He removed the film and placed it back in the manila envelope. “I’ll keep this as part of my files.”
“Oh my God, you know what this means, Dorothy?” McCain exclaimed. “It means we gotta go back to Boston Ferris and deal with Violet Smaltz.”
Dorothy said, “This woman is impossible. She’s just going to stonewall us—not because I think she has something to hide, but she loves drowning people in paperwork.”
“I know the type,” Change said. “Tell you what. I’ll come with you. Maybe that’ll speed things up.”
“It would also speed things up if we enlisted President McCallum again,” Dorothy said.
“He better help us out,” McCain said. “Something’s wrong at his damn school.”
15
At eight in the morning, the campus was grayed by a heavy, moist sky. Somewhere behind the pewter mist the sun was trying to poke through, adding a little light but no warmth. The pathways that wound through the college were still slick with ice. McCain’s boots crunched. His nose was brittle from the cold. He and Dorothy and Change had to work to keep pace with President McCallum.
“I’m sure it’s an oversight.” McCallum tightened his coat. “A simple mix-up.” His voice lacked conviction. “It happens, you know. Mistakes in hospitals.”
“This was a fatal mistake.” McCain’s teeth were chattering. “No doctor in his right mind would have allowed Julius Van Beest to play with a major aneurysm.”
McCallum frowned and flung open the double glass doors to the health center, allowing the three of them to step inside. The waiting room was already packed with red-nosed, wan students, coughing, sneezing, slumping, shivering. The nurses greeted McCallum with surprise and deference as he blew past them and marched into the records room, where Violet Smaltz was worshiping her paperwork.
She looked up from her desk, her eyes darting back and forth between her visitors’ faces. Then she stood up and tried to suppress a sneer. “President McCallum.”
“Get me all of Julius Van Beest’s medical records.”
The woman went slack-jawed. “Sir, that’s not standard procedure. I need permission—”
“The boy is dead!” McCallum shouted. “Get me his records, and get them now!”
Violet bit her lip. “It’ll take a few moments.”
“Then don’t waste any more time!” McCallum bit his thumbnail. Inhaled, exhaled. Softened his tone: “It’s of extreme importance, Violet. The reputation of the college hinges on it.”
Smaltz nodded solemnly and disappeared behind the stacks of medical folders.
McCallum rubbed his hands together. “And you’re positive, Dr. Change, that the X-ray that you saw couldn’t possibly be that of Julius Van Beest?”
“One hundred percent positive.”
“Well, then, we’ll just wait and . . .” McCallum’s voice faded.
No one spoke until Violet came back with the files. “These are all of them.” She handed them to McCallum, who passed them to Change.
The ME pulled out the chest X-rays. “Do you have a light box?”
“Of course,” said Violet. “We’re not working out of tents, you know.” She led them to an empty examination room and turned on the light box switch. Change mounted the X-rays to the clips and stared at the images.
It was McCain who spoke first. “The rib is still split.”
“Indeed,” Change said. “None of these images are of Julius.”
“How can you be so sure?” McCallum challenged. “Isn’t it possible he had surgery to remove the extra rib?”
Change considered the question. “When’s he due to be buried?”
“He was buried yesterday,” Dorothy said.
“I’ll write out an exhumation order.”
“Doc,” said Dorothy, “maybe before we start unearthing the dead, we should think this out. First step: You’re sure he died of an aneurysm.”
“I would stake my reputation that this boy had some kind of preexisting vessel abnormality. And I see no reason for him to ever undergo surgery to remove a supernumerary rib. In fact, I’m certain he didn’t—there were no old scars indicating such. These X-rays are not of Julius Van Beest.”
Violet said, “I don’t know if they’re Julius’s X-rays or not. But I’ll tell you one thing. None of them were taken on school premises.”
Four sets of eyes locked into hers. She pointed to markings at the bottom of the films. “Says here Professional Urban Imaging. I never even heard of this lab. Probably some fly-by-night operation, if you ask me.”
