The Perfect Game
Page 5
Lauren was sucked into the infectiousness of his laughter and they shared a good, long laugh. She felt both relieved and ashamed as she enjoyed the momentary respite from her grief.
Chapter Eleven
(Saturday, August 13)
Lauren drummed her fingers, waiting for her patient’s lab results to come in. Mr. Hanson was either high on drugs or acutely psychotic. Only the toxicology findings would tell. While she waited, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She dug into her scrubs pocket to answer it.
“Hey, Jake. How’s everything?”
“Painful. How are you?”
“Surviving.”
“Listen, I’m sorry for the late notice, but I’m calling to invite you to a charity event tonight. Liz is going to be honored by MADD.”
“Tonight?”
“I know. I’m sorry. This was scheduled before Liz died, but with everything going on, I let the whole thing slip my mind. It’s bound to be rough. Please come with me.”
“What time is it? I don’t get off until six.”
“That’s perfect. It doesn’t start until seven. And it’s okay if you’re not there right on the button. These things usually don’t start on time anyway.”
Lauren was exhausted and had been looking forward to crawling into bed, but she didn’t hesitate. An early bedtime would do nothing for her persistent insomnia. “Sure. I’ll go with you.”
“Great. I appreciate it. I should be there when it starts, but you just come when you can. I’ll save you a seat.” He gave her the address to the downtown hotel and she jotted it down on the back of a prescription slip.
As they said their good-byes, the computer screen blinked in front of her and she entered her password to learn that Mr. Hanson had no drugs on board. Shoot, she thought, meth would have been easier to treat.
Hours later, intern LaRhonda Jackson strolled in to relieve Lauren at 6:10, casually eating a bean burrito from Taco Bell. LaRhonda referred to herself as a triple threat; big, black, and beautiful. She was also bold and didn’t worry about being chastised for tardiness.
Lauren provided the patient report as concisely as she could. “Back spasms in Bay One, slip and fall in Two, high as a kite in Four, broken arm in Six, drunk and belligerent in Seven. Have fun.”
“Why you in such a hurry tonight?”
“I have someplace I need to be by seven.”
“Mmmm hmmmm,” LaRhonda said knowingly.
Lauren didn’t pause to elaborate. Her naturally leaden foot allowed her to reach her apartment by 6:25, where she hurriedly changed into a little black dress, applied eyeliner and lipstick in a matter of seconds, and tried unsuccessfully to smooth the ponytail bump from her hair. She tottered back out to her car in uncomfortably high heels moments later.
She was glad to be going against traffic on the city streets, driving back into the city as most others were headed for the suburbs. She made her final turn at 6:50, relieved that she would arrive in the nick of time. However, traffic slowed significantly as cars in front of her merged into a single lane to avoid an accident in the right lanes. Like everybody else, Lauren could not resist looking to see what had happened. Apparently, a green light anticipator had slammed into a yellow light accelerator, a Corolla T-boned by a Mercedes. The Mercedes driver paced around his car as he assessed the front-end damage, talking animatedly into his cell phone. The Corolla driver, a young woman, sat in her car, door open, crying. Emergency personnel had not yet arrived.
Lauren fought an internal battle; most of her wanting to arrive on time to the charity event, some small portion feeling obligated to render assistance. She stopped. The Mercedes driver appeared more angry than hurt. Lauren approached the crying woman, “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” the woman wailed, “but I’m worried about the baby.”
Lauren scanned the car, spotting no child safety seat. She imagined an unrestrained infant thrown from the car in a bloody heap. “The baby?”
“I’m five months pregnant.”
“The human uterus is well-insulated. I’m sure your baby is fine,” Lauren reassured.
“I haven’t felt her move since the accident,” the woman sobbed.
Lauren’s pulse quickened. She hurried back to her own car, grabbing her spare stethoscope from the trunk. Returning to the woman’s side, she knelt on the ground next to her, placing the stethoscope on the woman’s lower abdomen. Fetal heartbeats were difficult enough to find in a quiet office with a sophisticated heart monitor. It was going to be damned near impossible on the side of a busy road with only a stethoscope. Still she tried, moving the scope here and there. Each time she moved the scope, the pregnant woman became more panicked. Lauren began to wish she hadn’t attempted this in the first place. In fact, she was regretting stopping at all. But then she located the sound that always reminded her of a racing train.
“I hear the heartbeat,” she said, looking at the second hand of her watch. “Strong and healthy at 150 beats per minute.”
The woman threw her arms around Lauren. “Thank you!”
When the paramedics arrived, Lauren issued a brief verbal report before rushing back to her own car.
Lauren arrived at the award venue forty minutes late, with untamed hair and dirty knees. A tall woman in a red dress was speaking on the stage. Lauren ducked down as she wound her way through the round tables looking for Jake. Naturally, his table was front and center, maximizing Lauren’s embarrassment as she slid into the empty seat next to him.
