Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  Steve caught Jesse’s look, one that told him this wasn’t the way he’d planned to play this. But Jesse’s way might send Shannon over the edge. Better to tiptoe into the questions they wanted answered. He’d straighten things out with his partner later.

  “So you don’t know where Megan is either?” Shannon said.

  “No, but when you hear from her, let her know we want to talk with her.” Steve reached toward his pocket, but Shannon stopped him.

  “I have your cards, both of them. And I’ll have Megan call. But why?”

  “I’m afraid that’s something we’ll have to discuss with her,” Jesse said.

  Steve leaned closer to Shannon. “But while we’re here, there’s something we need to ask you. We found a gun in a storm drain near Tony Lester’s house, and ballistics tests show it was the weapon used to kill him.”

  A strange expression passed across Shannon’s face, and Steve wondered what it meant. “So you’re closer to finding out who killed him?” she said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Do you own a gun?”

  “No,” she said. “I never wanted one. Some of the doctors at the hospital have them for protection, but I . . . I don’t like guns. I won’t have one in the house.”

  Jesse apparently decided to unleash the bad cop. He rose from his seat beside Steve, standing so that he towered over Shannon, and said, “Then perhaps you can explain why your fingerprints were on the gun that killed Megan’s boyfriend.”

  SHANNON’S HEART SEEMED TO STOP. FROM THE FIRST MOMENT she’d seen the gun in her sister’s hand, she knew it would ultimately cause trouble. Now it had. Megan had been printed during her earlier arrests, and Shannon’s fingerprints were on file from her staff application at the VA Hospital. If the gun with their prints was the one used, and if it was used to kill Tony, it wouldn’t take the police long to connect the dots. Matter of fact, that’s what they were doing now.

  The time Shannon had hoped would never arrive was here. “You know, I think I’d better wait and talk with my sister. I’m pretty sure the questions you want to ask her are the same ones you’re starting to ask me. And I’d prefer to have that questioning take place with our attorney present.”

  Alston held up a calming hand. “Shannon—”

  “No, I’m sorry, but unless you want to arrest me, I think I’ll leave it at that. As soon as I hear from Megan, we’ll discuss this with our attorney. Then she and I will come in and answer your questions for you.” She rose. “Until then . . .”

  Callaway looked at his partner, then at Shannon. “Doctor, you’re acting awfully suspicious. If you’d answer a few questions—”

  “On the contrary, Detective. I’m acting like a citizen taking advantage of the rights guaranteed me by the Constitution.”

  Alston shrugged and said, “If that’s the way you feel. But I must say, I’m disappointed.”

  “No more than I am,” Shannon said, fixing him with a glare that could have cut glass.

  In a few moments, the detectives were gone. Shannon slumped on the sofa, waiting for her heart to resume its normal rhythm. She had her address book in her hand, searching for the phone number of Tom and Elena Waites, when the front door opened and Megan walked in. Shannon took a deep breath and fought the urge to either kill her sister for making her worry about her whereabouts or enfold her in a bear hug because she was safely home. Instead of either option, she simply said, “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  MEGAN THOUGHT SHANNON LOOKED ANGRY, BUT SHE COULDN’T imagine why. Even if she were, it wouldn’t last long. She gave her sister a hug and sat beside her on the sofa. “Before you start, I have wonderful news.”

  Shannon looked doubtful but said, “Okay, you go first.”

  “I have a job,” Megan said.

  “That was fast. Unemployment is a problem in the entire country, and you get a job the second day you look for one. You want to explain that?”

  “When I was in First Step, I met this guy—”

  Megan could almost see the fire in Shannon’s eyes. “You need a job, so the first thing you do is turn to someone you met in rehab? Perfect! I mean, it makes sense—”

  “Will you let me finish?” Megan took a deep breath. “There were all kinds of people at First Step. This guy was a real straight arrow. He got hooked on prescription painkillers after surgery, just like I did the first time, and he was there to kick the habit. He was the CEO of a profitable company, a responsible family man, and because I was educated and had been in a profession related to his, we became friends. He told me that if I ever needed anything after I got out to give him a call.”