McCain turned to the president. “Do most of the athletes have their chest X-rays done on school premises?”
“Why are you asking him!” Violet grumped. “I know the answer to that.”
McCain waited.
“The answer is yes. Usually, the physicals are done two weeks before school starts. I come in here to personally supervise the record keeping. I once left it to some subordinate, and boy was it a mess.”
“I’m sure it took you hours to clean up,” McCain quipped.
Violet gave him the force of her angry eyes, but she held her tongue. “Not only was this X-ray taken off campus but it was done late. Look at the date—a month after the semester started. That is not procedure.”
Dorothy turned to Change. “You’re saying no doctor in his right mind would permit Julius to play with an aneurysm.”
“Correct.”
“What if the team doctor hid it from Julius?”
“He’d have to be a psychopath,” Change said.
“That’s absurd!” McCallum protested. “Our staff is first-rate, and I will not tolerate such accusa—”
“Accusations or not,” said Dorothy, “we’d be derelict if we didn’t talk to the team doctor.”
“I’m sure,” said McCain, “that he’d be as concerned about this as we are. Seeing as he’s first-rate and all.”
McCallum grimaced. Stared at the ceiling. Threw up his hands. “I don’t know if he’s even on the premises.”
“The coach is in,” Dorothy said. “The team had an eight o’clock meeting today to talk about Julius. No exceptions. I’m betting that includes the team’s doctor.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Violet said.
“What are we waiting for?” McCain asked.
“The boy got his X-rays done off campus and as a result probably died from it. He shouldn’t have been allowed to do that. This whole thing has impugned my record keeping and my system. That will not be tolerated!” Violet grabbed her coat from the rack. “Come on, people. Let’s get the lead out.”
The boys were working through some nominal drills, probably to keep up the appearance of normality. But Dorothy could tell by her son’s drooped posture that he wasn’t focused, and the others probably weren’t, either. They were taking their cue from Coach Albert Ryan, a former Celtics journeyman and a twenty-year veteran of college coaching. Ryan, six-five and pole-thin and bald, normally a taciturn man, appeared paralyzed by the tragedy. His expression was captain-going-down-with-the-ship. When the group confronted him, he shook his head and pointed to a tall, paunchy man in his late fifties, wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, and blue polo shirt, standing on the sidelines.
Martin Green was an orthopedic surgeon specializing in sports medicine. Besides running a full-time private practice, he’d been associated with Boston Ferris for fifteen years. He spoke with authority, but Dorothy could barely hear over echoing footsteps and ball bounces.
“Guys, maybe we can talk where it’s a little quieter?”
McCallum said, “Coach, let’s call it a day.”
Ryan nodded and blew the whistle, told the boys to pack it in. Slowly, they filed out of the gym. Marcus acknowledged Dorothy with the faintest of nods but stuck with his teammates.
McCallum tapped his foot. Empty, the room reverberated like a cathedral.
Dr. Green said, “Julius insisted on getting his X-ray off campus. He was terrified of the procedure and wanted
his own physician to do it.”
“Afraid of X-rays?” said McCain.
“Apparently, his grandfather died of cancer due to excess radiation exposure. He didn’t trust the school’s machinery. Too much leakage or some such nonsense.”
“Total nonsense!” Violet agreed.
“What kind of radiation exposure did this grandfather experience?” McCallum asked.
“Apparently, he worked as an assistant in a university lab.” Green shrugged. “I never got the full story, and the little Julius did tell me seemed strange. But the upshot was Julius was anxious, and he’d already made plans to have his own lab take the X-rays. I saw no reason to argue with him.”
“That’s not procedure!” Violet chimed in.
“No, it is not,” Green said. “But I didn’t see the harm in it. He’d been doing it this way since high school. I actually called up the coach there, and at least that part of the story was true. Like most superathletes, Julius was superparticular. He had his superstitions, his rituals and routines, and I figured this was just another on a long list. Besides, as long as his chest X-ray was clean, what did it matter where it was taken?”