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, whispering, “You look fantastic.” The woman seated next to him glared at Lauren. Jake made a face as soon as the woman turned back to the speaker. Lauren suppressed a giggle.
“Elizabeth Wakefield was an extraordinary humanitarian,” the woman in red was saying, “but Liz was also my friend. She was approachable, down to earth, and funny as hell. In her fundraising role, she hobnobbed with high society, pulling in big donations. But behind the scenes, she offered real and meaningful comfort to victims of drunk driving.”
In her haste, Lauren had forgotten to bring Kleenex. She discreetly used her linen napkin to dab her eyes.
“Those of us who had the privilege to know Liz will miss her dearly. She was taken from us too soon. In honor of her generous nature, sense of purpose, and fierce determination, we would like to award this year’s Spirit of MADD award to Elizabeth Rose Wakefield.”
The crowd erupted in applause and Jake ascended the stage to accept the award.
“Thank you so much for recognizing Liz for her contributions. I’ve been thinking a lot about what Liz would have said if she had been here to accept this award.” He began to choke up, but regained his composure. “And she wouldn’t have focused on herself. She would have used this opportunity to urge us all to do more. More activism, more awareness, and more fund-raising. In her memory, I would like to jumpstart that effort with a twenty-five thousand-dollar pledge. Open your hearts and your checkbooks. Let’s make Liz proud tonight.”
The ballroom rustled as at least two hundred people dug into their wallets. Lauren pulled out her own checkbook and assessed her balance. She wrote a check for one thousand dollars, reminding herself to transfer some money from savings to cover it.
People swarmed Jake as he descended the stage. Lauren made awkward small talk with others as the guests milled about greeting one another.
“Lauren?”
She turned to see the woman in red. “I’m Kathryn Montgomery. I was a friend of Liz’s.”
“Yes, thank you so much for your kind words. You seemed to really know her.”
“Yes,” Kathryn said, “and I absolutely adored her. She talked about you often. She was looking forward to spending more time with you.”
Lauren’s eyes filled with tears and she could only nod. Kathryn continued, “I wanted to let you know that…”
“Jake, do you know Kathryn?” Lauren asked.
Jake stuck out his hand. “Thanks for your warm sentiments about Liz.”
Kathryn hesitated before she reached out to shake Jake’s hand. “Yes, of course. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
To Lauren, Jake said, “We ought to get you home. Aren’t you going to turn into a pumpkin soon?”
“Something like that.”
They said good night to Kathryn and several others who mobbed Jake as they wove their way to the nearest exit.
“Sorry I was late.” Lauren started to explain.
“Don’t be sorry. Be grateful. You missed a lot of boring talk about fundraising goals and arrived just in time for the good part. You did, however, miss a mediocre meal. Are you hungry?” Lauren realized she was.
Jake drove her to a nearby coffeehouse, which was virtually empty at this hour. Lauren explained about the car accident that she had encountered earlier.
“How great that you know enough to be able to help,” Jake said. “And what a pain that you feel like you have to.”
“The detectives contacted me yesterday. They asked me to take a polygraph.”
“Those dipshits. They asked me to take one last week.”
“They did? What was it like?”
“I didn’t take it. I told Boyd he could shove that machine up his ass since polygraphs measure bullshit anyways.”
Lauren’s lower jaw dropped. “You did not.”
“Like hell I didn’t. You should refuse too, Lauren. The sooner they stop focusing on us, the sooner they can start paying attention to who really did this.”
They chatted more about the investigation, her work at the hospital, and his baseball season. The Diamondbacks had beaten the Phillies earlier that day and would be playing them again tomorrow. “You should come to the game,” Jake said.
“I wish I could, but I have to work.”
He looked disappointed.
“Another time.”
“Any time you can make it, let me know.”
Lauren’s heart quickened as he leaned toward her and touched her face. He used one finger to wipe away a dab of cream cheese.
Internally, Lauren chastised herself. What had she thought he was going to do?
Chapter Twelve
(Monday, August 15)
The polygraph was administered in an austere office at the Scottsdale Police Station. Aside from a table, two chairs, and the polygraph equipment, the room was empty. It was lit by overhead fluorescent bulbs.
Before he hooked up the equipment, the polygraph examiner explained the procedure and asked if Lauren had any questions.
“No questions, just a concern. I studied the polygraph for a college paper. And based on what I remember, I don’t have the utmost confidence in these things.”
The examiner was bland-looking. Nondescript brown hair, brown eyes, horn-rimmed glasses. He responded, “Given that you’re a physician, I would think you could appreciate this physiological approach to the detection of deception.”
“I understand the polygraph measures objective measures like pulse rate, muscular tension, and skin conductivity,” Lauren said. “And all of those things are reliable measures of anxiety which could result from lying. However, that anxiety could also result from being suspected of a crime.”