  Shannon nodded, her jaw muscles clenched with the effort to keep silent.

  “I called him yesterday. We set up a lunch for today with him and a couple of people from his firm.” Megan couldn’t help beaming. “He hired me. I’ll need to spend some time going through orientation, but I can start hunting for an apartment of my own.”

  “What kind of job?” Shannon asked.

  “Selling durable medical equipment. The man is Jeff Robiteaux, and the company is R&R Medical Supply.”

  The look on Shannon’s face told Megan that she recognized both the name of the company and the owner. “That’s right,” Megan said. “Not everyone in rehab is a hopeless misfit and outcast. Some of the patients are decent people trying to overcome their addictions.” She tried to ignore the tightness growing in her throat. “I’m still fighting mine, and I thought you’d be proud of me for trying.”

  Shannon’s features softened. “I’m so sorry. It was just that I—”

  “I know. You were worried that I wouldn’t be able to find a job, and you’d be stuck with me.”

  “Not at all. I was worried because you weren’t home. With all that’s going on, including murders and threatening phone calls, I hoped you hadn’t . . .” She let the words trail off as she leaned back and spread her hands wide.

  “As a matter of fact, I went by to tell Mom the news. Dad was in his study at home, too, so we had the chance to sit down and talk some. They . . . they prayed with me. Mom wanted me to stay for dinner, but I told them I needed to get home and tell you about the job.” She squeezed her eyes shut. She absolutely would not cry in front of her sister. Not anymore. “Shannon, I want you to believe me. I’m trying.”

  THERE WAS NO OTHER WAY TO DESCRIBE IT. SHANNON WAS ASHAMED. Ashamed that she’d immediately interpreted her sister’s prolonged absence in the worst possible way. Ashamed that Megan had gone to visit their parents for the second time in a week, while, although she lived just twenty minutes away from their home, Shannon hadn’t done that much in the past month.

  But that didn’t change the situation. There was the matter of the gun that demanded their attention. “I don’t want you to think I’m not happy for you, but we have some things to talk about—important things.”

  Megan nodded. “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Poor choice of words,” Shannon said. “The police have found the gun that killed Tony. It had my fingerprints on it, and that means yours were there, too, because there’s no doubt in my mind it’s the same gun you had when you confronted me right here.”

  “I didn’t kill Tony,” Megan said through clenched teeth.

  Shannon wanted to ask more questions, but she decided to accept her sister’s word. “We’re supposed to be at police headquarters tomorrow to answer some questions.” She held up the address book. “I’m going to call an attorney and ask her to represent us. But before I do, I need to know about that gun, including whether you have any idea who might have taken it from here.” Shannon gestured to the drawer of the desk where she’d put the gun.

  “A number of people I met in rehab told me I should have a way to protect myself as I made my calls, driving from office to office, going through some pretty sketchy neighborhoods. One of the guys told me how I could get a gun, and when I got out, I bought one.”

  “But you didn’t get a permit for it.”

  “Hey, I do
ubt that the guy who sold it to me had one either. I looked for the serial numbers, and they’d been burned off some way—acid, I’d guess. I shoved the gun in the glove compartment of my car, kept it in my purse when I felt the need for it, and let it go at that.”

  Shannon shook her head. “So it could have been used in the commission of any number of crimes before you got it.” She picked up the phone. “Megan, sometimes I wish you’d think these things through before you do them. Let me call Elena and see if she can help get us out of this mess.”

  ELENA GARCIA WAITES FOLDED HER NAPKIN AND DROPPED IT beside her plate. “I’ll get the phone,” she said as she rose from the dining room table. “Are you on call?”

  Dr. Tom Waites shook his head. “Nope, although that doesn’t always mean much.”

