps, Captain. After you make the announcement about Gabe, the Sanborn case should be officially closed.”