“True, but our interview techniques are very effective at distinguishing the two,” the examiner said. Lauren had already forgotten his name. I’ll think of him as Mr. Brown, she told herself. He was even wearing a brown suit.
“Really? I think studies suggest the reliability is about seventy percent at best,” Lauren said.
“Are you refusing to take the test?” Mr. Brown’s tone developed an edge.
“Not at all. I’ll do whatever it takes to help find my sister’s killer. I just want some assurances that this entire investigation isn’t relying upon an instrument that has questionable efficacy under the best of circumstances.”
“Duly noted,” Mr. Brown said before he began hooking up the equipment. He instructed Lauren to answer each question with a yes or no response.
He started by asking easy questions to establish a baseline of truthfulness.
“Is your name Lauren Nicole Rose?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born on September twenty-eighth?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
Mr. Brown sighed, “Answer with yes or no only please.”
“I’m trying, but I don’t want to imply that I remember being born on that date when I don’t.”
Mr. Brown shook his head and moved on to another question, “Are you employed at Good Samaritan Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the sister of Elizabeth Rose Wakefield?”
Lauren hesitated. “I used to be.”
Mr. Brown glared, but continued the test without comment. “Were you at Good Samaritan Hospital on the evening of July twenty-third for the entire time between the hours of seven p.m. and eleven p.m.?
“Yes.”
“Are you right-handed?”
“No.”
“Are you left-handed?”
“No.”
Mr. Brown furrowed his brow. “I need you to answer these questions fully and accurately.”
“I’m ambidextrous. I favor each hand for different tasks.”
“I see. But surely you use one more than the other?”
“I use my right hand for most things, including writing and eating, but I kick with my left foot and I throw balls with my left hand.”
He paused and made some notations on a strip of paper being generated by the polygraph machine on which writing tools were jumping about, creating wiggly lines based upon Lauren’s answers.
“Do you swing a golf club with your left hand?”
Lauren hesitated. She had to answer the question with complete honesty. “I’m sorry, but I use both hands when I swing a golf club. Did you mean do I swing it left-handed?”
Mr. Brown let out a long sigh of agitation. “I’ll rephrase the question.” He made another notation on the paper strip, which was now pooling on the floor next to the machine.
“Do you swing a golf club left-handed?”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware you were the sole beneficiary on your sister’s life insurance policy?”
“Not prior to her death.”
“Yes or no only.”
“I am aware of that now, but I wasn’t aware of it at the time of her death.”
He sighed again. “Were you aware you were the sole beneficiary on your sister’s life insurance policy prior to July twenty-fourth?”
“No.”
“Have you been having financial problems?”
“No, not really.”
Mr. Brown eyeballed her unpleasantly. Lauren couldn’t answer with a simple yes or no response. Lauren didn’t have money problems per se, but she did sometimes worry about making sure her paycheck covered her expenses, like most people. After paying rent and student loans on her intern’s salary, she didn’t have a lot in savings. Did that constitute financial problems?
“Do you know the code to the alarm at your sister’s home?”
“Yes.” At least I used to, she thought. Maybe Jake changed it. Knowing she might have answered that question ‘wrong’ made her nervous.
“Do you have a key to your sister’s home?”
“No.”
“Is there any reason why the forensics team will find Liz’s blood on the scrubs you turned over to Detective Boyd?”
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“No.” Were they trying to fluster her? If so, it was working well. Then came the question that she had been expecting, but wasn’t prepared for.
“Did you kill your sister, Elizabeth Wakefield?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by stabbing her?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by shooting her?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her with medications?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her by hitting her in the head?”
“No.” But somebody had. Lauren felt her pulse racing.
“Did you have anything to do with her death?”
I’ve been interviewed by homicide investigators. I had to tell my grandmother she died. I identified the body. I attended the funeral. I’ve had way too much to do with her death, Lauren thought. “No.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
Lauren’s mind raced. I don’t know. Do I? Once I find out who did it, I might know that person. “No.”
After waiting for the examiner to review the yards and yards of polygraph data, he told her the results were inconclusive. Lauren knew this stupid test wasn’t valid. Mr. Brown asked her if she would submit to the test a second time.
The cold instruments were re-affixed to her body. Again, she was asked the intrusive, offensive, ambiguous questions.
After taking an eternity to review the results, he finally spoke. “I’ll turn the findings over to the detectives. You may discuss it with them. But there is one more thing we’d like to ask of you before you leave the station today.”
“Yes?”
“Would you be willing to leave hair and blood samples with us for DNA analysis?
“Sure. DNA analysis. That’s a verifiable science.”
“Yes, Dr. Rose, I believe you’ve made your opposition to the polygraph crystal clear.” His tone was caustic.