  Their daughters, now teenagers, had their own cell phones, as did both parents. But those numbers were closely guarded. When the landline rang, it might be anything from a telephone solicitor to a colleague of hers or his, asking for advice or help. But there was never any thought of simply letting the answering machine take the call. In both Tom’s and Elena’s professions, there was too much chance that the call might literally be a matter of life and death.

  In a habit of long-standing, Elena pushed her hair back off her ear before picking up the phone. “Waites residence.”

  “Mrs. Waites, this is Dr. Shannon Frasier. I’m a colleague of Tom’s, and we’ve met at various faculty gatherings.”

  “Of course,” Elena said. “Do you need to speak with Tom?”

  “No.” The woman on the other end of the line cleared her throat, and Elena could detect an element of nervousness in her voice. “No, I’m afraid it’s you I need. I apologize for calling tonight, but in your profession, like mine, situations arise outside normal hours that require help.”

  “No need to say anything more. And please call me Elena. What can I do for you?”

  Elena eased into the chair by the phone, pulled a pad and pen toward her, and began to take notes. She listened intently, allowing Shannon to tell her story uninterrupted. The narrative didn’t so much end as run down.

  “I have a few questions for you, but those can wait,” Elena said. “Let me assure you that I’ll represent you. I’ll call in the morning to set up a time for you to be at the police station for an interview with the detectives. We’ll talk before the interview, and I’ll be at your side the whole time. Right now I think I can counter any theory they put forth. So don’t worry.”

  “Thank you. But let me be clear about one thing. My sister, Megan, and I both need representation. Can you . . . would you do that?”

  “Actually, I can do that only until or unless your interests diverge. If that happens, I’ll represent you. Is that satisfactory?”

  There was hardly any hesitation before the reply. “I think so. And as for the fee . . .”

  “I’m flattered that one of Tom’s colleagues would engage my services, but I need to remind you of something. I suppose you know about the professional courtesy discount psychiatrists give to other doctors.”

  “They don’t give a discount. They charge their full fee.”

  “That’s right—because if you’re not paying full price, you’re more likely to ignore the recommendations you get. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.” Another throat clearing. The woman still was obviously very nervous. “So, what you mean is . . .”

  “I’ll represent you for my usual fee,” Elena said. “We can work out a payment schedule if necessary. I won’t discount my fees, but I’ll plan to represent your sister at no additional charge so long as her interests and yours coincide. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Elena told Shannon she’d call her the next day to set up the appointment for the session with the detectives. When she returned to the dining room table, her husband said, “Obviously that was for you. Anything wrong?”

  “No, just someone who needs my services.” She wouldn’t mention Shannon’s name unless it became necessary, even though her client was a woman with whom Tom worked every day. After all, she thought, doctors weren’t the only ones who kept professional secrets.

  ONCE MORE SHANNON AND MEGAN COBBLED TOGETHER AN EVENING meal, this one consisting primarily of leftovers from the refrigerator. The quality of the food didn’t really matter, since neither of them had much of an appetite. Then, after some time spent watching mindless sitcoms, Megan yawned. “I think that does it for me. I’m going to wash my hair, then read until I fall asleep.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow after Elena lets me know when we need to be at the police station.”

  “Thanks for taking care of hiring an attorney. Once I’ve gotten a couple of paychecks, I’ll pay my fair share.”

  Shannon hadn’t mentioned Elena’s warning that she could represent Megan only as long as it didn’t interfere with her defense of her primary client. No need to worry her sister with that now. “We can talk about it later. Right now let’s be glad we have a good lawyer on our side.”

  After a shower, Shannon phoned Mark. “I started to call and see if you wanted to get together tonight,” he said, “but I figured you’d probably want to just relax.”

  “I don’t know if you could call it relaxing,” she said. “The detectives were here earlier. They found the gun that killed Tony Lester, and my fingerprints were on it.” She went on to explain about the disappearance of Megan’s gun from the drawer where she’d stowed it.

