I looked around at the files and papers that littered her desk. “I hope I’m not imposing too much on your time,” I began. “You look busy.”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m grateful for the distraction. There’s something I have to do this morning that I’ve been trying to avoid. You’re just giving me a chance to procrastinate a little longer.”
“What is it?” I asked, wondering what a woman routinely dissecting would view with such dread.
“I have to call a resident at a community hospital out in Park Ridge who made an error. She was on duty when the paramedics brought in a four-year-old girl who’d been struck by a hit-and-run driver. Instinctively, and no doubt out of kindness, she insisted on washing the little girl’s body before her parents saw her. I know that she meant to spare the parents, but in doing so she destroyed any evidence that we might have found that would lead to finding her killer. Now, even if an eyewitness were to materialize, I don’t think that would be enough for the prosecutor to take before a grand jury.”
“You make being a lawyer seem like a day at the beach,” I said, thinking about Claudia’s comment about wishing that she had a job where mistakes didn’t matter.
“Oh, I don’t know if our jobs are really that different,” she replied. “After all, what I deal with is the aftermath of people’s fear or greed or stupidity. I’m sure that you could say the same about your work. The only difference is that what I do smells worse and is much more interesting.”
“How can you be so sure that it’s more interesting? „
“Because every life, no matter how tragic or mundane, is a story, and I’m the person who gets to tell the end.”
“I guess that’s what I wanted to ask you about— hypothetically, of course.”
“You and I both know that there’s no such thing as a hypothetical question,” she replied sweetly, “only people who want to put some distance between themselves and what they want to know.”
“In that case I hope you’ll wait before you start leaping to any conclusions,” I replied, suddenly wondering if this was such a good idea. “I wanted to ask you how you might go about killing off hospital patients.” Dr. Gordon raised her eyebrows and shot me an appraising look. “Assuming you don’t want to get caught?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t know what I would do, because it’s not a question I’ve ever really considered, but I can tell you what’s been done in the past. For example, there was a fairly recent case where a male nurse in Oregon was convicted of killing seventeen patients by injecting them with potassium chloride.”
“Is that a poison?”
“No, it’s a drug that’s commonly used in low concentration to control irregular heartbeat. At higher doses it’s fatal.”
“Why did he do it?”
“I don’t think they ever found out. As I recall, there were several witnesses for the defense who all testified that he was a particularly conscientious and devoted caregiver. I believe the theory the prosecution presented to the jury was that his actions were an extreme form of burnout. The defense tried to make the case that the nurse was driven to madness by the escalating demands of managed care.”
“What about the others?”
“Well, by far the most famous case was at the Veteran’s Hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan, mostly because the number of patients involved was huge. There were something like forty patients—practically an epidemic— who experienced episodes of cardiopulmonary arrest. I don’t know if you are familiar with it, but cardiopulmonary arrest is almost always fatal unless artificial respiration is begun immediately. Fortunately, there was a pair of Filipino nurses who seemed not only particularly vigilant, but highly skilled at the technique. Due to their efforts, out of the forty cases only seven of the patients died.”
“So what happened?” I asked, thinking about the sixteen folders in the trunk of my car.
“Well, naturally the sheer number of incidents involved raised suspicions that something abnormal was going on. An investigation was eventually launched, which led to four of the bodies being exhumed and autopsied.”
“What did they find?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, but because the deaths occurred on federal property, the medical examiner was able to send tissue samples to the FBI crime lab.”
“Did they find anything?”
“Yes. In every one of the patients they found a drug called pancuronium. It’s a neuromuscular blocking agent that’s actually a synthetic form of curare. It’s most commonly known by its brand name, Pavulon.”
“I thought curare was a poison.”
“If by that you mean that it can be used to kill people, then half the drugs that are commonly prescribed are poisons. Pavulon acts by inducing temporary muscle paralysis. In high enough doses it stops your heart from beating and your lungs from breathing. It’s used in the operating room during anesthesia as part of a mixture of different anesthesia drugs.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a colorless, odorless liquid that resembles water. It’s very fast acting, but conversely its effects disappear quickly. That’s why the nurses were able to both induce arrest in their patients and then reverse it.”
“You mean it was the two nurses who were killing off the patients?” I demanded.
“Yes.”
“But again, why?”
“Again, nobody knows for sure. Some people believe that the two women did it to draw attention to what they felt was an acute shortage of nurses. Several psychiatrists were called in to interview them both, and their conclusion was that both women were mentally ill and craved the attention they received whenever they successfully resuscitated a patient.”
“What I want to know is why it took forty cases before they launched an investigation.”
“I wasn’t there so I can’t say, but I think in part it was a natural unwillingness to consider the possibility of foul play in a hospital. You also have to take into account that death is not an unusual occurrence in a medical setting. I hope you’re not thinking of killing off hospital patients?”
“No,” I assured her.