Change said, “So you examined the film.”
“Of course. He handed it to me personally and we went over it together.” Green’s eyes darkened. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Do you know how Julius died?” Change asked.
“He was shot.”
“He was shot, but he died of a burst vessel, probably of the subclavian artery. I’m sure the kid had a preexisting aneurysm.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Green blurted out. “I never ever saw any aneurysm.”
“That’s because you didn’t see an X-ray of Julius,” Dorothy said.
Green was completely perplexed. “What are you talking about?”
Dorothy looked at Change, who explained the situation.
Coach Ryan broke in: “What the hell are you saying? That the whack to Julius’s chest by that frickin’ Duran is what caused his death?” He’d gone white and his face was sweat-drenched.
“Albert, sit down,” Dr. Green told him.
“No, I’m fine! I want to know what’s going on. Are you saying playing ball killed him?”
Change said, “Not exactly.”
“Then what the hell are you saying?”
“Albert,” said McCallum.
Ryan drooped. “Sorry, sir. My nerves . . .”
McCallum patted his shoulder. “We’re all shaken up.” He turned to Change. “Can we have a comprehensive explanation, please?”
Change said, “Precisely what caused the artery to burst would be speculation. What is clear is that Julius should not have been playing any type of contact sport.”
“I wouldn’t have let him play,” said Green, “if I’d seen a damned aneurysm on a damned X-ray.”
“See what happens when you don’t follow procedure!” Violet broke in.
Everyone glared at her. But in this case, she happened to be right. Even McCain had to admit that.
He said, “If the kid’s been doing this since high school, substituting one X-ray for another, it means he knew about his condition. So somewhere along the line, there’s got to be an X-ray that showed an aneurysm.”
“We can only go on what was given to us, people,” McCallum stated. The relief in his voice was profound. “And these X-rays are clear. As far as we knew, the boy was healthy.”
“They are clear and they are not of Julius.”
Green said, “God, this is awful!”
“Detective McCain is right,” Dorothy said. “There has to be an X-ray somewhere. The question is, how far back do we have to go?”
McCain said, “I bet his pediatrician has an X-ray from when he was a little kid.”
“Which means he would have notified Julius’s mother about it,” Change said.
Dorothy said, “No mother in her right mind would let her son do something that would endanger his life. I’m positive Ellen didn’t know about it.”
“Is it standard procedure for a child to get a chest X-ray?” McCain asked.
Green said, “It isn’t part of a routine childhood checkup. You don’t want to expose kids to X-rays without reason. But with severe croup that doesn’t resolve, a bad bronchitis, suspected pneumonia—sure, he could’ve taken a chest X-ray.”
“Time to talk to Julius’s pediatrician.”
“We’d need Ellen’s permission,” Dorothy said. “I don’t want to give her this kind of news right now. It’s just too tragic.” She looked at the team doctor. “Dr. Green, you said you spoke with the coach at Julius’s high school and they had X-rays?”
Green nodded.
“Let’s start there, compare their X-rays to these. At least we’ll find out if he used the same substitute.”
McCain said, “Where’d he go to high school?”
Coach Ryan said, “St. Paul’s.”
“St. Paul’s in Newton?” Dorothy asked.
“Yes,” President McCallum said. “Like most of our students, he was local.”
McCain said, “Onward to Newton. Always liked the burbs in winter.”
16
St. Paul’s graced seven acres of rolling, high-priced Newton hills. The institution was basic New England prep. Episcopal school, but a sign on the colonial-era chapel said “Services are voluntary. Everyone is a child of God.”
The head coach was Jim Winfield, another ex-NBA benchwarmer, nearly seven feet tall with a shaved head, a goatee, and the sculpted face of a Maori warrior.
Black is beautiful, thought Dorothy. What would it be like to live with a man with that kind of presence?