  “What can I do?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing for now,” Shannon said. “I’ve engaged a defense attorney to represent me . . . actually, to represent both Megan and me. We meet with the detectives tomorrow for questioning. I’ll know more after that.”

  “Well—”

  Shannon heard a sound on the line. “Mark, there’s another call coming in. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Fine. I love you.”

  “And I love you,” Shannon said. She ended Mark’s call and said, “Hello?”

  It was the same voice, rough and unrecognizable. “I’m getting tired of asking. Tell me what he said before he died.”

  “I don’t—”

  “What did he say? If you don’t tell me now, you’re not going to like what I do to get the information out of you later.”

  Shannon gripped the receiver so tightly her fist ached. Should she give this man the string of numbers Radick gasped out before he died? Why not? She saw no need to hold on to them. The police already had the information, and if it would put an end to these phone calls, she’d give the man what he wanted. She’d explain to Steve or Detective Callaway later. But first, she needed to dig out the slip on which Lee wrote the numbers. “Can you hold on?”

  “I’ll bet the police put some of their fancy equipment on your phone, and you want to keep me on the line so they can trace this call. Well, forget it. You had your chance.”

  Shannon heard a click, and her heart dropped to her shoes.

  ELEVEN

  MARK MUTED THE TV SET AND REACHED FOR THE PHONE ON THE table beside him. He sat, relaxed, in his easy chair, his shoeless feet propped on a footstool. He glanced at the caller ID and smiled. After he talked with Shannon earlier, he’d decided to stay in his living room and channel surf for a while before turning in. Now he was glad he did. Otherwise her call might have caught him in the shower.

  “Mark, I’m afraid! I’ll call the police in a minute, but I wanted to—” Her voice carried pure fear.

  “Hold on.” Mark was already on his feet. He wriggled his feet into shoes and looked around for his keys. “I’ll head for your place as soon as we hang up, but first, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’ve just had another call from the man who wants to know what Radick said before he died.” Shannon’s words seemed to pour out as though by voicing them she could dispel her fear. “I tried to get him to hold while I found the slip of paper with that informatio
n, but he hung up.” She took a deep breath, which came out as almost a gulp. “He . . . he threatened me. Said I wouldn’t like what he was going to do to me if I didn’t tell him what Radick said.”

  Mark was almost walking in place, anxious to be out the door, but he forced himself to stay calm. He had to be to help Shannon. “Are you alone in the house?”

  “No, Megan’s in her room.”

  “Are all your doors and windows locked?”

  There was a pause while she apparently thought about it. “Yes, we’re buttoned up tight.”

  “So you’re safe for now. When we hang up, call the police, then don’t open the door except for them or me.” Mark took another deep breath and forced himself to think. “You said you were going to get the slip of paper with the information on it. I thought you didn’t know what Radick said.”

  Shannon’s breathing sounded like a hurricane in the receiver. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but things have been—”

  “Never mind. Tell me now.”

  “Lee heard Radick’s dying words, and because he’s got an eidetic memory, he recalled them. It’s a string of numbers. If you want to hear them, let me dig out the card Lee wrote them on.”

  Mark opened a drawer in the table by his chair and pulled out a scratch pad and pencil. “Okay.”

  “Here they are: 324 8160 964 7900.”

  The numbers made no sense to Mark, but he wrote them down anyway. “Do you have any idea what these numbers represent?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe they were phone numbers. Or maybe it’s some kind of code.”

  “Well, go ahead and contact the police and tell them about the phone call. I’m amazed they haven’t wired your phone to record these calls so they can try to trace them. You make that call, and I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  After Mark hung up, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door. As he drove, he occasionally held the memo pad with the mysterious numbers in the glow cast by the instrument panel. Try as he might, he couldn’t decipher the message they conveyed.