“Then can I ask you what exactly it is that’s prompting your question?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied apologetically.
“Then at least promise me one thing,” she said, suddenly looking stern. “If your question gets any less hypothetical, you’ll come to me first.”
CHAPTER 18
In big law firms, light and space are the twin talismans of power. Like some principle of relativity, the closer you are to the top, the more you have. There is nothing subtle about the system. At Callahan Ross you are meant to always know exactly where in the hierarchy you are.
The first thing I did when I got into the office was pay a visit to the bottom rung of the ladder, to the airless, light-less world of the messengers and file clerks in order to drop off the box of Claudia’s files. I filled out the rush slip, stopping just long enough to pay tribute to James, the former army drill sergeant who presided over the endless stream of paper that was the lifeblood of the firm.
I decided to climb the six flights of stairs back to my office. I figured it was the only exercise I was likely to get in the foreseeable future. I also knew it was the only time I was going to have to myself that day, and I desperately needed time to think.
What on earth had I hoped to accomplish by spewing out my crackpot theories to Julia Gordon? Did I really think that she would just sit back and wait patiently for more bodies to turn up? She’d probably been on the phone to the police the minute I left her office.
Trudging up the spiral of the firm’s internal staircase, I ascended through the well-ordered precincts of real estate, tax, litigation, antitrust, corporate finance, and international law. With every floor the idea of someone systematically killing off Gavin McDermott’s patients seemed increasingly absurd. If the deaths were
indeed the result of the acts of a madman, then it truly was a matter for the police. Perhaps if the truth were revealed, the adverse publicity might discourage HCC from pursuing the hospital, just as my mother’s outspokenness had soured discussions with the archdiocese.
As I finally arrived at the floor that housed the various corporate departments, including my own, I was struck by a truly horrible thought. Elliott had said that there was a difference between being ruthless and ruthlessly refusing to abide by the rules. Was it possible that Gerald Packman was somehow engineering the deaths in order to deliberately make Prescott Memorial seem less desirable and drive down the price? I didn’t like to think that even someone as cold as Packman would be capable of such calculation, but in my experience the higher the stakes, the more ruthless people were prepared to be. Still, if Packman was behind the deaths, then why wasn’t the story public?
What was he waiting for?
On my way back to my office I stopped to see how document preparation was going on Delirium. I found Jeff Tannenbaum at his desk, up to his eyeballs in paper, cursing softly under his breath. Preparing the documents for a transaction of the sort that we’d negotiated between Delirium and Icon was a monumental task. Unlike litigation, the skills required were not those taught in law school, where the focus is on fact finding, argument, and the application of rules to facts.
The side of the law for which most people look to lawyers—planning and getting things done—was learned through apprenticeship. In corporate practice, deals were traded and documented at the speed of a fax machine, and the only way to learn what you needed to know was from someone who was experienced and let you participate in the process. Even so, there was always a moment when you had to let go of your mentor’s hand and walk through the minefield on your own. A combination of circumstances had conspired to make the Delirium-Icon deal a closing that Jeff Tannenbaum would have to handle on his own.
As much as I believed him to be ready—if he wasn’t, we had no business making him a partner—it didn’t make it any easier for me to let go. Most deals are repeats of other deals, with no new ground broken, but the price of error is invariably steep. I asked Jeff if he needed help on anything, and he answered no. It took every ounce of self-discipline I had to take him at his word.
As I walked past Cheryl’s desk she shot out of her seat and began gesturing wildly.
“Don’t go in there!” she exclaimed, pointing at my office door, which was closed.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Your mother is in there!”
“Oh, my god,” I groaned, collapsing dramatically over the top of Cheryl’s cubicle in self-pity. “What’s she doing here? What does she want?”
“I don’t know. But right now she’s in there interviewing another secretarial candidate.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, making a half-hearted attempt to pull out my hair. “You’re making this up just to torment me.”
“No such luck. Apparently you never told Mrs. Goodlow that you would be unavailable this afternoon, so she went ahead and scheduled you to interview a job candidate.”
“So what’s this one like?”
“I didn’t really get a chance to talk to him. But he and your mother seem to have really hit it off.”
“He?” I demanded, straightening myself up.
“Three strikes, remember? By the way, have you seen Jeff? I saw him in the elevator, and he looked like he was about to throw up.”
“What did I look like the first time I coordinated a closing?” I asked.
“As I recall, you actually did throw up a couple of times,” conceded my secretary.
“Believe me, you will, too.”
“Okay, Ms. Tough-Guy, you’d better go in there and talk to your mommy before she comes out here and kills us both.”
“How do I look?” I asked, giving my hair an ineffectual pat.
“Approximately the same color as Jeff,” replied my secretary, as I squared my shoulders and prepared to face the music.