Like Ryan, Winfield seemed numbed by Julius’s death. He told the detectives he did indeed remember a call from Boston Ferris inquiring about Julius Van Beest’s chest X-rays.
“I don’t remember if it was Dr. Green or Al Ryan. I know both of them quite well because over the past years, we’ve done lots of cross-referencing. So to speak.”
They were sitting in his office, a generous, oak-paneled space lined with trophy-stuffed display cases. The school had gone first place in football, basketball, baseball, soccer, hockey, tennis, swimming, polo, fencing, and lacrosse. St. Paul’s took its athletics very seriously.
“And what did you talk about to whoever it was?” Dorothy asked.
“I don’t remember the exact conversation, ma’am,” Winfield said. “It was over three years ago. They wanted to know if Julius always brought in his own chest X-rays and I told him that all of our kids playing sports brought in their own. We don’t have X-ray facilities.”
There was a knock at the door. A hulking teenage boy, attired in gray flannel slacks, a white shirt, blue blazer, and rep tie, came into the office, carrying several manila envelopes.
Nice threads, thought McCain. Better than he’d ever worn, including at his own father’s funeral.
“Ah . . . here we go,” Winfield said. “Thanks, Tom. How’s the ankle doing?”
“Better and better each day, Coach.”
“Good to hear.”
Tom smiled and left.
Winfield shook his head. “The kid twisted his ankle before a big game and played through the injury. What started out as a sprain turned into a torn ligament.”
“That’s terrible,” Dorothy said. “Where were the parents?”
“I don’t think they knew. These kids drive themselves crazy. They’re all after the same scholarships, and the competition is fierce. It’s terrible, but it’s a fact of life.” He handed the envelopes to Change. “Here you go, Doctor.”
The ME said, “I’m surprised the school kept Julius’s medical records this long.”
“We keep everything for ten years, then it goes onto microfilm.” Winfield smiled. “St. Paul’s has a strong sense of history. A lot of alumni get famous, or at least well known.”
Change pulled the radiographic image from Julius’s senior year and held it to the window. The light wasn’t perfect,
but it was enough to illuminate the same bifid rib.
The detectives sighed in frustration.
“Are they all the same?” Dorothy asked.
“Let’s find out,” Change said. He took out another film.
“What are you looking for?” Winfield asked.
Change pointed to the supernumerary rib. “This is what we’re looking for.”
Winfield squinted. “Oh . . . I see. The bone is split. Does that mean anything?”
“It means that this isn’t an X-ray of Julius Van Beest,” Change said.
“What?” Winfield asked. “I’m confused. What’s going on?”
“We wish we knew.” McCain turned to Dorothy. “You tell him.”
Winfield listened, his eyes widening in shock as Dorothy related the events of the last few days. When she was done, Winfield slapped his hand against his cheek. “Lord, I had no idea.”
“Apparently, nobody did,” Dorothy said. “Why would anyone assume the boy was trying to hide something?”
The third image was identical to the other two. McCain blew out air. “Looks like we’re going to have to trace his medical history even further back.” He looked at Winfield. “Any idea whose X-ray this is?”
“Not a clue.”
Dorothy said, “Who did Julius hang with in high school?”
“He was a superstar,” Winfield told them. “He had his fan club.” The coach paused. “To tell you the truth, I was very pleased but also a little shocked when he chose college over the NBA. He was being scouted left and right. Everyone knew he had the stuff to make it in the pros. I always wondered why he didn’t make the jump. Now I realize he must have known that pro sports would be a serious risk to his health. And he must have realized that his little charade wouldn’t work in the majors. But even college sports . . . What was that poor boy thinking?”
“The boy was seriously misguided,” McCain said. He paused a moment, then stared at the three radiographs. “Coach, is this a three-year or a four-year high school?”
“Four years.”
Dorothy caught on. “Where’s the fourth X-ray?”
Double Homicide Page 10