I found my mother sitting next to an extremely handsome and well-groomed young man on the leather couch in my office. Their heads were close together, and they were both laughing. Eventually they noticed that I was there, and the man who wanted to be my secretary rose quickly to his feet. He was wearing a charcoal suit tailored to the swooning point, an immaculately pressed white shirt with French cuffs, and a Hermes silk tie. His wing tips had been buffed to a military sheen, as were his fingernails. His teeth were perfect.
I knew immediately that there had to be something wrong with him. Either that, or Cheryl was wrong about Mrs. Goodlow and her three-strikes rule, and in my experience Cheryl was never wrong.
“Kate, I’d like you to meet Tim Lovesy,” declared my mother, as I shook hands with Mrs. Goodlow’s latest offering. “He and I have just had the most amusing chat while we were waiting for you to get here.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said.
At least I knew that he spoke English. Maybe the problem was that he was illiterate.
I murmured something in reply, completely thrown off guard by the highly presentable Mr. Lovesy.
“I’m sure the two of you will get along famously,” my mother assured him, beaming.
“You mean, provided she wants to give me the job,” he replied.
“Oh, nonsense,” declared Mother. “Of course she’s giving you the job. If you can’t trust your mother’s judgment in these things, who else can you possibly trust?”
As Cheryl took Tim back to Mrs. Goodlow’s office to discuss salary and benefits, I told myself that it was all just a bad dream. With any luck, I’d wake up in my own warm bed, ready to start the day all over again. My mother took a seat in the wing chair that visitors sat in, and crossed her ankles gracefully as she launched into a litany of Mr. Lovesy’s charms. I listened in utter amazement, wondering what on earth my mother was up to.
“So what brings you to the office?” I asked, as soon as she paused for a breath.
“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking about this whole Prescott Memorial mess,” she replied lightly. “I think perhaps we’ve been overreacting.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I cut her off, suddenly understanding the motive for her charm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, somewhat taken aback.
“Yes, you do. You came here to tell me that you’ve changed your mind, didn’t you? They’ve sued, and now you want to get out of it!”
“I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that,” she declared. “They’ve raked up all those horrible old stories about Great-grandfather, and they’re feeding them to the press.”
Mother handed me a manila envelope. Inside was what appeared to be the draft of a magazine piece entitled “Blood Money.” A note clipped to the front indicated that it was slated for publication in NorthShore, a glossy lifestyle magazine that circulated in the city’s affluent northern suburbs. I skimmed it quickly. It was about the purported origins of Chicago’s most famous family fortunes and how many of the city’s most prominent philanthropists owed their good fortune to an ancestor who hadn’t hesitated to rob, smuggle, or even commit murder for financial gain.
While Everett Prescott was featured prominently, his exploits running opium and guns in the China trade were hardly the only misdeeds the article chronicled. I had to hand it to Gerald Packman. There was almost nothing that would mortify my family more than to be pilloried in public, except perhaps knowing that their friends were being subjected to the same treatment on their account.
“Denise says she’s received phone calls from reporters at the Tribune and the Sun-Times saying that they’re thinking of doing similar articles,” complained Mother.
“I warned you this would happen,” I said, trying my best to sound sympathetic. “You have to see this for what it is, a sign that we’re getting to them. I told you they would never go down without a fight. Well, this is how they’re fi
ghting.”
“If they publish this, it will kill your grandmother,” declared Mother dramatically. “You might as well just go ahead and order the coffin.”
“There is nothing new in this,” I said, pointing to the manuscript. “Every single one of these allegations—that Everett Prescott made his money selling drugs and guns, that he kept Chinese women—every single one of them has been in print before. Hell, how else do you think they managed to dig it all up so fast? Believe me, Grandmother will live through it.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say. You didn’t get this in the mail today.” Mother reached into the Neiman Marcus bag at her feet and pulled out a package just slightly larger than a shoebox and handed it to me. It felt terribly light.
“It’s empty,” I said.
“No, it’s not. Look inside.”
I lifted up the top. Inside was a sheet of white paper on which someone had scrawled in red crayon the single word, BANG!
CHAPTER 19
That night I took Mother’s Neiman Marcus bag along with me to dinner. I was meeting Elliott at Brasserie Jo, the pretty French bistro on Hubbard. He’d called while I was in with my mother, and Cheryl had accepted his dinner invitation on my behalf. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to ask him whether the judge had handed down a verdict yet in the fraud case, so I didn’t know if Elliott was back from Springfield for an hour or for good.
A quick call from Cheryl to the personal shopper at Saks solved the problem of what I was going to wear—a dove gray suit with a cropped jacket with a round feminine collar and a short and narrow skirt. There was also a scoop-necked blouse to wear underneath. When I held it up to my shoulders, it looked like it would expose more skin than I usually show at the beach.
I laid it over the back of my chair and took the black Manolo Blahnik pumps out of their box and set them gingerly on top of my desk. They looked so dangerous I was afraid I might hurt myself.
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